Haven: Renegade Saints MC (30 page)

“Here to Birch,” I told Stitches. Specter twitched as I said it, but kept his mouth shut. He was just here as a show of force, not because he got to make solid decisions. Those we’d agreed on before ever arriving and I knew why he looked a little annoyed now. I hadn’t told him about Charlemagne’s.

Stitches examined the map and frowned. “That’s right in the middle,” he complained, pointing to the blue marks which indicated the territory that would become Berserkers stomping grounds. “If you want the extra space, just take it off the side.” He pointed down Fifth towards Addison. It was a sizable chunk and would tip the scale just slightly in our favor. Another boon from Stitches and the Berserkers.

But I shook my head. “No. I want Miners to Birch,” I told him firmly, and caught Specter shooting me a look out of the corner of my eye. He looked pissed, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t budging on this one. “Miners to Birch or no deal.”

Stitches’ eyebrows rose high up onto his head, revealing lines and wrinkles that I hadn’t expected to be there, and for a moment making him looking older than I’d pegged him for. He mulled over my ultimatum—it wasn’t a great loss to him, but I understood why he was hesitant. I would be, too, because he was right. It was right in the middle of his territory, but it couldn’t be helped. He wanted to know what I was up to, expecting some kind of scam, but I wasn’t about to tell him the truth, so I let him think what he wanted.

Ultimately, Stitches nodded his head in agreement, then offered his hand to me. “Alright. It’s yours.”

I put my hand in his, gripping tightly before easing off to let him go. Except he didn’t release my hand right away. Instead, he used it to pull me slightly closer and lowered his voice as he asked, “What’s so special about Miners to Birch?”

I grit my teeth. I wouldn’t tell him the details; he didn’t need to know them. But I did tell him, “Sentimental value, you know?”

Stitches searched my eyes as though unconvinced, but after a moment, he pulled back and released my hand with a laugh. “Sentimental value,” he repeated, grinning. “Of course, of course. The Unholys always had that about them. Sentimentality, right?” He laughed again.

I frowned, but said nothing. So long as I kept Charlemagne’s, I didn’t care about the rest.

We finished the meeting, everyone more or less happy with the terms—except for maybe Specter, but he was rarely happy about anything. We each took pictures of the map, just to make sure no one fucked with the drawn lines later, and I let the Berserkers take the original copy with them. As they packed up, I looked over to the man who still hung suspended by a hook and a rope from the ceiling. He was finally waking up.

My face tightened, my jaw snapped shut as I ground my teeth together. I turned to Stitches and motioned towards the door as I shoved my hands into my pockets.

“You guys take off. I think we’re going to linger and see about your…present.”

Stitches gave me that same wicked, eager grin and I realized just how mad he was. It terrified me just a little, and I made a mental note not to trust Stitches too far. But he nodded to me and said, “You boys enjoy. It’s been a pleasure to do business with you.”

I said nothing as I watched them leave. I let the door close behind them and it wasn’t until I heard their bikes rev and finally peel out of the parking lot that I turned to the hanging man. I put my right hand into my left and pushed until I heard the knuckles crack.

“We’ve got some questions for you,” I told him.

The fear in his slowly focusing eyes told me that he knew what was coming and he knew it wasn’t going to be good.

Chapter Seven

Charlotte

I got home late, but I’ll admit that I was surprised to find Johnny’s bike already parked in the garage. Only a couple of lights were on, but I could hear the sounds of running water as soon as I opened the door.

I’d stayed a while with Mom even after dinner and cleaning up the dishes. We talked about random things, nothing serious, because I couldn’t handle any more of that, and watched old black-and-white movies until Mom finally fell asleep. I kissed her forehead then and checked my phone for messages. A trickle of fear had gone through me when I saw that there were none. Not even a quick text.

Johnny’s fine,
I’d told myself, but I hadn’t really believed it until I walked through that door.

“Johnny?” I called, an eerie déjà vu sweeping me. Suddenly, I felt panic and fear swamp me. I almost thought about turning and running, but if this was a repeat of that night, then I had to know. I had to know if Johnny was gone, because that changed everything.

That changed me.

“Here,” he answered after a moment, and as soon as his warm, heady voice filtered out to me, I relaxed. He was fine. I was being paranoid, overreacting. I was always overreacting these days.

