Possession (10 page)

Time that Vincent wasted coddling prospects and errant Brothers meant less time fixing the problem with the Man-o-Wars. He'd been seated in the dining room of the clubhouse for all of five minutes when the questions started flying. Nothing about the issue at hand—stupid shit, like monthly dues and what Prospect got to go on the next beer run. The old ladies had been dismissed for the next hour so an emergency church meeting could be held while the members broke bread. He eyed the tins of lasagna and baskets of French bread on the tables, his mouth watering for a taste.

Unable to maintain his façade of patience any longer, he slammed his hand on the table to get everyone's attention. “Enough. Maybe I should send you bitches to the bar and bring the old ladies back—they're making more sense lately than you.”

The room quieted down instantly.

J.T. cleared his throat and sat in the chair next to Vincent. “Pretty sure the Prospects give better head than the pass-arounds.”

The mental image scrambled Vincent's brain. “Let's not even go there,” he said on a laugh. “I know they're supposed to do whatever we ask, but I prefer female company. Did you make contact with the Man-o-Wars?”

“Spoke to Chez Castile himself.”

Vincent broke eye contact with J.T. temporarily as a lasagna pan was shoved into his hands. He shoveled a large portion onto his plate. “Did he receive his delivery undamaged?”

“Absolutely.” J.T. bit off a hunk of bread and chewed. “Thanked us for having the patience to deal with Crash. Apparently the boy is close to getting the boot.”

“Doesn't change anything really.” Vincent didn't care what Crash's standing was with his charter. Dog Tag had fucked up big time. Rules were rules, and though some could be manipulated, others were set in stone. “Did he agree to a time and place?”

“Friday night at Bob Hall Pier. There's some barbeque pits and picnic tables, seven o'clock.”

Vincent approved of the location, just not the day. “That's three days from now, J.T. We can't afford another visit from Crash. The next time he shows his face around here, I'll be forced to take decisive action. He won't walk away.”

“Understood. That's why the Man-o-War president gave his personal guarantee that Crash would be indisposed until we settle this.”

Vincent took a swig of beer, considering it. “Did Chez specify why this couldn't happen tomorrow?”

“A funeral.”

One of the only free passes any club got when there was a conflict. “You saved me a phone call by getting that information up front. Good job.”

J.T. nodded.

It was time to start the meeting. “I'm sure you've noticed a new old lady in our midst,” Vincent started. The dozen members seated at the tables focused on him. “Saline Perry is the ex–old lady of Crash, a member of the Man-o-Wars. Unfortunately, she didn't leave the club on good terms.” He gazed in Dog Tag's direction and gave his Brothers time to digest what he said.

“My initial decision was to strip Dog Tag's colors—but there's something you need to know before we take a vote. I've seen Saline's scars on her back, dozens of cigarette burns her ex gave her for talking back. We have zero tolerance for abuse. Women and children are strictly protected. I'm not saying a man doesn't have a right to discipline his family. God knows my ex could use a fucking spanking.”

The room reverberated with laughter.

“Dog Tag admits he let his dick do the thinking, but his intentions were pure. He fell in love with Saline and couldn't stomach the idea of Crash hurting her again. So on his own time, wearing his cut, he rode to Robstown and took what he believed was his. As soon as I found out, our tattoo artist covered her old ink with a Sons of Odin patch—she's property now. Completely dedicated to our charter. Her ex has shown up twice threatening her safety and the sanctity of our clubhouse.”

“I'll stand by Dog Tag,” one of the members called out.

“Me too,” another said.

“Hold your opinions until we take a vote,” J.T. directed.

“Regardless of Dog Tag's motivations, he still violated the code. Old ladies are forbidden territory no matter what patches we wear. But given the abusive history of Saline's relationship, and the fact that she requested sanctuary with us, I'm inclined to think we have a strong case to defend our Brother's actions.”

“Until next time.” John stood up in obvious opposition. “He fucks so many women we need a recycling bin out back.”

A couple of Brothers snickered.

“Keeping score?” Dog Tag asked.

“Tired of your sloppy seconds,” John retorted.

Dog Tag's features morphed into an expression of amusement and anger at his Brother's open insult. “Things are different now.”

John's eyes narrowed disbelievingly as he sat down again.

Vincent wouldn't interfere with the democratic process. Open and honest communication kept the Sons of Odin together. During church, members were free to express themselves. After a vote was called, each man would be heard, even if the meeting lasted all night.

“The sit-down is set for Friday at Bob Hall Pier. Dog Tag and Saline will attend, and I've already chosen who I want at my side. The vote is to determine whether Dog Tag deserves punishment. We defend our Brothers to the end, but that doesn't mean there aren't consequences to face if one of us fucks up.” Vincent signaled for J.T. to take over.

