Undeniable (Undeniable, #1)(7)

Crying, the kid shook his head.

“You respect women, you little f*ckin’ shit. It was a f*ckin’ woman who carried you around in her f*ckin’ body, f*ckin’ birthed you, and f*ckin’ loved you. It’s gonna be a woman who keeps you warm at night, who lets you inside her body, and it’s gonna be a woman who carries around your f*ckin’ children. You f*ckin’ respect that, you feel me? You f*ckin’ respect women—all of ’em—or I will end you.”

He released him, and the kid fell to his knees retching.

“Fuckin’ little shits,” he muttered. Tucking his gun back in his jeans, he walked away.





CHAPTER THREE


I was sixteen.

It was summer in Manhattan.

And it was the first Sunday of the month.

Smack dab between Morrissey’s Bar and a Middle Eastern grocery store, up on the roof of the Demons’ five-story Portland brownstone, the MC’s monthly family barbeque was in full swing. Old ladies and girlfriends, children, cousins, friends of families, and business associates were talking and laughing, dancing and drinking, while dogs and burgers were being flipped on the grills as fast as the kegs were emptying.

On top of a picnic table, Frankie and I sat side by side sharing a pair of earbuds. My Discman was wedged between us, and our heads were pressed together while we rocked out to Led Zeppelin’s “Dazed and Confused.” I had my arm slung over Frankie’s broad shoulders, and his hand slid up and down my thigh with his fingers tapping out the beat of the song.

“Heads up, brothers, the Horsemen are here!”

My head swiveled right.

Another yell. “Hide your women!”

This was followed by loud guffaws and a lot of feminine giggling.

I watched as a large group of leather-clad men joined the crowd on the roof. On the backs of their cuts was the Hell’s Horsemen insignia.

Just like the insignia on my medallion.

My heart started pounding. Was Deuce here? I scanned the crowd, but the Horsemen had already dispersed throughout the sea of people.

Frankie squeezed my thigh to get my attention. I pulled out my earbud and slanted my eyes at him.

“Want me to hide some booze for later? Some smoke?”

Demon barbeques were infamous for becoming wild and reckless, and more often than not, every last biker would be passed out drunk before midnight. This was when their offspring partied with their leftover booze and green.

“Yeah,” I said and smiled at him.

Frankie stood, ran his fingers through my long, dark hair, and pulled my head flush against his hard abdomen. “Be right back,” he whispered.

“And Eva?”

I looked up.

“Don’t f*ckin’ go anywhere until I get back.”

Rolling my eyes, I put my earbuds in and resumed my head bobbing, foot tapping, and overly loud singing, happily ignoring the openmouthed stares my singing always caused.

Middle school had been rough for me, but I’d since grown into my awkwardness. I embraced my weirdness, and I was cool with my oddities. I was who I was, and I didn’t care anymore about what anyone else thought. High school so far had been good to me. I was pretty, I was popular, and I had a ton of friends. I suspected most of my girlfriends used me to get near Frankie, trying to bag him. Frankie was a good-looking guy, big and broad, with finely chiseled features. He was a pureblood Italian with brown eyes, the color of dark chocolate, and thick brown hair he’d grown long.

The girls flocked, and bag them he did. In droves. Never did the same girl twice. So other than having to listen to all the girls at school whine and pine over Frankie, life was good. It was fun and uncomplicated, and I was happy.

My eyes trained on the blacktop beneath me as a shadow fell over me, and a pair of leather boots walked into my line of sight. I stared down at them. Full-grain black leather with a rubber sole. Detailed at the ankles with metal buckles, they looked edgy, sexy.

I looked up.

“Still wearin’ Chucks and singin’ out of tune I see.”

Yep. Edgy and sexy. Just like the man wearing them.

Deuce was all dimples and smiles and icy blue eyes that matched perfectly with his long blond hair that he’d pulled back in a stubby ponytail. He was just as large as I remembered, broad and well-built; he towered over me and was at least half a body wider. He looked hot as hell in a tight white tee, his leather cut, and ratty, low-slung jeans. This time when I grinned at him, it wasn’t with little-girl awe; it was with sixteen-year-old sexual fascination.

“Eva f*ckin’ Fox,” he drawled. “You’ve grown.”

“Deuce,” I said, smiling impishly. “You’ve aged.”

He threw his head back and laughed a deep, rumbling laugh that had my belly clenching and my nipples tightening. I wasn’t the only female affected; several women on the roof were openly fawning over him.

Reaching inside his cut, Deuce pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He kept his eyes on me as he lit it. “How old are ya now, darlin’? Eighteen, nineteen?”

“Sixteen,” Frankie hissed, appearing beside me. “Six-f*ckin’-teen.”

Deuce’s eyes cut to Frankie, and I watched as recognition dawned. It wasn’t happy recognition.

“Crazy f*ckin’ Frankie,” Deuce said, smirking. “Got a pretty impressive rep for a brother so young.”