The Prospect, Zach, placed a cup of coffee in front of me, and I gave him a nod. He seemed like a good kid and I hoped he made it through. Breathing in the rich aroma, I took a sip and let my mind wander back to that morning. Pax and I had shifted in our sleep and somehow ended up with my back pressed to his chest. It was a strange sensation to wake up being the little spoon, but I couldn't say that I hated it. With my position in the club and the upbringing that I often tried to overcome, feeling like I was in a weaker position wasn't a wonderfully comfortable situation. In my mind, I knew that being held that way didn't make me weak—didn’t make anyone weak. I just wasn’t used to it.
Any misgivings I had about being cradled in Pax’s arms ultimately had been overshadowed by the hot line of his body against mine, the erection I had felt nestled against my ass, and the way his arms had held me in such a sure grip even in his sleep. It was the first night I could remember in a long time not having woken during the night. When Lex had tapped on the spare bedroom door to let me know he was ready to go, I’d groaned to myself because the last thing I’d wanted to do was move, but I’d gently extricated myself from Pax’s hold and with a scribbled note and a quick kiss to his temple, I’d slipped out of the room.
"Take your seats, gentlemen," Riot said as he came into the room. Our Vice President was a mountain of a man, and while he appeared larger than life from the dreads on his head down to biceps that were the size of my thighs, he was one of the quietest, most serious men I’d ever met, but his voice held such authority that everyone stopped to listen when he spoke. I honestly wasn’t sure if I’d ever seen him smile.
The members who were officers in the chapter sat around the table, and the rest in extra chairs around the edges of the room. We called this room our chapel. The table was large and heavy—made of the same dark wood as the gavel that sat at the head in front of the President's chair. Everyone finished taking their seats. Across from me at the President’s left was Riot, beside him, Axel, who was our acting Treasurer. The rest of the table was filled out by Cleave, our Road Captain, Eben Vanos who was moving up the ranks, and our most senior member, Barrett.
Calix entered last and moved to sit beside me at the head of the table.
"I appreciate you coming in today, guys," Calix said in his gravelly voice, picking up the gavel and slamming it once on the table before setting it down again. "For once, this meeting is mostly a check-in. Things have been quiet the last couple of months, but I don't want to turn into complacency. The Devil’s Rage MC, who we all know have had it out for us since I took over, seem to be having some type of internal beef. Which means they’ve been focused inward, but we all know it won’t stay that way."
I understood Calix's concern. We hadn't seen much from the Devil’s for a while, but the last stunt they'd pulled had lasting effects. First, several of them had come to Spritz just before New Year's shouting homophobic slurs, knocking over tables and chairs, and disrupting the flow of business. But worse, one of the assholes had grabbed Pax by the arm and tried to drag him outside. Luckily, Riot and Axel had been on the floor that night and had stopped them only moments after they’d put their hands on Pax.
He seemed okay about it, but I knew it had shaken him up and brought back memories from when Vector had hurt him the year before. A slow smile spread over my face thinking about how that bastard would never hurt anyone, especially Pax, again.
“That smile makes me think your side job went as expected?” Calix said, his black eyes trained on me.
“It did.”
“Excellent,” he said with a dark smile to match my own before he turned his attention back to the table. “Stay sharp. All your schedules have been updated. Those working the event tonight, Mace is on point. Let’s make sure our clients and their guests leave happy.”
The smell of sweat and booze was heavy in the air. Aside from our legitimate security business, we hosted illegal fights around the city—MMA, boxing, and occasionally bare knuckle, depending on the client. On occasion we set up the fight events on our own, but more often for clients wealthy enough to pay the fee to have such an event at one of their private parties. On top of that fee, we also got a cut of the betting pool, and it was usually always a win-win situation for everyone. Well, except for the guy who lost, but even he got a purse.
This particular fight was one of our regular customers. Some money guru guy, who owned a large farm outside of the city. To call it a farm was probably simplifying things a bit. The small patch of land in southern Illinois with its little herd of cattle and rusted tractor in the side yard was a farm. The barn we were currently standing in was nicer than the house I grew up in. The wooden slat floors were clean and large area rugs had been situated around the metal fight cage erected in the center of the open space. The ceiling was high with exposed beams and inset lighting. Two bars had been set up, one on either side of the cage against the wall, and servers, mostly from Spritz, were circulating—taking orders and fetching drinks—while others simply held trays loaded with glasses of champagne up for the taking.
Their uniforms for this evening were quite different from what they wore at the club. Black slacks and shoes, white dress shirt tucked in under a sharp black vest and tie. Pax had his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows in a neat cuff. He looked sharp, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't distracted every time I caught sight of his ass in those pants as he moved through the crowd. I was stationed in one corner of the large room and the other three were covered by Riot, Axel, and Cleave. Eben was on the door tonight. Us Heretics were in similar attire to the servers—we lacked the vests but wore suit coats . It was easier to hide our guns that way.
As my eyes continued to scan the crowd, I caught sight of Pax coming my way. Instead of the champagne he'd been distributing, he had several short, clear plastic punch glasses on his tray. He caught my eye when he broke out of the crowd and came toward me.
"Thought you might be thirsty," he said holding the tray toward me.
I picked up one of the glasses and took a long sip of the ice water. "Thank you," I said, holding his eyes, enjoying the way a bit of pink filled his cheeks. "How'd you sleep?"
He looked down for a moment before lifting his eyes back to mine. "Honestly?"
I nodded.
"Better than I have in a long time."
Warmth filled my chest, and I couldn't stop the spread of a slow smile across my face. "That could be an open invitation, you know?"
He looked at me for a long moment without saying anything. I wanted to ask what he was thinking because Pax was good at hiding what he was actually feeling. It seemed like the kind of skill that a person developed in his former profession. It was also the kind of skill someone developed when wearing your emotions on your sleeve could get you beaten or worse. I didn't begrudge him for hiding things from me because I wasn’t entitled to how he felt about anything, but I hoped he trusted me enough to share, anyway.
I knew we weren’t quite on that level, and it surprised the hell out of me how much I really wanted us to be. How much I wanted him to know that he could trust me, that opening himself up with me wasn't a danger to him. And wasn't that a kick in the balls? Since when was I ready to settle in with someone? Ready to wade into someone else's emotional baggage and potentially allow them to witness mine? I didn't know when it happened, but apparently Pax was the key to tripping up all the rules I had for myself, and all the ways I had looked at relationships before.