Sierra

Mornings in the lodge are my favorite. The lodge empties out just after breakfast, long before the scent of coffee entices me from my bed. What to Expect When You’re Expecting advises against coffee, but I’ve already given up wine, and I don’t want to lose my will to live. I’m careful to drink only a little of the tarlike stuff, adding tons of milk and sugar. Baby doesn’t appreciate caffeine on an empty stomach.

I stroke my belly, studying myself in the mirror. The smallest curve, the slightest convex arc. Not enough for a man to notice, unless he was searching for it. Nothing a sweatshirt can’t hide. By the time fall is here, I’ll be swimming in sweaters. The guys will think all of Saint’s good food finally took hold. I suck in a breath, hold my stomach in, like a teenager worried she’s getting fat. Such a trivial worry, compared to the terror my life holds now.

I’m halfway to the kitchen, stomach gurgling after all the contorting I did in front of the mirror. If I keep raiding the fridge every few hours, I will become fat.

The sound of motorcycle pipes has me freeze.

Oh no, not here. Not when I’ve come so far, and tried so hard to hide.

Shouts in the yard—whoever is here was expected. I scuttle into the kitchen just as the door opens and Saint walks in, holding a helmet and wearing the largest leather jacket ever made. He stops when he sees me. His boots are spattered with mud.

“Sierra?”

I find my voice. “You ride?” I try for a smile, but it slips from my face.

He cocks his head, studying me. We’ve come to a truce, Saint and I. He feeds me, I eat his food and he doesn’t send Lincoln to get a different woman.

“On my day off. Got a bike in the back. Took it out to make sure it’s still running.”

“Ah.” I don’t ask him why he’s off when everyone else is working. As far as I can tell, he announces what he wants to do, and everyone tiptoes around making it work.

I realize I’m staring and drop my gaze to the floor. “So,” I say shakily. “We should talk about… your night.”

His expression goes blank, the way it did when he first saw me, or when I dance. He brushes by me, putting his helmet on the kitchen counter.

“Lincoln told me I should talk to you about it. First.”

A pause. He opens the fridge door, peers inside. “Have you eaten?”

“I had a biscuit earlier.” Saliva pools in my mouth. Now that I’m getting six meals a day, the nausea has retreated. But I’m always up for more food. “I could eat.”

“What are you in the mood for?” He solemnly regards the contents of the fridge. Food is serious business to Saint.

“Is there any chocolate?” I blurt, and wish I could take it back.

“You got a craving, girl?” His head is hidden in the fridge, but I hear the smile.

“No! Not that. Not a craving.” Only pregnant women get cravings, right? Saint twists toward me, and I search his face for any sign that he knows my condition. Why else would he use the word ‘craving?’ “I just love chocolate. I used to eat if for breakfast. Sometimes I wouldn’t eat anything but chocolate all day.”

His eyes narrow.

“But I’m good. I can wait for lunch. I’m not… I don’t have a craving.” My hands are hovering around my belly. Saint fixes his gaze on them and I force them to drop to my hips. Gah, it’s like he can read my mind. Think non-pregnant thoughts.

“Come on.” He heads down the hall, motioning me to follow. I feel like Jack in the Beanstalk, tiptoeing behind the giant.

Saint’s room is the very last, and bigger than anyone else’s. As I enter he’s turning, a large chocolate bar in his hand. I could cry with happiness, but then I spot the shelves behind him.

“Holy crap,” I shout. Saint’s room is filled with just about the only thing that can distract me from chocolate.

Books.

“You read?” he rumbles after I’ve spun in a circle, taking in the rows and rows and stacks and stacks. There’s enough to fill a library and then some.

“Uh, yeah,” I scoff, until I realize he’s kidding me. “Do you? Have you read all these?”

“Yep.”

“Awesome,” I breathe, turning to the nearest shelf and running a reverent hand down the spines. There’s everything from math textbooks to big printed bestsellers. A faded copy of Call of the Wild, right next to the bed.

“You like to read?”

“Yes.” I blink, near tears. Saint’s room smells like chocolate and a library. My favorite smells. Wherever I was, wherever my mother dragged me in her crazy hippie wanderlust or loyalty to a random biker man, I’d settle with books and chocolate and I’d know I was home.

