Possession (11 page)

The depth of Vincent's emotions surprised him. Never mind what he did for a living, facing off with some of the evilest motherfuckers. Guns and knives could maim and kill him, but Valentina Bethel could shatter his world. He didn't even know what to say after experiencing the kind of intimacy that exposed a man's soul. His orgasm had been so powerful he nearly blacked out. Combined with the way it felt to hold her in his arms afterward, well, it screwed with his head on too many levels.

Tina stretched out beside him, immersed in her own thoughts.

When he woke up in his recliner this morning, all he could think about was her. He didn't even check in with his Brothers; he just took a shower and left. Their red-hot attraction could no longer be blamed for the need to keep coming back. Or for the protectiveness and jealousy he felt. That meant something in his world. She might consider it an outdated, chauvinistic attitude, but he relied on his basic instincts. That's what set Brothers apart from the rest of the world.

He scrubbed his hand over his beard stubble. Should he explore the topic with her? Find out if she was confused too? Lang and Lily had always joked about how much Tina wanted to hook up with him. He blew it off over and over again. Plenty of guys chased her, hung around like horny dogs. Witnessing that firsthand in the clubs had been a turn-off. Vincent avoided perfect women for a reason. Once he invested his time in a girl, he expected absolute loyalty. And if he ever saw Tina with another man…His throat went dry and he fisted his hand.

“Hey.” She dragged her fingernail up his arm. “What's going on in that dark mind of yours?”

He grunted, angry with himself for letting his emotions show on his face. Usually capable of keeping it all in check, he knew he must have grimaced when he pictured her with someone else. “Nothing, baby.”

“Remind me never to piss you off.” She picked up his clenched hand and kissed his knuckles. “Pretty sure I can tell when you're upset.”

“Not upset at anything really,” he denied. “Sometimes life has a way of catching up and I start questioning my sanity.”

She turned onto her side, resting her head on her palm. “Does our morning have anything to do with those thoughts?”

“Yeah.” Why lie? “Maybe this is more than we originally planned. Somehow I can't accept a casual hookup a couple times a week.”

“Is that all?” she asked on a smile, waving her hand dismissively. “Are you asking me to go steady?”

He blew out a frustrated breath. “Steady? I'm asking you not to fuck other guys.”

“Ouch.” Her green eyes narrowed, definitely evaluating him. “Love your finesse.”

He tapped the Sons of Odin ink on his left arm. “What's this say?”

“Live hard. Die hard.”

“I don't waste time, Tina. And I'm pretty sure you don't either. Before I'm an old man, I'd like to get this relationship thing right. I want a family someday.” Every minute he wasted cost him more than time. He tried to wrap his mind around the fact that he was asking her to be exclusive, to enter into a serious relationship with him.

“You have a family, Vincent.”

Her words cut deep.
Yes, tattered pieces of one.
“Are you suggesting I reconcile with my ex-wife?”

“No.” She sat up. “I want you to consider fighting for custody of your sons. At least regular visitation.”

“We're not there yet, Tina. We're discussing
our
lives, not my past.”

“But those precious boys are your future.”

Goddamnit.
If she were anyone else, meddling in his private affairs would be a deal breaker. He sat on the edge of the bed, his back toward her. “I love my sons. And I know what's best for them.”

“Sorry.” He felt her shift on the mattress, then her arms engulfed him from behind and she rested her chin on his shoulder. “Second nature for me is to protect the ones I care about.”

“Me, too.” He covered her tiny hand with his. “Now give me an answer.”

“Yes,” she whispered near his ear. “I promise not to fuck other men while we're together. But the minute you leave, I'm shopping.”

His shoulders went rigid, but he knew she was playing. He twisted around fast and wrestled her onto her back, hovering above her angelic face. “What did you say?”

“I can spell it or sound it out phonetically if that makes it easier to understand.” She wore a pirate grin.

“Think I'm stupid?”

“Nope, just a muscle-head that wears patches.”

“Keep digging a hole, Tina,” he warned, trying to sound stern.

“I love your penis.”

Those words went straight to his heart, disarming him, and turning him rock hard. He dipped his head, grazing her lips with his. “Don't you work today?”

“Nope, I have the day off—compliments of my boss for doing a great job on a big case we won.”

“Then I'd like to take you out for breakfast.”

