Undeniable (Undeniable, #1)(33)

“Because, baby, I’m wild *, and wild * can’t be bought. Wild * doesn’t like having pretty things thrown at it and being expected to do the samba on someone’s cock in return. Wild * doesn’t do deals. Wild * lives free and for itself and takes it however it likes it—on a bed, on a couch, on the hood of a car, in a bathroom stall, or up against a wall in an alleyway—and it laughs the entire time. I’ve known you for a while now, Chase. I know you’ve never had wild *, and I know you never will. Wild * doesn’t f*ck uptight cock. And it sure as hell doesn’t like silk boxers.”

Chase’s mouth fell open.

Kami’s high-pitched laughter echoed throughout the large room.

“Time to go shopping,” she said in a singsong voice.

“Pick me up some cotton boxers while you’re out,” Chase muttered.

“Pick them up yourself!”

“Can’t. I’m going to be jerking off all day to the beautiful imagery of Eva’s * that she has so graciously provided me with.”

? ? ?

Courtesy of Chase, Kami and I spent the entire day shopping—Kami, because she can shop for weeks without tiring, and me, because I wanted to be nowhere near the club.

Around eleven and after a few drinks at a neighborhood bar, Kami’s driver took us to the clubhouse. Three Harleys with Montana plates were still parked out front, and Kami was beside herself with excitement.

I was beside myself with anxiety.

We found them in the club’s spacious living room with several of my Demon boys and their girls. Mick had a whore on his lap, and Cox was in the middle of a heated debate with my cousin Trey. No Deuce. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or upset.

The second we entered the room, Cox locked on Kami.

“Babe,” he groaned. “You up and left me in the middle of the f*ckin’ night. Haven’t slept good since.”

Kami grinned. “You need me to tire you out?”

Cox bolted across the room, scooped her up over his shoulder, and headed for the stairwell.

“Christ,” Mick muttered.

“Second floor,” I called after them. “Empty beds!”

“Frankie?” I asked a Demon named Split.

He grinned. “Passed out cold awhile ago. Took three of us to lug him upstairs.”

I gave Split a kiss on the cheek, waved to Trey, and turned to go.

I was halfway to the stairwell when a large hand came down on my shoulder. I quickly shrugged out of Mick’s grasp. “Don’t ever touch me,” I said evenly.

His eyebrows shot to his hairline. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it, darlin’. Just wanted to apologize for how shit went down last time we crossed paths. Deuce is my prez and my brother, and I got love for him, you feel me?”

“I feel you,” I snapped. “But none of that changes how you treated me when you didn’t know shit about me! So keep in mind you’re in my club, these are my boys, and if you f*ck with anyone, I will bury you myself.”

He stared down at me. “You’ve gotten harder, babe. Fire’s burnin’ brighter; life’s takin’ its toll on you, ain’t it?”

I blinked, and it was Deuce’s face I saw.

You’re a good kid, darlin’. A good, sweet kid. Promise me you’ll stay that way, yeah? No matter what you see, no matter what sort of f*cked-up shit happens to you, don’t let this life turn you bitter.

I wasn’t hard, was I? I definitely wasn’t bitter. Right? Why did I suddenly feel like crying?

“Whatever, Mick. Just stay out of my way and don’t f*ck with my club.”

He smiled. “I feel you, babe. You got love for the club, I get that, and I admire that in an old lady. Been hearing ’bout how f*ckin’ awesome you are all day.”

I glared at him. “I am not an old lady.”

“You in Frankie’s bed?”

“Nope,” I shot back. “Frankie’s in mine.”

Turning on my heel, I left him to stew on that.

After dumping my purchases in my room and divesting Frankie of his boots and jeans, I made my way downstairs. Yawning, I pushed open the door to the kitchen and felt around for the light. It switched on.

Rubbing my eyes with the heels of my palms, I trudged to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of purple Gatorade, and turned to go.

I dropped the Gatorade.

There was Deuce, leaning back against the opposite wall—mere inches from the light switch—with his pants around his ankles and his hands full of badly bleached-blonde biker babe hair. The space of three years closed, and I was back in Deuce’s kitchen watching Miranda bounce in his lap.

“What the f*ck?” I whispered hoarsely.

The girl jerked her head up; Deuce shoved her back and laughed bitterly.

“What the f*ck? You sneak out of my bed in the middle of the f*ckin’ night and hop straight into Frankie’s and have the f*ckin’ nerve to ask me what the f*ck!”

The girl jerked again, and again he pushed her back. “Bitch, you stop suckin’ one more time, and I’m gonna slap you,” he threatened.

I gaped at him. “You’re a pig,” I choked out.

“Yeah.”

“No, really, you’re a sick pig.”

“Yeah, darlin’, I know.”