I kept tracing titles with my fingers. Saint had a varied collection. Classics, mysteries, even romance and business psychology. Some covers are faded, others have creased spines and dirty edges. When I come to one showing a woman hugging her big pregnant belly, I stop breathing for a second. “These books—can I borrow some? I’ll bring them back.”

“Take what you like.”

I step away and pretend to peruse other titles, grabbing a few at random before returning to slip the pregnancy guide into a pile. I don’t know what an eight-foot 300 pound guy is doing with a book like What to Expect When You’re Expecting, but I’m not about to ask him why.

Actually, I do know. The sight of Saint is enough to make a girl pregnant.

Yesterday I saw him in the shower, eyes closed, water streaming over his obsidian skin, running in sleek rivulets over the planes of his chest and over his pebbled abs. He turned slightly, and a dark, snaking monster poked out from a granite-carved thigh. I scurried out before he caught me, rushed to my room and got myself off in a few soft touches. After that glimpse through the half-cracked door, I would’ve been pregnant, if I wasn’t already.

Maybe that’s why he has the book.

Once the pregnancy manual is safely hidden between a few romance novels and a thick thriller, I turn, clutching the books close. Saint has his back to me, rifling through a few piles before turning.

“Here.” He thrusts a book at me. “Read this.”

“Sex at Dawn?” I turn the title into a question mark. “Is it a romance novel?”

“Non-fiction.”

I frown and turn it over to read the back description. Saint motions me to sit, so I do, setting down my other finds, opening the book.

I look up fifteen minutes later, blinking. “Humans were meant to be poly.”

Saint’s sitting a few feet away, on a trunk of some sort. His lips split over white teeth when he grins. “You read fast.”

“I used to read through my classes.” Lynny moved us around a lot, I was always behind. I learned to read through text books to catch up. As a result, I never was held back a grade. I would’ve graduated, if not at the top of my class, then at least not anywhere near the bottom. But then Lynny died, and I didn’t go back to school. I was too busy following her questionable example, hanging around a motorcycle club and attaching myself to the nearest available guy who looked like he wouldn’t slap me around. And look where that got me.

“Here.” Saint hands me the candy bar. “Eat that. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“Thanks,” I mutter. I hoover down the chewy chocolate and relax, one hand on the pile of books as if they give me strength. Saint says nothing, his expression signals nothing, and he sits with his arms crossed over his great chest, chocolate eyes firmly fixed on me. When I’m done eating, he motions to the trash can where I can throw the wrapper, but makes no move to say anything more or kick me out.

The sugar gives me courage to meet his stare. “Tonight… do you want to fuck me?”

He scratches his stubbled chin, still watching me. He doesn’t move, but I feel pieced apart, each portion of my body separated and weighed against some unseen balance. Perhaps he’s wondering if I’m strong enough to take him. I flush just thinking about it, remembering his naked body in the shower. My pussy tingles at the look in his eye. “Not tonight,” he says finally. “Saturday. Rest all day, then come to me.”

I stand in the shower, letting the hot water soothe my hurts away. The tightness in my chest has eased somewhat, after the visit with Saint and the loan of some books. I already started reading the pregnancy one. It’s pretty generic, bland in some parts, a little scary in others. There are so many variables. So many things that could go wrong. But just to get a child, so many things have to go right. Maybe things will work out.

I’m about to finish up when footsteps echo around me. I’m alone in the big communal shower. Saint went out for an errand in the truck, and the rest of the guys are still working. As far as I know, the lodge and entire lot is empty.

“Saint?” I call, my voice quavering in the empty space. The footsteps pause. Before I can turn the water off and grab a towel, Mason walks in, barefoot, shirtless, wearing jeans. “Mason? What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t answer. His gaze sweeps over my naked form and his lips twist.

I reach for the water knob.

“No,” his angry voice rings out. I stand small and naked and vulnerable under the warm spray, as he paces forward and stops when the water spatters the hem of his jeans. His breath rasps in and out, his tanned skin flushed at the tips of his cheekbones. Hate in his dark eyes. All his unexplained rage, directed at me.