“Denny's? IHOP?”

“Preferably somewhere with linen napkins.”

“Wow.” She wiggled from underneath him. “What are we celebrating?”

“Us.”

An hour later, they occupied a booth overlooking Corpus Christi Bay at the Glass Pavilion Restaurant on Shoreline Boulevard. Tina unfolded one of the linen napkins on the table and offered it to Vincent.

“Does this meet your expectations?”

He nodded, more intrigued by the clingy white dress she was wearing. A server arrived and filled their water glasses, then presented the breakfast menus. Vincent opened his, glancing about the high-ceilinged room. Surrounded by windows on three sides, the east wall opened up to the water. On a clear day, he imagined, the restaurant would be bathed in sunshine. The overcast weather didn't dampen his joy at being there with Tina.

She'd made his week—maybe even his year—by committing to their new relationship.

“What sounds good?” he asked, zooming in on what he wanted.

“Look under specialty items,” she said.

“Let me guess, Crab Benedict?”

“How'd you know? I can't resist two jumbo blue crab cakes with poached eggs and hollandaise sauce. Just reading it out loud makes me feel like I gained three pounds.”

He laughed. “I'll have the same thing.”

The waiter returned and took their order. “Care for some fresh coffee?”

“Please,” Tina said. “And a large orange juice.”

Sitting side by side made it easy for him to touch her. Add an extra-long tablecloth into the equation and he could slide his hand underneath her skirt and finger her breathless. When he made contact with her thigh, she sighed, desperately trying to control her facial expressions. But he knew from personal experience how hard it was to resist Tina's touch. And knowing he had the same effect on her made it that much more necessary to keep reminding her why she wanted to be with him.

He scooted closer, his shoulder pressed against her arm. She spread her legs, granting him better access. He traced the elastic trim of her panties, testing her at first, then gently caressed her pussy. Her sharp intake of breath through clenched teeth signaled her approval.
Fuck
—her underwear was saturated already, wet warmth welcoming his roaming fingers.

She reclined against the high back of the bench and closed her eyes. Nothing said balanced breakfast like fresh squeezed orange juice and an orgasm.

When the waiter returned with a stainless-steel carafe of coffee and filled their mugs, Tina sat as quietly as possible, but Vincent didn't stop stroking her. Her cheeks flushed, beads of sweat formed on her forehead, and the server gazed at her with obvious concern.

“Is it too hot in here, ma'am? I can ask the manager to turn on the air conditioning.”

“N-no,” Tina forced the answer.

Vincent smiled inwardly, enjoying the control he had. He circled his fingers, applying extra pressure to her clit. Her legs quaked, and just as the waiter walked away from the table, she slumped and a muted moan escaped her lips. Deep satisfaction radiated through Vincent's veins. He preferred Tina this way, consumed by pleasure and completely devoted to him.

Her eyes fluttered open and she turned her face toward him. “Something you do regularly to unsuspecting women in upscale restaurants?”

The corners of his mouth lifted. “Maybe.”

“I kinda like it.”

He brushed his thumb along her jawline. “Anytime, baby.”

She fiddled with the silverware setting on the table, appearing nervous. “Sure we're doing the right thing?”

Second-guessing already? She'd spent all that time trying to convince him otherwise, and now that he'd finally agreed, she didn't believe it? He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. “It only took a week to show me what I'd be missing out on if I let you go. Look at me, Tina.”

Her eyes were focused on the windows. “I feel vulnerable.”

He turned her chin his way. “That's the beauty of it.”

She lifted an eyebrow but didn't say anything.

“It's called trust, baby. Today we deposited some in a shared account. Where we go from here depends on how ready we are to protect each other.”

“We were friends first,” she reminded him.

“No,” he disagreed.

“You consider it a bad thing? Isn't that what all the relationship experts preach? Date your best friend?”

“I don't fuck my friends,” he said. And he wasn't insanely jealous over them either. If the guy at the next table didn't stop ogling Tina, he might rip his face off. “We were destined for a deeper connection from the beginning.” He hoped his words provided some clarity.

Her features softened. “That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me.”

Whenever Vincent attended club meetings or events involving rival charters, he felt like a character from
The Godfather
when Don Corleone invited the five heads of the New York families to a sit-down. Though Bob Hall Pier didn't have the same amenities as the five-star hotel in the movie, the purpose remained the same: how to reach a reasonable agreement to keep the Sons of Odin and Man-o-Wars from going to war.

