“Okay, stop. We’ve had a long fucking week, and I’m not in the mood for games. Bullseye, after this meeting, you’re staying behind. Tongue, get going. I don’t have all night.”
“We got ambushed. Gunshots rang. I climbed over the fence to see who it was, but I didn’t recognize them. I followed them. We pulled into the casino, and I wondered if Maximo was behind it. I stayed in my shadows outside and waited. It’s why I wasn’t back for a while. Each guy who came out of the casino that was one of Maximo’s men, I’d ask them a question about the attack. If they lied, I cut their tongues out. Only one didn’t lie. So I brought him here. Whoever is behind it, is at that casino.”
“It isn’t Moretti.”
“Reaper, maybe—” Tool begins to say, but Reaper cuts him off.
“Maximo is coming tomorrow to see his brother. Also, he’s bringing Natalia, Moretti’s daughter. We’re not to accuse him of shit. Not when he’s here. I don’t believe he’d do that to us, not while we care for his brother. We do business together. Skirt’s fighting makes us a ton of money. Maximo doesn’t want to lose that.”
“Someone does,” Tank mutters. “Maybe another fighter or casino owner? And maybe Maximo’s men aren’t as loyal as he thinks.”
The table is quiet as Tank, the quiet one, brings up a valid point.
Reaper leans forward and places his arms on the table, nodding in agreement. He slaps the table. “That’s good shit, Tank. Real fucking good. Keep an ear down, all of you. Tomorrow, playroom, bright and early. Doc, four days off. Don’t want to see your face until then.”
“No argument from me,” I mutter and stand, then drag my ass out of the room, but then I remember Tongue and all the blood. “Tongue, get tested. All that blood on you can’t be good. See me in four days. Don’t have sex with anyone.”
“I don’t have sex,” he says so serious and in such a typical Tongue way, that I know he’s telling the truth. “No worries. I’ll see you, Doc.”
“No wonder you’re fucking crazy. You need to get laid.”
“Fuck you, Tool,” Tongue grumbles, but something flashes across his face. Not embarrassment. Tongue doesn’t get embarrassed. Tongue knows violence. But where was the violence born? None of us know.
Without giving any of the men one last look, I head out toward the main room and pause, remembering the vacant looks on Candy and Jasmine’s faces in their deaths. Their funerals are in two days, and if shit keeps happening how it is, we might have to reschedule.
Death doesn’t have a calendar, but sometimes, you have to find a way to work around it.
I turn to the right and head out the front door, climb down the steps, and take a fucking minute to myself. No patients, no MC brothers, nothing. It’s just me, the desert, and the fucking glistening chrome shining off the bikes from the porch light. I tilt my head back and stare up at the stars, wondering how the hell they can shine so bright after the shit storm that’s come our way.
Letting out a weighted breath, I trudge along the side of the house and still smell the burning wood from Skirt’s cabin. It’s been days, but the smell lingers, and I don’t think it’s going anywhere anytime soon. Skirt is still unconscious, but I think he will wake up in a day or so, and he will finally be able to meet his little girl, who’s still not named because Dawn is waiting for him to wake up. Mary is almost healed. Patrick we will wake up soon if he stops clotting, and Melissa… Well, I don’t know about her yet.
Everything sucks.
Well, almost everything.
I open the door to my two-bedroom, two-bath house and see Jo is on the couch, brushing her long brown hair while listening to music on surround sound speakers. She’s fresh out of the shower. I can feel the humidity in the air and smell the sandalwood of my shampoo. Her eyes are closed, and she’s swaying as she combs through the tangles in her hair. I don’t know what’s playing, but it’s slow, relaxing, and all I want to do is dance with her after a day like today.
I’m going to lose my mom, but maybe, the universe put Jo in front of me to help me through it. I close the door behind me and lock it, and I watch Jo for a minute. She’s effortlessly beautiful, the kind she doesn’t notice but everyone else does. She looks good in my home and sitting that plump ass on my leather couch. Her toes tap against the black shag rug, digging her bare feet into the long material. I do that all the time. It feels good.
She’s made this house feel and look like a home.
I push myself off the door with my foot and stroll to her side. I stop her from brushing her hair, and she jumps in fear. “You scared me, Eric!” Her breaths are heavy. I notice she changed the bandages on her arm after she showered.
Fuck, I’m proud of her.
I need her in my arms. Anywhere else is a place she doesn’t need to be.
I hold out my hand without saying a word, and she gives me a questionable look. She places her brush on the coffee table. “What are you doing?” she asks, sliding her hand in mine. She stands, and I walk us over to the middle of the living room, and I spin her in a circle then yank her to my chest.
And we dance.
The song is passionate, raw, and I swear it’s a song for us.
“Does spinning you hurt your arms?” I know the pressure of lifting her hands in the air from natural force of gravity can pull on the stitches, but it’s been a few days, and she should be feeling better. Still, I never want her in pain.
She shakes her head, and I see she’s blushing. “What?” I ask.
“I’ve never danced with anyone before.”
“Me either,” I admit, twirling her across the floor again. “I can’t wait to discover more firsts with you.” Her hand is in mine, and I bring them between us and against our chests. Our hips move together, slow, sensual, and seductive.
“Me too.” The words leave her lips sweetly, and I naturally lean forward to kiss her, but pause, liking the tension that’s building.
Our mouths are an inch apart, and my free hand outlines the curves of her body until I grip her hip. I tug her to me so we are flush, and now we’re barely moving. We are swaying, but we aren’t dancing, not anymore.
It’s morphed into foreplay.
I dip her and she throws her head back, her hair cascading down toward the floor until the ends almost sweep across the rug. I bend down and kiss the middle of her chest. Her chest stutters from the caress, but I don’t plan to stop there. Dragging my mouth to the right, I lay another kiss on the swell of her breast before moving to the other one and doing the same. I’m rock hard, dying for the simplest touch from her, but I never want to push. I’ll dance forever if it means feeling like this.
Her neck is slim with an elegant curve and protruding collarbones. I can’t help it. My tongue flicks out and traces the silky ridges, and then I open mouth kiss her pulsing vein on the side of her neck. Her hips rock against the erection straining in my jeans, and the sound of ecstasy that escapes me is also a first.
Sure, I’ve gotten off, plenty of times. With my hand, with other women, but I’ve never felt passionate about someone. Caring for Jo has heightened all my senses, and every touch I receive from her is compared to how the body feels before an orgasm.