He takes another step forward, the movement drawing my eyes down, and I see his arousal, even through the thick fabric of his jeans. I open my mouth to say something when he gives me another harsh order.

“Face the wall.”

Numb, I do as he says.

“Hands on the tile.”

I plant my palms, more to hold myself up than to obey. My legs are parted just a little.

The sound of the water changes, drumming against a man’s hard back and chest and solid jeans. I wonder if the water running over his face does anything to soften his expression, the anger he holds like armor between us. Then his hand clamps down on the back of my neck, holding me rigid, pressing my forehead against the wall. My body goes weak as his fingers tighten alongside my throat. For a moment, everything goes dark, just the sound of water slapping our bodies, Mason’s breath hissing by my ear.

“Fucking whore,” he mutters.

I lick my lips and work my mouth up and down before I’m brave enough to answer. “Whore, cocksucker, slut—you really need to work on your insults.”

“Shut up.” His grip changes, his hand sliding under my chin, holding me upright. His thumb strokes my pulse. His other arm jerks in the corner of my vision. My fists tighten on the slick wall as Mason’s breathing grows rapid. He’s beating off, I’m sure of it. His cock aimed at my backside. I make a little noise and his finger’s tighten on my throat. I’ll have bruises tonight. I’ll have to cover them with makeup, or explain them to Lincoln.

“Anita,” he groans, and I stiffen. What the fuck?

“Mason,” I start, and his fingers tighten, biting and cruel. “No,” I wriggle. My skin is wet, it makes it easy to slip out of his grasp. Or perhaps once I actually fight him he lets me go.

I turn and meet his glare. I was right, his jeans are open just enough for him to hold his cock. Rivulets run down the tight V leading to his crotch.

What the fuck do you think you’re doing? His eyes say, narrowed under angry brows. The hand on my arm tries to turn me back to face the wall.

“No,” I say. “You look at me when you fuck me.”

He tilts his head and water runs down that angelic face, twisted into a demon’s. Will he ever look at me with anything but disgust?

I stand my ground, as authoritative as I can be without clothes on. The water’s turning cool.

Fine, then. He tugs my arm, pulling me down. “Kneel.”

I obey, lowering carefully. His left hand takes a hold on my wet hair as he guides his cock toward my lips.

“Suck.”

Pussy tingling, I take a deep breath and open my mouth.

Water pours over both of us, blurring my vision. He’s warm in my mouth and I hum a little, angling my head, adjusting. I reach up to help and he shakes his head. No hands. Meanwhile, his hands move my head this way and that, controlling me. I let myself go limp and embrace his unspoken commands. His hand moving my head up and down in a rough rhythm. Like this. The beat of his hips, driving his cock further into my mouth. Don’t stop. A pinch as his grip tightens in my hair. That’s it. Take it all.

I choke, hands suspended in the air above his hard thighs. My tears mingle with the shower spray. He tugs me off, his grip sharp enough to bring tears to my eyes. A breath, and he forces me back down. I let my spine loosen, my whole body a puppet in the hands of a master. A groan tells me it’ll be over soon. Something salty flows over my tongue and then Mason pulls back. I twitch my face away, eyes closed as the shower washes everything away.

A gentle touch on my jaw. Good girl. I reach up to cover his hand, but he’s already stepping away, turning off the water and walking off in wet jeans. I’m still on my knees, wondering what the fuck just happened.

Later that night, I lay in bed stroking my belly, What to Expect When You’re Expecting beside me, hidden under a large print thriller.

“You doin’ okay?” Jagger slouches in the doorframe, waiting until I wave him in.

“Yeah. Just tired.”

“We wear you out?” His eyes crinkle with humor.

I laugh. “You know it.”

“Seriously, though,” he sits by my feet, picking them up and plopping them in his lap. Still not big on boundaries is Jagger. “You holding up okay?”

“Oh yeah,” I yawn and stretch. His thumb strokes up the arch of my foot, and I melt into a moan. “Oh, do that again.”

“Everyone treating you right?”

“You sound like Lincoln.” The big crew chief came in after tonight’s dance to quiz me carefully on what I thought of the job thus far.