“Anyone else wish to speak?” J.T. asked. No one uttered a sound. “Then I call for a vote. All in favor of pardoning our Brother's bad judgment, say aye.”

The ayes were unanimous.

Settled.
Now Vincent could eat in peace and possibly aim his attention at something more desirable—Tina. He finished his last bite of pasta and washed it down with beer before he shoved his plate aside. He'd only begun to come down from his adrenaline high from the earlier confrontation with Crash. Even now his fingers itched to pull the fucking trigger of his revolver. It had been a long time since he'd wanted to snuff out a life. Maybe the idea of killing affected him more than other Brothers.

No matter how dedicated he was to the charter, Vincent had to live with his own conscience. His nightmares didn't plague anyone else. Just him. He stalked down the hallway to his bedroom. The real reason he didn't fight for custody of his sons surrounded him in the way of mortar and bricks. There was no shame in being a 1%er, but he didn't want his children growing up inside these walls like so many kids did.

The occasional visit for family day, sure. But the longer someone spent here, it had the same consequences as drugs: addiction to
The Life.

He sat on the recliner across the room from the open window with his cellphone cradled in his hand. Tina hadn't replied to his messages yet.
Good girl;
he'd told her he'd contact her once he got free.

He punched in a message and pressed send.
Sorry it's so late baby, lots going on here.

Thirty seconds later she replied:
Are you okay?

Exhausted. Where are you?

Drinks at Ropers.

Without him? A mixture of concern and jealousy hit. Overly protective by nature, Vincent thankfully knew how to rein in his emotions. His past relationships left a certain level of suspicion behind. He doubted
all
women. Even Tina, but she deserved his trust. That much he knew.

You're not alone?

No,
she replied.
With friends from work.

Vincent considered joining her, but she hadn't invited him. If this
thing
they'd started had any hopes of developing into something deeper, he needed to respect certain boundaries.

Lunch tomorrow?

Perfect. And don't worry, I'll call if Kline shows up.

He tucked his cell in his shirt pocket and leaned deeper into the soft leather, then released the footrest. La-Z-Boy, one of the best inventions in modern history. He yawned, his eyes growing heavier. Maybe if he took a short nap he'd have the energy to go to Valhalla and supervise closing time. Not that he needed to; a Brother always manned the door at night.

The last thing he remembered as he faded to sleep was Tina calling his name while they made love.

The knock at the door surprised Tina. She'd slept peaceably for the first time in months and had just opened her eyes a few minutes ago. With a sigh, she crawled from between the sheets and reached for her silky bathrobe hanging over the back of the nearby chair. She flipped on the hallway light as she headed to the front door, then squinted into the peephole to catch a look at her unannounced visitor.

Rain or shine like the mailman, Vincent showed up in his leathers, hair sopping wet from the rain. She quickly unlocked the door and opened it. “Get inside, you're wet.”

He gave her a lazy smile as he brushed by her. “Good morning.”

“Last time I checked, people ate lunch in the afternoon, not at eight.”

“Thought I'd surprise you.” He unlaced his boots, then kicked them off on the rubber mat in the hallway. “Have a towel handy?”

Tina padded into the kitchen and grabbed a clean dish towel from a drawer. She returned to the hallway. “Don't you ever wear a helmet or rain gear?”

“For a spring rain?”

“It's November.”

“And sixty-five degrees outside.” He rubbed his hair dry, looking like a porcupine by the time he finished. “Now how about a proper hello.”

He opened up his arms and Tina couldn't fight the rare urge to act like a besotted teenager who hadn't seen her boyfriend in weeks. She hugged him tight, kissing his right shoulder and squeezing around his waist as hard as she could.

“Hey…” Vincent set her back a foot. “Been working out?” He used his thumb and forefinger to test the size of her biceps.

She slapped his hand playfully, then flexed her muscle. “Lean and mean.”

He chuckled. “I'll remember who to call next time I need extra security at the club.”

“You might be onto something there,” she said, guiding him into the kitchen. “Ever consider employing a female bouncer? She might have an advantage dealing with intoxicated women.” She filled the coffeemaker with fresh water, then replaced the glass pot on the burner.

“As much as I respect women,” he said, “very few have what it takes to manhandle aggressive customers outside or get violent when they need to.”

Tina tapped her chin. “Haven't you heard? Two women just graduated from the Army Ranger course.”

“Yeah,” he replied. “And look where they're employed. The best-of-the-best usually have higher expectations than fifteen dollars an hour at a backwater joint like Valhalla.”

“Is that what you consider your nightclub?”

He shrugged. “It's in Flour Bluff.”

Tina didn't understand why locals poked fun at people and places in Flour Bluff. Fifteen or twenty years ago maybe, but now the city had worked hard to clean up and attract new business to the gateway neighborhood to Padre Island. In fact, Laguna Shores Road, the street where the club was located, boasted plenty of high-end real estate.