The
here
had come from the kitchen, I thought, so I headed in that direction. The house was two stories, but fairly small. Plenty of room for the two of us, but add a third person to the mix and it was tiny. I’d insisted on no more crashers, not even for a night, because there was only one bathroom and I was tired of coming downstairs to find a half-dressed biker snoring on the couch.

The front door opened up directly to the living room where there was a TV that rarely got used unless football was on and the aforementioned couch that was thankfully no longer occupied very often. There were a few scattered pictures, mostly of the guys, me and Johnny, my father, and of the slew of foster families that Johnny had been rotated through.

I walked through the living room to the right where the kitchen was, a small thing that barely covered it for the two of us and would never do if we had any sort of company over. Which we didn’t, at least none that weren’t accommodated by grilling outside instead.

The stairs leading to the bedroom on the second floor was adjacent to the kitchen entryway, but I ignored them. Johnny’s voice had come from the kitchen.

When I walked in, I saw why I’d heard the sounds of running water. Johnny had both of his hands submerged beneath the running stream of the faucet, the water running pink as he scrubbed at his knuckles and beneath his fingernails.

I stared at his hands for a moment, realizing that the cuts lacing his knuckles weren’t the same ones from before. I could see some of the old blood that had already dried like alligator skin, some that he’d missed, and I saw the bright fresh stuff, too.

Johnny was washing off fresh blood and it sent a tingle down my spine. Something had happened tonight.

“Johnny?”

He looked up at me, his tense shoulders easing slightly as his eyes found me. There was something in them tonight and I knew whatever had happened had been bad. Really bad.

“Hey, baby,” he murmured, his deep voice soft and sweet in the dark, but the underlying tension didn’t leave as he spoke. “C’mere.”

I did. I went to him as he turned off the faucet and dried off his hands. The towel came away red, just a little, and I watched it as he put it back on the counter. I didn’t want to ask about what happened tonight. I didn’t want to know, but something in me
had
to.

“Johnny,” I repeated even as his arms opened up for me and I stepped into them, letting his strength envelop me for a moment in his warmth. He held me for a long, silent moment until I asked, “What happened tonight?”

He didn’t answer right away, instead remaining silent as he held me, but eventually he let me go, stepping back slightly.

“Are you happy?” he asked me, an unexpected question, and also not an answer to
my
question.

My eyebrows rose in surprise and I tried to hide some of what I’d been feeling that night. He didn’t need my worries weighing on him, too, I knew that much; besides, I hadn’t really worked through them myself anyway. But he was looking at me with those dark eyes, all seriousness and intensity, and I couldn’t
not
tell him the truth. I just couldn’t.

I looked away, trying to find the right words. Ultimately, they came too simply. “No,” I said, and it came out as a whisper. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his shoulders slump and knew I needed to give a better explanation. “I’m tired of the violence. I’m tired of the fear. I…I want
us
to be in a better place.” I hoped that was enough to tell him that this wasn’t about not wanting him. This was about not wanting the
life
we were leading.

After a moment, he managed to get out, “Me, too.”

Unable to stand in that silence for any longer, I went to get some ice from the fridge because it was something to do. I didn’t want to see his expression, suddenly afraid to find nothing but hollowness in his eyes.

When I came back, he’d finally found an answer for my initial question. One we could both, maybe, live with.

“Things got…complicated tonight. There was some trouble,” he told me hesitantly, something deep and dark flashing in his eyes. I couldn’t be sure what it was, but I knew it was bad. There was something he seemed intent on telling me, but couldn’t seem to decide if he should or not. “A lot happened tonight, that’s it. I guess I’m…I guess I’m a little rough over it is all.”

The blood on his hands was fresh and I knew it wasn’t from Worm. It didn’t take a genius to figure that much out, but the part I was worried about was that he wasn’t interested in discussing it. It wasn’t that we usually got home and talked about our days, filled with violence or blood or boring, boring paperwork. That just wasn’t us. We found other things to talk about that were away from the club and all the bullshit that went with it.

But that didn’t mean I couldn’t
ask
, and the way he was looking right now, that hollow, uncertain look in his eyes lingering dark and heavy, well, I felt like asking wasn’t an option. And it worried me.

I reached for him, my hands trailing over his, pressing the icepack to his raw skin. He didn’t flinch away from what must have been a sharp cold, instead allowing me to help in what small way I could. I stared at those hands, the cuts on them. He’d wiped away most of the blood, but there were cuts and bruises, letting me know that at least some of that blood had been his. I wondered how much.

My eyes jerked up to examine his face suddenly, searching him for signs of injury.