“What did he say?”

“He just wanted to know if I was cool with everything. I told him so far there weren’t any OSHA violations.”

Jagger keeps kneading my feet, chuckling. “Who’s night is it?”

“Uhhh, I think it’s still Mason’s.” Except Mason and I already had our moment. Sorta. “I don’t know. Saint wants me Saturday. I did everyone else, except Roy and Tommy.”

“Mmmhhmmm,” Jagger murmurs knowingly.

“What? What do you know?”

“It’s Roy and Tommy.”

“Yeah, and… They’re so sweet. I think they like watching but they always go off alone afterwards.”

“You mean they always go off together.” He emphasizes the word ‘together.’

My mouth drops open. “What? No…”

“Yes.” Jagger waggles his eyebrows. “Shhh. Don't ask don’t tell. But we're cool with it.” His voice lowers. “The other crews might not be. But Lincoln made it clear he was and we keep our shit tight. He’s such a good leader, perfect safety record, the company will give him anything he wants.”

“Just to be clear: Roy and Tommy are together,” I spell out. Jagger nods. Gay lumberjacks. Who knew? “No wonder they don’t want a night.”

“So that frees up your schedule.”

I shrug. If Jagger is angling for an extra night, he’s going to have to do all the work. Although, if he rubs my feet like this on my nights off, I might jump him anyway.

Jagger laughs and I realize I said my last thought out loud. “So sleeping with all these guys? You really don’t mind?”

I shrug again. “I’m cool with it. Saint gave me this book.” I sift through my pile of borrows, careful to keep the pregnancy guide hidden. “It theorizes how human communities used to be poly. Polyamorous,” I clarify when Jagger’s eyebrows go up. “Specifically, one woman would mate with multiple males.”

Jagger’s hands still as he stares at me.

“What? I didn’t make this up!” I page through the book. “They think they have evidence based on physical qualities. For example, the penis is shaped like a shovel so it can scoop semen out of the vagina before making its own deposit. And women cry out during orgasm—which could’ve been a way of calling more men to come inseminate her.”

Jagger’s eyes are frozen on my face. I wave my hands in the air as if they can help me explain.

“They think it explains a lot about why women take longer to orgasm. And premature ejaculation. If their theories are correct, a guy finishing early would be a trait that meant their seed was the first in, and the first to take root. Evolution would select for it. I don’t know,” I finish, mumbling and not meeting Jagger’s wide eyes. “I think it make sense.”

“Sierra, I...” Jagger keeps shaking his head. My foot is still between his hands, and I attempt to remove it. He hangs on and keeps massaging it, even as he looks at me like I’m a zoo animal. “I don’t know what to say. This is not what I expected to talk about.”

“It’s interesting to think about, anyway.”

“Yes, it definitely is. But what about your feelings? Forget premature ejaculation and natural selection. How are you feeling, being with a bunch of guys?”

I open my mouth to answer, and a shadow falls across the door. Mason steps in my room, rapping his fist on my door as if he didn’t just barge into my space, knocking as an afterthought. “Am I interrupting?”

Mouth still open, I try to think of what to say. Jagger frowns. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s my night, right?” The beautiful man is already turning away. “Come to my room in fifteen.”

“Uh, wha…” I manage to get out before Jagger’s on his feet.

“It was your night. Last night. You passed. She’s resting.”

Now my mouth is hanging open at Jagger defending me like this. His shoulders bunch up, hands curling to fists. Mason pivots neatly and the two guys face off. They’re not as huge as the rest of the crew, but they’ve got enough anger and muscles to cause some danger.

“Hey, wait,” I say weakly. “It’s okay.” I look at Mason, wondering if he enjoyed himself in the shower so much that he wanted more. I don’t want to mention it; it seemed weird that Mason was at the lodge while everyone was on shift. I don’t want to get him in trouble.

Me defending Mason is also weird.

“I’m all right,” I tell Jagger. “Mason’s right. It’s his turn. I’ll be right there.” I stand up and busy myself organizing my books. What should I wear?

When I turn back, Mason is gone. Jagger has his arms folded across his chest. “You don’t have to do this.”