They'd arrived at the designated location a couple of hours early. He'd chosen J.T. as his right hand, and John, Dog Tag, Lurch, and Brian were there as representatives for the club. Several other armed Brothers were strategically posted at the outbuildings, and a couple were even hiding behind the closest sand dunes. Vincent had learned the hard way as a Prospect to never trust his enemies. Even if Chez Castile sounded friendly on the phone.

Lurch manned the rusted barbeque grill that a thousand other people had probably used over the years, flipped the burgers, and added some fajitas to the mix. Food and alcohol would help take the edge off the urgency of the meeting, but it didn't change the facts. Dog Tag and Saline had violated the code of honor between charters. Something needed to be done about it. And before the Sons of Odin president returned from Austin in two days, Vincent wanted this problem behind them.

He assessed the area a last time. Three rickety picnic tables surrounded the gazebo where the supplies were set up on a trestle table they'd brought from the club. A dozen folding chairs were out, and three coolers of beer and sodas. Saline had packed the food: potato salad, macaroni and cheese, corn bread, and apple pie for dessert. The paper plates, plastic ware, and rolls of paper towels were ready. Good. Even the weather had cooperated. A light, steady breeze blew off the water, and the sky was clear. Though the sun set at seven thirty, four streetlights illuminated the area.

“Let's go over this one more time, Saline,” Vincent said.

She placed a bottle of ranch dressing on the table, then looked at him.

“The most important thing is to not let Crash see your fear. Okay? Just remember you're safe.” Vincent patted his vest. “If he tries
anything,
Smith and Wesson will make a surprise appearance.”

She nodded, but still appeared rattled.

“If Crash addresses you without permission, don't respond. If Chez gives his blessing, make sure I signal my approval before you speak.”

Women rarely attended sit-downs, only if they were directly involved in the situation. Unfortunately, Saline
was
the situation.

“Do I have to see him?” she asked.

“Absolutely,” Vincent said. “We need to show a united front. You're a Sons of Odin old lady now.”

Dog Tag slipped behind her and gave her a firm hug. “We voted, baby. And before I left the clubhouse today, several of the old ladies told me how much they liked you. We need to prove the risk we took was worth it. I swear if Crash disrespects you, I'll make sure he can't do it again.”

Vincent drew in a ragged breath. He wanted to punch some sense into Dog Tag still. But he'd never correct a Brother in front of his woman. Call it common courtesy. But behind closed doors…

The rumble of engines sounded. Vincent gazed across the beach. A paved parking area was about forty yards from the gazebo. That's where the Sons of Odin motorcycles were parked. However, his truck was on the beach—ready to go if he needed to evacuate Saline. Six Harleys rolled into the lot, all chrome and black paint with the Man-o-Wars insignia on their tanks. Even at a fair distance, Vincent recognized the orange and black lettering and the Greek warrior holding a pike.

“They have an extra man along,” J.T. commented.

“So do we,” Vincent said.

“What they don't know might kill them.” Dog Tag frowned in their direction.

Vincent gripped his shoulder. “Do I need to remind you of protocol?”

“No.”

“Then take your seat. Don't touch Saline—fuck, avoid looking at her if you can help it.” Best to minimize the friction. Their parading around as a happy couple would only piss off Crash. And Vincent didn't want to have to shoot the motherfucker, a promise he'd made the last time they'd tangled at Valhalla.

Chez Castile headed the group of men as they approached the gazebo. Dressed in black leathers and his cut, he made a formidable rival. Vincent had never met him in person, only seen him around.

“Vincent Ramos?” Chez extended his hand. “I'm the president of the Man-o-Wars.”

The idea of ever shaking hands with his enemy had never crossed his mind until now. For the sake of peace and respect, Vincent gripped his hand. “We should have met under better circumstances.”

“Agreed,” Chez said, his gaze darting around. “Do you know my history?”

Vincent shook his head. No, but he'd take the time to hear the man out, alone. “Walk with me?” He knew Saline would be safe under J.T.'s careful supervision.

Chez turned to his sergeant-at-arms standing behind him. “Eat and drink. If you start a fight, I'll take your fucking patch.”

