Undeniable (Undeniable, #1)(16)

“Name’s Cox,” he said, looking me up and down. “This is Ripper.” He jerked his thumb at the man standing next to him. A drop-dead gorgeous man. He looked like a surfer straight out of Cali. Long, wavy blond hair and dark blue eyes. There was man candy to be had all around.

“Hey,” Ripper said, his eyes on Kami. “You two been here before?”

I shook my head. “I’m looking for Deuce.”

“I’m not,” Kami said. “I’m looking for you.”

I covered my mouth, stifling my laughter.

“Or you,” she said to Cox, shrugging. “Doesn’t matter.”

Cox and Ripper looked at each other.

“Don’t wanna fight you, brother,” Ripper said. “But I f*ckin’ will.”

“You’ll lose,” Cox growled.

“Boys?” Kami swept her long blonde hair over her shoulder and cocked her hip. “This is my last summer of freedom. My dad is a rich * who is making me marry another rich *. I have three months left before I become a proper little Jackie O and have to start f*cking my staff just so I can get off. That being said, if you guys don’t mind sharing, I’ve got a whole lot to give.”

“I don’t,” Cox said quickly.

“Nope, me either,” Ripper said.

“Awesome, now do you have any liquor in this big, scary building of yours?”

Ripper grabbed her elbow, Cox slung his arm over her shoulder, and they steered her toward the clubhouse.

Sheesh. It was like I was invisible.

Rolling my eyes, I followed them inside.

All around me were bikers ranging from age eighteen to eighty and the sluts who loved them. I realized that the Hell’s Horsemen were having what my boys in New York called a “* party,” which was undoubtedly the only reason Kami and I had been allowed inside. I scanned the room looking for Deuce.

The inside of the warehouse looked nothing like the outside. The entire place had been gutted, renovated, and remodeled. Running the length of the warehouse front was one giant man cave with fifteen-feet ceilings and modern skylights that gave it a cathedral-like appearance.

A fully stocked bar lined the entire right side of the room surrounded by several bar tables and stools, and beyond, five large pool tables took up a good portion of the room. The opposite side gave the impression of a high-class men’s club, complete with dark leather furniture as far as the eye could see, flat-screen televisions, and a state-of-the-art stereo system. There were two hallway entrances on either side of the back wall and smack dab in the center were a set of doors surrounded by photographs of the members. Above the doors was a plank of wood nailed to the wall that read “Prez’s Office.” My heart started pounding, and my hands went clammy.

I willed my feet to move and headed toward his office. Taking a deep breath, I curled my hand into a fist and rapped on the door.

“WHAT?”

Oh God, that voice—that hard, rough, beautiful voice.

I swallowed hard and turned the knob.

I saw a woman first. Tall, blonde, very tan, and curvy as hell. Beautiful. She was wearing a tight jean skirt, frayed at the bottom, and a hot pink tank top that showed off her copious amount of cleavage. I had large breasts, but I almost never put them on display unless I was going out. I just didn’t see the point.

I glanced down at my Led Zeppelin cropped tee, way too baggy jeans that hung low, and my Chucks. The tee had once belonged to my mother, and I altered it to make it more my style to show off my belly ring and the circle of black and pink stars I had tattooed around my belly button. The jeans I’d had forever; I wasn’t even sure where I’d gotten them. Frankie, maybe? That was a running theme during my teenage years, stealing his clothing. They were comfy, and so deliciously broken in, they felt like silk against my skin. Most importantly, they dragged when I walked. That was a thing for me; I liked to be able to hide my feet inside my pants at all costs. Weird, I know, but I was an only child—and a girl, no less—who grew up with a single MC president, his crew, and Crazy Frankie. I could have turned out a whole lot weirder.

But I felt like a homeless person next to this woman. This super-model-sort-of-beautiful woman who was more than likely his wife.

Deuce was seated behind a desk, turned away from me, cursing into a cell phone.

Whoever had decorated the office was either secretly gay or of the female variety. Although the dark oak desk, hutch, and meeting table were distinctly male, no man—correction, no biker—would have ever picked out these particular pieces to coordinate with each other. They were too perfect, each piece different yet worked fashionably together. A woman—I surmised, probably this woman—had a hand in decorating. Knowing this made me feel incredibly uncomfortable.

The blonde glanced over at me, gave me a once-over, and her pink-painted lips curled into a sneer. “Who the f*ck are you?”

“I…um…was looking for Deuce.”

“Well, you…um…f*ckin’ found him.”

Sheesh. Attitude.

“Are you f*ckin’ kiddin’ me?” Deuce growled into his phone. “You tell Street he gets his ass to the docks and picks up the shipment, or I will f*ckin’ bury your chapter! You feel me? I will scatter your boys and take you to ground! You don’t f*ckin’ mess with the Buonarroti family! I made f*ckin’ promises, and I aim to keep them. A man’s f*ckin’ word is a man’s f*ckin’ word. You think this is a game? No? Good. Now get your f*ckin’ ass in gear!”