“It’s fine.” Despite everything, I’m excited, a telltale tingle creeping up my thighs. “He’s just grumpy. It’s probably all an act for attention.”

“No, it isn’t. He’s dangerous.” Jagger leans on the door, chewing his lip.

I shrug, even as excitement ripples through my body, remembering the water running over Mason’s impossible cheekbones, his harsh commands. No, I tell myself severely, it was not hot. It was rude. You did not like it.

But I did.

A few minutes later, I wander down to Mason’s room. My nemesis stands at the door, jaw clenched. He turns and walks in, expecting me to follow. His room is neat, no books or clutter or signs of personality. The bed looks like no one has ever slept on it. Maybe he sleeps upside down, hanging from the ceiling, like a bat. A giggle escapes before I can stop it.

Mason’s black brows knit together. “Face the wall,” he orders.

“This again?” I mutter, but turn toward the wooden dresser as he comes at me. His hand claps against my bottom, making me jump. The spank doesn’t hurt, but I look back at him, curious.

“Stay where you are.” His arms reach around me and he roughly undoes my jeans and peels them down. I hang onto the dresser for balance.

“Are you going to frisk me?” I can’t keep from snarking. Shut up, Sierra. I tell myself a second before he says the same.

“No underwear?” he asks, and I shrug. I changed from my pajama bottoms into jeans for the walk down the hall, but left my camisole. No bra or underwear; I didn’t see the point. “Fucking slut.”

“That’s me,” I murmur and suck in a breath as he shoves his fingers into my pussy. Not because it hurt—because it felt good.

I twist to see his reaction. If he expected to dry fuck me, he’s outta luck. His eyes widen as his fingers glide right in.

“That’s right,” I whisper as every cell in my body focuses around the welcome intruder. “I’m fucking wet for you. Must be your pretty, pretty face.”

His eyes are hostile, his fingers stretching and reaching, thrusting crudely. He looks like he wants to hurt me, but he can’t. I’m too wet.

I laugh right in his face. “Is it hard, Mason? Being the prettiest one in camp?”

“Shut the fuck up,” he breathes, his pupils growing until his irises are thin umber rings. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard. You’re gonna do what I say, because I’m paying. You’re the whore.”

“Your wish is my command.” I twist off his fingers and slide to the floor, slowly, so I can watch his body clench and eyes catch fire. Halfway down he grips my hair, hard enough to sting, and presents his wet fingers to my lips.

“Suck it, whore,” he orders. “Show me what you can do.”

I yank down his boxers and engulf his cock instead. He hisses, staggering back until his calves hit the bed I cup his balls and hum as I work my tongue around his length, dragging it along the bottom and poking it into the dent under the flared head. He grips my hair harder, but I press forward, ignoring the pain in my scalp, taking him deep.

“Fuck.”

“Your wish is my command.” I rise and peel off my shirt in one movement. My small breasts bounce, catching his eye. I use the distraction to make my move, pressing my pale body against him, embracing him like a lover.

He turns us and rolls so I’m on my back. His hands lock around my wrists and wrench them away from him.

“Don’t touch me,” he grits out.

“Hard to fuck without touching you,” I shoot back, and he frees a hand to swat between my legs. His palm connects with my pussy and I yelp. “Fuck.” I buck against the bed, fighting to get my wrists free from the punishing shackle of his right hand. Evil glints in his eyes as he smacks me again, this time hitting my right haunch like a rider encouraging a horse.

“I make the rules,” he warns and I nod. Fine. My pussy is too eager for me to keep arguing.

Smirking as if he knows how hot his dominance makes me, he rolls a condom on his glistening length.

“I’m clean,” I say automatically and he gives me a look that makes my cheeks burn. He wants to fuck a dirty, dirty whore? Fine. I can play that game.

“Roll over,” he commands. “All fours.”

“What’s the matter, don’t want to look me in the face while you fuck? You gonna pretend I’m a little boy?” I taunt. His face darkens and I know I’ve pushed him too far.

“On your back then,” he snaps. “Not like that. Spread your legs. Wider.”

As soon as I—bravely—take the vulnerable position, he’s on me. He thrusts inside with brutal force, so rough he’d tear me if I wasn’t so sopping wet.