Vincent silently approved. Castile seemed to have control over his Brothers. In turn, he pulled J.T. aside and gave similar instructions, loud enough for Chez to overhear. Then the two walked down the beach together.

“The Man-o-Wars have been around since 1978,” Chez started. “Not as old as the Sons of Odin, but as dedicated to The Life as any club. I patched out ten years ago, rose through the ranks, and finally got voted in as treasurer four years ago.”

His story sounded like most. Many charters were established after the war; founding fathers usually were made up of veterans and outcasts in need of purpose and family.

“I've watched this club sink too low and finally decided to do something about it.”

“Dobson Craig died two years ago in a car accident.”

“That's what the papers reported,” Chez said. “Motherfucker nearly divided our club. Six of our Brothers went to prison for it.”

Again, Vincent knew the feeling. Lang Anderson had purged the Sons of Odin of rogue members before he retired his patch last year. A united club meant cleaning house sometimes. There was no room for disloyalty.

“I put a bullet through Craig's temple,” Chez added nonchalantly. “Two weeks later I was voted in as president.”

Their gazes locked both in challenge and understanding. How many people had he confessed to?
Zero,
Vincent thought. The point? Castile would go to any length to protect his charter. So would Vincent. Nothing mattered more. That's the oath he took, and the life he'd chosen.
Live hard. Die hard.
Everybody's days were numbered. Each Brother accepted the fact that he was expendable.

“What reparations are you prepared to make for breaking the oldest rule?” Chez's demeanor remained calm.

“Atonement is for fucking sinners,” Vincent answered. “Crash tortured Saline. As far as I'm concerned, Dog Tag is a saint for rescuing her.” What Vincent really wanted was vengeance for Saline. “Women should be cherished, not branded by cigarette butts.”

“I agree,” Chez said. “But Crash denies ever touching her.”

“Have you seen her back?”

“Are you familiar with her history?”

“Her mother was a junkie and her father died in a bar fight fifteen years ago, stabbed in the neck. We've talked extensively. She accepts responsibility for her part in this, and is prepared to apologize for disrespecting you. Make no mistake, the Sons of Odin stand by her,” Vincent said.

Chez went quiet and stared at the water as waves rolled over the sand. “Stealing a man's old lady is like cutting off his arm. There's no justification. If she'd come to me, the situation would have been handled privately. But when Dog Tag picked her up in Robstown, he disrespected my club. You expect me to turn the other cheek and walk away?”

“No.” Vincent expected violence. In fact, he'd demand it. “There's an old tradition that we tend to overlook.”

Chez rubbed his chin, interested.

“Let Dog Tag and Crash fight it out. Saline leaves with the winner.”

They shared another glance before Chez responded. “No weapons?”

“Fists.”

Vincent hoped his adversary would take his suggestion seriously. Why start a war over something as personal as someone's old lady? Let Dog Tag pay for his misdeed by fighting for what he'd coveted. And if Crash really wanted her back, he'd shed blood for what he loved.

“I can't remember the last time someone challenged one of my Brothers to an old-fashioned grudge match. Within the family, sure, but a rival club member?”

“The situation deserves special accommodation. Don't you agree?”

“I think we'll never get to the truth. Crash swears Saline's mother physically abused her. That those scars are proof of the fucked-up childhood she had. He also claims Saline is bipolar and that her psychotherapist explained why she often mistakes the past for the present. Something about unconscious redirection of her feelings.”

“Transference?” Vincent asked.

“That's it.”

Vincent held back his sarcastic laugh. “With two kids of my own, I'm familiar with it. Children who experience trauma often repress their memories as they get older. But I don't think that theory applies in this case.”

Chez crossed his arms over his chest. “Crash is on my shit list, but he's still a patched member. All this psychoanalysis bullshit doesn't mean anything to me. There's always two sides to a story. And we're going to believe who we want to.”

Vincent licked his lips, his patience dwindling. “So I guess we've reached an impasse.”

“Maybe.”

Vincent used the heel of his boot to scratch a symbolic line in the sand. “Meet me halfway—let Dog Tag and Crash battle it out. Justice will be served either way. We can't afford a war.”

“No weapons. No interference from your members if Crash gains the upper hand?”

“You have my word.”

The bastard gave a slow nod of agreement. “Done.”