“The pity party was going strong. Gift bags are at the door.” – Preacher
Grinder’s chest was still on fire more than a week later. He’d run through the gambit of name calling while falling into a bottle of whiskey and when he ran out he offloaded this shitstorm onto Preacher’s shoulders knowing his buddy would have a lot to say on the matter, his own hunched up around his ears, he’d waited for the gavel to fall.
And fall it did.
The big fucking idiot laughed his ass off until tears dotted his eyes.
Grinder almost reached out and smacked him in the mouth.
“I didn’t know you were that hard up for a lay, bro.” Preacher continued to laugh.
It had taken a crowbar and a ten-minute summing up in fucking court to get Preacher to leave the house for once and come for a beer. The former asshole who had loved a drink and a few waitresses on the side was now a family man and while Grinder was happy for the big knucklehead, he needed bro time to make sense of his fuck up. “Don’t act so fucking superior, shitbag, you’ve been married five minutes, you ain’t no damn expert.” He grumbled into his drink, brows so far down on his forehead they almost blended into his beard.
He should’ve kept his trap shut.
“Aww, don’t be sulking, Daisy,” cajoled his buddy, a smirk present in his tone. “I mean haven’t we all been there when we just had an urge to toss a chick in the back of a car and tie her up for two days. Usually it involves sex, a lot of sex, but still, you go, man, as for your first kidnapping, I hope she rates you well, the execution coulda been better.”
“I detained her. I didn’t kidnap,” his stare was vicious. “I don’t need to take this abuse,” he flung himself back in the booth, scowling.
Not even the tits in his face when the waitress dropped off more rounds of drinks cheered Grinder up. They could have been made of cauliflower instead of pink perky nipples for all the notice he took. “You literally never stop bringing up aggravating shit.”
Preacher barked at the scowl Grinder fired, his face buried in his bottle he scanned the bar, noting nothing of interest to his fancy.
Everyone was bland cauliflower.
No one was Luxe.
“You literally just told me your shit, you, secretive fuck-monkey. All this time you were Gi Joe’ing through bushes and alleys stalking the feisty criminal.”
“You were busy with your own drama,” he pointed out with a shrug. “Not like I could ask you to stalk with me when you were helping Ruby. Besides, you’re a big bastard, she would have seen you easily,” he tried to make light while he brooded.
“I coulda laughed down the phone at you, though.” Grinned Preacher. That asshole. “Come on, you’re not arrested, she’s obviously not gonna report it, you got off lightly, thank your lucky stars, G, and move on. As you once told me there’s plenty more pussy out there, dig into one or five and wash your mouth of all of this, it’s trouble you don’t need.”
He couldn’t forget. That was the problem. His gut was warped with knots and all he could think about was that kiss and how he’d wanted so much more until his cock was drilled inside her right down to the bottom and her screams deafened him.
Pity party of one, more chicken wings needed.
A minute went by. “You don’t look like you’re moving on, G. In fact, you got that plotting look, like you’re about to do something nasty and a little dirty.”
Grinder slurped, used the back of his hand to wipe his mouth. He didn’t want to get all touchy-feely with his emotions, this whole confession had been a bad idea, wasn’t it?
“Do you know how many women I’ve seen you this affected by in all the years I’ve known you? None. Absolutely zero, my friend. Until this one woman. You’re here brooding with a face like a smacked dog. Don’t you think you should be doing something about it?”
“Nah. It’s done now.” Knocking knuckles on the table he rose, threw down enough notes to cover what they’d had and to leave a tip. “Let’s go, I know you wanna run back home, you pussy-whipped sad-case,” flashing Preacher a smirk who only grinned to let Grinder know he didn’t care what he was saying, ‘cause he was getting the good and the wet on the regular from his old lady. Fucking gloaters, him and Rider both.
The men parted outside in front of their bikes.
Preacher headed home.
Grinder, feeling unsettled in his own flesh pushed on a pair of shades to block out the waning sun in the sky, throwing his leg over his Dyna Wide Glide 2016, he made the engine purr while he zipped up his leather jacket with the Souls grim reaper emblem on the back and he took off. Too early to head home, he was far too restless and not nearly drunk enough to sit idle on his couch and flip through shit TV and there were no engines to work on at the shop, he drove for twenty minutes, the sky drifting into dusk until Colorado was shadowed in darkness.
Where was a club brawl when he needed one to keep him busy?
An image of Luxe at the Apollo Kingsmen party before he air-lifted her out played around his mind. What with keeping his hostage fed, watered and generally calm the last days he’d completely put it to the recess of his head, but driving with the wind in his face, his best girl under him purring a steady 68 mph he gave it some thought. She hadn’t looked happy, hadn’t even seemed enthused to be at a rowdy party, if anything when she’d stepped outside, unbeknown to his eyes on her from a discreet corner of Steele’s compound, she seemed bored out of her brain, he could joke he did her a favor getting her out of there, from what he’d been told, the only reason she was back in town was because of that shindig.