“Yes,” I can’t stop myself from sighing. If I was smart, I’d shut up. Mason slams forward, sending me sliding further onto the bed. Tears pop into my eyes—tears of pleasure.

“Come on,” I grunt, locking my ankles behind his iron hard back. “Prove you’re more than just a pretty face.”

His hips snap forward and he drives into me, so deep stars fill my vision. My nails dig into his smooth skin. I could claw his sleek shoulders, leave red marks marring his perfect tan. I scratch down his back and grip his tight ass to pull him deeper. His glare stabs me, penetrating me in a different way.

I close my eyes.

“No,” he barks. “Look at me when I fuck you.”

“That’s my line,” I laugh. His expression says murder, but his dick sings a sweet, rhythmic song. I plant my heels on the bed and thrust up, mashing my pelvis against his in time to the deep, sexual beat. For as long as I live, I will remember the rocking strength of his body, the perfect bow of his lips tempting, daring me to risk it all for a kiss. My orgasm gathers in the far corners of my body, rivulets of pleasure running through me, head to groin to feet. It slams into me, breaking me, wringing me out, leaving me breathless.

I will forever compare this fuck to all others. I will have sex dreams about this glorious hate fuck. The best sex of my life.

“Here.” He tosses something at me. Money. The bills smack me in the face.

Shaking, weak with anger and melting pleasure, I rise and slip on my clothes, my tip crushed in my fist.

“Not bad for a whore,” he yawns.

“I’m not a whore.” I give him a hard smile, as friendly as a kick to the gut. “Whores fuck for money. I’m here for the sex.” I toss the bills on the bed, and swagger from his room.

In the middle of the night, demons rise in my mind.

“Sierra’s a hot little piece.”

“Yep,” Jack agrees, taking a pull on his beer.

“She’s been around the club, what, a year?”

“Little longer. Her mother used to hang around the Hell Pit before she died.”

“That’s right. Wannabe old lady. Hit by a car and left her girl all alone,” Dex says thoughtfully. “Dried up old hag, the mother. But the daughter… she grew up just right.”

“Yeah,” Jack answers. Through the screen door, I watch my boyfriend bob his head, eager to agree with the club leader, so oblivious to the satanic glint in Dex’s eye. “Sierra’s great.”

“Mmm.” Dex takes a hit of his joint, passes it to Jack. The light from the silent TV reflects off his brass rings. “You know how it is in the club. Before you take an old lady, you gotta give her to me.”

I suck in a breath, jerking back in the shadows where I’ve been hiding. I knew Dex was up to something. The president of the whole MC doesn’t single out a lowly patch to hang out with, like a school girl desperate for a BFF. Jack was so excited about this meeting, so hopeful. Like the rest of the club, he hero worships Dex. And now we’re stuck at Dex’s house.

I glance back at the fire pit, where my backpack still sits. I don’t want Jack to share me with his club prez. The thought of Dex touching me makes me sick. Should I run? Maybe just walk down the street for a bit, come back when the guys are high and half asleep and no longer in the mood. I can leave my backpack and just say I needed some fresh air. My stomach’s not feeling right anyway.

I’m so busy planning my escape I miss Jack mumbling something.

Dex doesn’t answer right away. He plucks the joint from Jack’s hands and stabs it out. “I think you’ve waited long enough. Call her inside, Jack. It’s time to share.”

I jerk awake. For a moment, I’m not alone. Memories lurk in the shadows. Jack coming out the door to call my name. Me hiding alongside the house, holding my breath until he goes back inside, tells Dex I must’ve run. The slam of the front door followed by the roar of pipes: the prez leaving.

Is that what really happened? Must be: when I went back inside to Jack, Dex was gone.

The next thing I remember is the sound of the gun. The shot echoes in my memory as I scrub my face. Try as I might, I don’t remember what happened before the gun. Before the blood.

I remember what happened after all too well.

I stare at the ceiling, willing it to turn grey with the dawn. I can’t sleep, I can’t settle. I’ve spent too much time on the run, paying penance for that night, Jack’s death.

But here in the lodge, with a chance to breathe, maybe I can remember why Jack had to die.