Unattainable (Undeniable, #3)(25)
“Not gonna happen,” Deuce said firmly. “It’s the club or you can figure this shit out on your own.”
Ellie felt tears welling in her eyes. What had she ever done to them? It wasn’t her fault that the police chief in this awful little town had tried to rape her, something that was obviously interfering with MC business.
“Ah, shit,” Dirty said as he ran his hands through his greasy hair. “Don’t f*ckin’ cry. You can stay here.”
Deuce’s head whipped in Dirty’s direction. “No,” he growled.
Dirty shook his head. “No, Prez, it’s fine. It’s…I…just…just stay with her, lemme go to the club for…uh, something.”
Deuce glared at Dirty and Ellie wondered how Dirty wasn’t withering and dying in the face of that terrifying stare, but instead was meeting Deuce glare for glare.
“I got this,” Dirty said firmly. “Just lemme go take care of some shit.”
Ellie watched, more confused than anything else as the two man stared at each other, deeply engaged in a private conversation that only the two of them were privy to. Ellie couldn’t even comprehend how deeply connected two people had to be to reach that level of communication.
It was Deuce who looked away first and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Go,” he barked. “You got two hours, max. I gotta be home for f*ckin’ dinner.”
Dirty didn’t hesitate; whatever it was that he had to do was obviously of the utmost importance to him. After he tore out the front door, Deuce stormed into the kitchen, grabbed a six-pack out of the refrigerator, took a seat on Dirty’s lone recliner, and switched the television on.
That was yesterday. Dirty had since returned, Deuce was long gone, and Dirty was…
Well, Dirty was holding up the bag of burnt popcorn, looking quite hapless.
Ellie couldn’t help herself. She burst out laughing.
? ? ?
Dirty stared at Ellie. Why the f*ck was she laughing? He glanced at the bag of popcorn in his hand. Oh. She was laughing at him. Normally if someone laughed at him, he’d pull out his piece and maybe, if he felt like it, blow their f*cking skull to bits.
Surprisingly enough, he didn’t feel that way with Ellie. Even more surprisingly, he felt…for her.
Earlier, seeing her cower in front of Deuce, seeing the mix of confusion and fear in her big blue eyes, he felt for her.
How could he tell her she couldn’t stay with him? Not when it was obvious this was the only place she felt safe. How could he take that away from her? He knew all too well what it felt like to live in fear, wishing he had just one person, just one place he’d could have gone to, and felt safe.
If he could give that to Ellie… Strangely, it almost felt like he was, in a way, giving himself a little of the same.
But none of that meant it was easy for him to be alone with her. Not after seeing her naked, touching her, knowing what she’d gone through and knowing she was afraid and, goddamn him, being both disgusted and turned on by the entire thing.
His insides were warring. What she nearly went through represented everything he was afraid of, the ghosts that would never leave him, yet the physical urge to overpower her, to take her freedom, her choice, away from her was a burning beacon deep within him, begging to be released.
He’d had no choice but to go to the club.
He had to make it go away.
He was like an addict, growing sicker and sicker, needing his next fix.
As soon as Deuce had relented he’d gone straight to the club, straight to the bar, dosed the beer of the first club whore he found—Amanda, a bitch he’d had many, many times, unbeknownst to her. Once she started slumping against the bar, he’d picked her up and carried her off to his room. Tossing her facedown on his bed, he stripped her naked and, with his eyes burning, Dirty positioned himself behind her, poised himself at her entrance and—
His gut roiled. He always felt sick; it was a feeling he’d gotten more than accustomed to over the decades, but this, this was so much worse. Ellie’s face, her body, her smile, it was all in the forefront in his brain.
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t hurt her, not her. Not Ellie. She was a good woman and he couldn’t.
He just couldn’t.
He had to f*ck this bitch, he had to hurt her. He wanted—no, needed—to watch himself disappear inside of her knowing she could do nothing about it, that she was helpless, powerless, that he was in complete control, that he was going to get off at her expense.
Not Ellie.
Oh, f*ck. He wanted to get off; he wanted it bad. He let the walls down, let the memories come, allowed them to take him over, spin wildly in his head. All the touching, groping, not being able to stop his erection even when he was crying, begging her to stop, and she was drunk and moaning, forcing him to touch her as she held him down and lowered herself down on his cock.
He grew harder just thinking about it, harder and sicker. What was wrong with him? He didn’t understand how something so vile, so motherf*cking awful, had become something that perversely turned him on, made hurting women result in easing his sickness.
He had to come, he had to come, he had to f*cking come. Worse, he had to think about his foster mother, about the sick and twisted shit she’d done to him, while he tried to come and to do it, to go through with this, he had to remind himself that the bitch passed out facedown on his bed was just that. A bitch. A useless f*cking club whore who didn’t do shit with herself except pass her dirty * around to his brothers. All except him. But she would, she would f*ck him willingly too if she knew what he actually looked like.