What had he been doing tonight? What had been eating him up? What gave him that haunted look in his eyes? I worried that there’d been a serious fight. With the Berserkers? I couldn’t be sure. I knew there’d been talk of working something out between them, but maybe that’s all it was. Talk. My hands lifted from his knuckles to feel along his face. Was he okay? My thumb trailed over his lip and he kissed it.

Fire slipped from that kiss all the way down my body, tingling along my spine to pool deep and dark between my legs.

God, I wanted him.

And he wanted me. His eyes were open and staring so intently at me that he might be boring holes into my body that way. There was more going on here, I knew, but I also knew that the thing that was going on for him was an internal struggle. Something had happened tonight and it weighed on him.

I felt that familiar urge to ease away that weight, if only for a night.

He must have sensed it, because his hands reached out for me and grabbed me by the hips, jerking me to his body until we were pressed together harshly, tightly. His hard body pressed against mine, and even through the zipper of his jeans, I could feel him hard and needy, desperate for me.

I shuddered and allowed my body to ease into him, slowly at first, but increasing in speed until I was grinding against him, his grip on my hips loose enough only for that. He leaned into me, his face pressing into the hollow of my neck, his stubble scratching at my pale skin.

This was how it started, and I couldn’t deny that I loved every moment of it.

I breathed him in, his scent a strong, spicy, musky scent that wrapped around me and went straight through me all at once. I knew there were things about smell that drove people to desire and passion. Pheromones, chemicals, something like that, but I thought it was more about the way
he
smelled. Like power and strength and need.

My warrior.

“Johnny,” I breathed, and was rewarded with a shudder and his hands clenching tighter to my hips. His face shifted so that his lips found my skin, pressing little kisses against my neck and collarbone until my skin was flushed with heat.

I didn’t need him to tell me how much he wanted me, but that didn’t mean I didn’t love to hear it.

“I won’t go easy tonight,” he murmured, his breath hot against my neck. I shuddered again at the promise of the hard and fast fucking his voice promised me.

“Okay,” was all I said, and it was all I had to say. The permission was there and that little piece of consent was all he needed.

He picked me up, his hands moving down from my hips to my butt, gripping each cheek firmly in his rough hands. He jerked me up so that I was pressed against him, my legs wrapping around his waist automatically. He pressed a kiss against my mouth, hot and fierce, desperation leaking through and making it clear that this wasn’t about talking anymore tonight. This was about working through something in the only way he knew how.

Tonight, like many nights before, my body was his release. His means of forgetting, and I was okay with that. I relished it even.

My eyes slid shut even as I felt him carrying me up the stairs, his hands gripping me so tightly that it was almost painful. My arms were wrapped tightly around his neck, clinging to him greedily as I pushed for a deeper kiss. I held us tightly together, my full breasts pressing against his hard muscles, the sensation arousing. I felt his tongue slide across my lips and I parted them immediately, desperate for him to devour me inside and out.

I didn’t think we’d make it to the bedroom, but he managed to kick the door open. We did not, however, make it to the bed. As soon as we were in the room, he lost it. He couldn’t wait anymore, because he needed this
now
.

My back slammed against the wall harshly and I let out a small cry of surprise. He allowed it because his mouth was moving elsewhere, placing sloppy kisses on my neck and down across my shoulders. His hands had begun to move, traveling downward and inward until I felt his fingers pressing against my inner thighs.

I could have cursed my choice of pants that night and thought he probably could have, too, but it wasn’t enough to delay Johnny.

His hands came back around so that they could get to my crotch from the top. He pressed me tightly against the wall and I gripped his hips firmly so that when his hands were no longer supporting me, I still remained up. His hands moved to the crotch of my jeans, fiddling with first the button and then the zipper until he managed to get both undone. Not interested in waiting to get to the good stuff, his hand pushed past the waistband of my panties to find my smoldering core. Two fingers dove into my hot folds before I even had time to register that he was there and then I was screaming in pleasure. He worked me into a frenzy, his fingers coated with my natural lubricant as he shoved them in and out of my willing opening.

It might have been enough to get me off; he had wonderful, skilled hands. But tonight wasn’t about me. He had needs that had to be taken care of, things that needed to be addressed, and I didn’t mind that his hand pulled away from my crotch only because he was urging my legs down to the floor so that he could jerk my pants down past my thighs. I shimmied them off the rest of the way along with my panties so that he could focus on his own jeans.