“Well, in the name of equality, take it under advisement from your attorney: hire a woman.”

He rolled his eyes as he reached for her. “I have better uses for
my
lawyer.”

She avoided his grasp. “Before you get too comfortable,” she called over her shoulder as she dashed from the kitchen and into the hallway to her bedroom, “I think we should seriously discuss my retainer.”

“You expect a deposit after I let you come in my mouth?”

Seconds later, they tumbled onto her bed, a tangle of limbs and laughter. Somehow Tina ended up underneath him, her hands stretched over her head.

“What's the going rate for your services?” he teased, feathering kisses down her neck.

She struggled to stay focused; his lips were just too damn sexy. “Two hundred and fifty dollars an hour.”

“One of those classy…”

“Wait.” She pretended to be serious. “Are we talking about the same thing? I'm not a call girl.”

“Well, at that price…” He nipped her bottom lip. “Maybe we could pretend just once.”

She kicked her feet in protest. “Role playing?”

“Call it a social experiment if it makes you feel better.” He spread her hands wider, then used his knee to part her legs.

“I'm beginning to think you came over for a booty call.”

“Finally—she gets it.” He went for the kill—sinking his tongue between her lush lips.

He released her hands, and she tunneled her fingers through his damp hair. Whatever his purpose for showing up early, she didn't care. Feeling him on top of her, all muscle and need, reminded her why she'd held out hope of hooking up with this man for so long. He nuzzled into her neck, grinding his crotch against her. His masculine scent wrapped around her, sucking her in. Another heated kiss left her breathless. He broke away and stared down at her, his intense eyes all the communication she required to understand what he wanted.

“I don't think I can be gentle,” he confessed as he lifted up a couple of inches and unzipped his fly.

Desperate for contact, Tina invaded his pants with her fingers, freeing his cock. She gripped it tight, his velvety hot skin stretched to the limit. She admired the mushroom-shaped head, tracing an imaginary line all the way down his shaft. His balls were tight, and she massaged them tenderly, relief only seconds away. In turn, he lifted the hem of her robe and short nightgown and groaned as he found her wet core, two of his fingers sliding inside her.

Her hips wiggled in anticipation. Sometimes foreplay was overrated. Nothing felt better than having him inside her.

“I don't want to wait,” she whispered, letting go of his penis.

His thumb circled over her sensitive clitoris, eliciting a wave of pleasure that made her crazy. “Not even for my tongue?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

She shook her head. “Shut up and fuck me.”

“Whatever the lady demands.” Vincent sat up and shed his cut and shirt.

Tina ran her hands up his warm skin, whirling her fingers around his nipples. Covered with the perfect amount of hair, his toned chest remained one of her favorite features of his sculpted physique. And his arms, oh God, chiseled perfection. Did someone sew large rocks inside his biceps?

“Flex for me,” she said, squeezing his right arm.

He grinned, then indulged her. He fisted his hand and growled as he curled his arm. Hard as steel. Her gaze traveled down his torso, stopping on his cock. Correction: this man was encased in steel from his shoulders to his toes.

“Like what you see?” he teased.

“Pretty sure
like
doesn't cover it.”

He nodded in approval, rolled onto his back, and stripped his leather pants off. Tina raised up on her elbows, drinking in his symmetry, his tapered waist and ripped thighs. She knew there was a gym at the clubhouse, but his kind of legs came from more than lifting weights. Hard labor or sports—maybe football or soccer. His calves were the size of his fists. And those tattoos didn't help. Blue and orange flames wrapped around his left thigh, crisscrossed over his stomach, and continued up his right arm, combined with other ink that represented everything pagan. From Celtic knots to Thor's ax, his sleeve of tats made him that much more tempting—and forbidden in the world she grew up in.

Men with visible tattoos weren't socially acceptable. Not in her parents' closed sphere of friends and peers. But she didn't care. She hungered for her outlaw biker any way she could have him.

Then he rose above her like some mythical beast from the sea. She fell back, silently willing him inside her. He twisted his hands in her long hair, lowering himself slowly, their gazes locked.

A cry tore from her lips as he hammered deep in one thrust, the erotic sensations more intense than anything she'd ever felt. Her legs actually trembled as he pumped his hips, feeding her his length with every stroke. Their mouths collided violently, and she framed his face with both hands and tilted her head for better penetration. His taste consumed her.

She'd never had this with another man, that desperation and raw need. Not simple lust. Far from it. It almost felt like he was a part of her. And every time he withdrew an inch or two, her body screamed for him to come back, as if a part of her had been torn away. That realization frightened her as she clung to him.

What if Vincent just disappeared one day?

The price you pay for riding a 1%er,
she reminded herself. Tina had taken risks all her life, with her education, the move to Texas, her job, and now with Vincent. The only difference: she'd never risked her heart.