Or was it?
Why hadn’t he asked what had brought her into town? He guessed why not, his brain would have exploded if she told him she was dating the Kingsmen prez. Ruby’s brother wasn’t bad as rival club members go, he kept out of Souls business and likewise for the Kingsmen, he was friendly enough with Rider, the two spoke now and then, but and it was a giant but, his gut didn’t like the idea she was dating someone.
Hadn’t he just had his tongue in her mouth?
Surely that was some fucking claim somewhere.
Had to be.
Whichever way he tried to work it, Grinder knew he was screwed, he couldn’t go back in time and do things differently. They’d parted on decent terms? Maybe. And still he had a goose egg in his throat he couldn’t dislodge.
Would flowers say he was sorry?
He found himself in the unnatural state of wanting to make it up to a woman, first time for everything huh. He couldn’t have had a bigger reality check that he’d fucked up at every given corner and still he’d pressed forward, over what… a shitty chain.
A sentimental piece of shit that was worth nothing. Fuck. No excuse.
He’d pursued her because he couldn’t get her out of his mind.
There, that was his fucking unvarnished truth.
She’d played him royally like a chump with a hard on and that’s what stung. Grinder knew women even if he didn’t play with as many as his brothers did, he knew how to get them, hold them there, make it bliss. Now he was wondering was it all Meg Ryan fake, those breathy moans into his mouth, her clutching fingers all a joke long enough to get him distracted. Fucks sake, he would have preferred her to take his wallet and punch him in the balls then to figure the beauty he’d wanted to spend some time with had faked her every shiver and pleading moan.
Pulling into a parking bay not far from the eight-story building the Russian’s were camped out in, Grinder kicked the stand and rested his bike before he stepped down and took a short walk. He scouted around the back, he went down the block and traced his footsteps back, he didn’t chance heading inside the building, he knew already which floor they were on, every window was dark.
Wanting solid intel to take back to the club, he used this time wisely. According to Grigori they were only in Armado briefly, and Grinder didn’t believe that lie at all, they were planting roots subtly, firstly by renting out an entire block of apartments. What did they need all that space for? Grinder had a clue and didn’t like it one bit. This whole thing smelled of sex trafficking. Needing a big enough space to house enough women to whore their asses out to the highest bidding pervert.
Grinder was a territorial motherfucker when he was tested, no decent man would allow that kind of thing to go on in his back yard.
Tracking was no picnic by anyone’s standards, nothing like the movies portrayed, most of the things Grinder did was boring as hell, a job not many could do, but he got a kick out of finding people, or digging and digging and doing the impossible. He’d found Hades last year, turned out that bastard pulled a plot twist on them all, but still, he’d discovered his hidey-hole.
He bought himself a soda and a bag of mints to crunch on from the seven-eleven on the corner and parked out with his bike, it was dark enough that he was hidden if the Russian’s came back. For now, he waited.
And waited.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” He muttered incredulously two hours later as a familiar Lincoln pulled up right outside the building he was watching.
Rolling his eyes to the heavens, Grinder kept his voice in check before he found himself calling out to Luxe down the street as she glided herself out of her car, backpack slung over one shoulder, dressed head to toe in tight black, this time her poker straight hair caught back in a long ponytail that swished against her slim spine as she walked. Scratch that, the woman strutted.
No lie he had some hardcore sexual thoughts in that fast thirty seconds of wrapping her hair in his fist and pounding the fuck right out of her.
Each fantasy dropped to his boots when she walked into the apartment block.
“No fucking way. I’m going to strangle her, for real.” It was like some giant cocksucker up there was laughing his ass off at Grinder throwing this chick in his path again and then mingling her with a potential enemy.
His temper bubbled, the same time his curiosity did. He hated mysteries almost as much as he did people stealing from him. Now she was checking off two boxes.
What were the odds this was a coincidence?
Nil. Zip. Fucking zero. His gut said as much.
What do you know, seeing Luxe walk into the place the Russian’s were staying made his self-pity evaporate into thin air.
And protective instinct he didn’t know resided in him rose to the surface.
His spine turned to rock.
Eyes shrewd, he put his ass on the seat of his bike, legs crossed, the leather of his jacket creaked settling in to wait this one out. He couldn’t follow her to see what she was doing, or he’d end up dragging her out kicking and clawing, tossing her over his shoulder like a caveman, and wasn’t he only just thinking about buying her a bush or a bouquet of flowers or whatever the fuck men do when they fucked up? Instead he had to deal with the anger jabbing him in the sternum like a hot poker and wondered what dots joined Luxe the gorgeous dirty thief to the Russian mafia.
And everything he came up with wasn’t good.
Wasn’t good at all.