Virgin
There were, by my count, eight kids running around the compound.
Freeze tag.
Simon Says.
Cops and robbers.
High squeals, gut laughs, end tables toppling to the floor with choruses of Oooh, you're gonna be in trouuuuble.
Leaned back against the bar, long-buried memories tugged at the edges of my consciousness.
Eight dropped down to two.
Me and Sugar.
Two kids in a place never meant for squishy, impressionable minds. Boys forced to shoulder the responsibility of manhood far too young, never allowed to cry, to feel affection and love.
Fuck. I didn't even know what those words meant, to be perfectly honest.
I was a product of a clubhouse. Of rough men with sharp edges that didn't hesitate to cut even young flesh if it got too close.
"What's up?" Sugar asked, sidling in at my right, following my line of vision to where one of the smaller kids - head blocked by the edge of the pool table, making them unrecognizable save for solid foundations and light hair - was doing a real shit - so bad it was comical - attempt to hide from the seeker who was counting down from twenty, missing a few numbers here and there.
"They don't belong here," I mumbled.
"Don't be a fuck," Sugar shot back, shaking his head.
"Not like that," I insisted, shrugging my shoulders. "They don't belong here like we didn't belong in a clubhouse."
"Yah, maybe. But this isn't like that," he reminded me. "Look around. No one is getting head in plain sight. Not a single Devil's Triangle to be seen. No heroin powder on the coffee tables. This is different."
That was true enough.
A lifetime - literally - in MCs had given me a full picture of what they had to offer. And, for the most part, it was some none-too-subtle misogyny, oftentimes horrific hazing of probates, addiction, and violence.
Coming to Navesink Bank had been Sugar's idea. The Henchmen had a great reputation of being stable, of having great leadership, and - thanks to an unfortunate incident that culled their numbers - were needing new members. He said it was time to find some roots, a place we could really settle into instead of jumping MCs every few years because the leaders got locked up and things fell apart.
I hadn't been an unwilling tagalong either. I had participated. I had come to the open house. I had met the crew. I had tried to impress Reign and Cash and Wolf so we could get in.
And there had been no shortage of action thanks to the complex underworld in this particular town on the river.
I had even been happy for a long while.
I didn't know what was going on.
Something was bothering me. Some phantom itch under the skin that no scratching could ease.
Maybe it was as simple as Sugar settling down. Though, maybe, 'settling down' was not the right phrase for what he and Peyton were doing. Anyone who knew Peyton knew that the woman would never do something as mundane as settling down. Not her. Not this woman who had turned over the booth in the diner when we had been out to eat after overhearing some young shits talking about making a girl come and demonstrated with her fingers where the G-spot was located and what rhythm to work the clit to.
No.
Peyton would never settle down.
But she had stolen most of Sug's attention and time.
I had to admit, it had been an adjustment.
If there was one thing I could count on from age of four on, it was that Sugar was going to be around, be down for whatever trouble I wanted to get into.
And it seemed as soon as bonds were formed with my new brothers, a woman came crashing into their lives, dragging them away from the club.
Pagan and Kennedy. Cy and Reese. Edison and Lenny. Reeve and Rey. Adler and Lou. Roderick and Liv.
It was just me and Roan and Cam, the latest addition.
Roan spent most of his time swearing some storm was coming. And Cam, well, he was around. He brought donuts every morning. But, yeah, you couldn't exactly get to know the man. He didn't speak.
If ever I was feeling like an outsider, it was here. Now. In this club full of happy couples and contented children.
I had jobs, duties, allegiances.
But I didn't feel like I had a place, not really.
"You know how I hate the touchy-feely shit," Sugar said to my silence. "But Peyt thinks I am being a shitty friend if I don't say something."
"Something about what?"
"About you. Something's going on. And since you aren't exactly a conversationalist, I guess I have to ask."
"Guess I'm just bored," I said, shrugging it off.
"Bored? Here? Christ, wasn't it just like a year back that we took down V and saved the girls. And before that all the uncertainty about who was after us. Think there's been more action here than the other MCs combined. Raids aside."
"Can't argue with that."
I could feel his gaze on the side of my face, trying to burrow in, trying to understand something that I didn't exactly understand myself.
"Maybe you need to go out and get some tail," he suggested. "It's been a while."
Now that he mentioned it, it had been a while. While I was fine going out alone, hitting the bar by myself and waiting for the right woman to walk in was boring as fuck. So I had been spending most of my free time picking up extra guard duties at the compound to give all the guys with better things to do a break.
I did need to get out.
Get laid.
Clear my head.
"Yeah. You're right," I agreed, jerking my head over toward Cam, knowing that Roan was a lost cause. He'd been worse than usual lately. Like the storm wasn't just some Farmer's Almanac prediction, but an ache in his bones. "You up for Chaz's?" I asked when he gave me a raised brow.
His nod was all I was going to get.
"Let's go. Tell Peyt I said hey," I told Sugar, knowing that was where he would be when I got back. Peyton wasn't opposed to spending time in the clubhouse. In fact, she got a kick out of it. But she had this circle of friends all around her, ones that crashed at her place all the time, and she - understandably - would take their company over ours.
An hour and four beers later, I was starting to think my luck was going to run out. It was a fight night - some bullshit feud between two men faking bravado when you knew damn well they respected the shit out of each other in real life, but, hell, that didn't make great TV. The place was packed full of people not willing to shell out the cash to watch the fight in the comfort of their own homes. And women, well, they stayed far the fuck away from a bunch of drunk ass men cheering on brutal violence.
Cam was kicked back in a booth, head lulled back, a drink cradled in his hands, staring at one of the TVs, but I got the feeling he was looking through it instead of actually watching it, leaving me to do just about the same.
Cam wasn't a bad wingman.
In fact, in the time he had been with us, he had somehow managed to bag his fair share of women when we went out to the bars. How, when he couldn't talk to the women, I wasn't exactly sure. But it was a level of suave most men could only dream of aspiring to. Because you had to have a fuckload of game to get a modern-day, cautious, suspicious, untrusting - rightfully so - woman to go home with you when she didn't even catch your name.
After a cursory scan of the room once we stepped in, he seemed to abandon the idea of getting laid and set to just about ignoring everything.
Or so I thought until I felt a jab - elbow into my ribcage - making my head jerk over, brows lowered, finding his eyes on me. As soon as I caught his gaze, his chin jerked outward toward the bar I had been sure he'd been all but blind to.
Turning, I saw her.
And there was only a gap between seconds where I was curious as to how Cam had spotted her before me.
Especially because she was a living, breathing version of the perfect woman. Or, at least, my perfect woman.
We all had our preferences. Cam, for example, went for the soft girls. Creamy skin, lighter shades of hair - blondes and strawberries and ashy browns. Tall and willowy. Delicate, almost. The quiet ones who tagged along with their ballsier girlfriends. The introvert that the extroverts adopted and made it their mission to bring them of their shell.
That was his type.
But me? I went for darker skin tones. Shorter girls with curves a man could sink fingers into. And with that extra unspoken thing. That attitude that came through from somewhere deep, that clouded up the air around them without even having to hear them speak. A confidence. A hardness.
That was my type.
And this woman?
Fuck.
I caught a side view first, her head turned away, giving me only her short-average body with her thick thighs and ass clad in jeans I had no fucking idea how she got on since they clung like a second skin. A basic white tee, tailored, but not tight, hung out underneath a simple army green bomber jacket. A set of gold hoops peeked out from below her short, curly hair.
Then a noise - two guys yelling at the fight - made her head whip over in my direction.
And fuck if that wasn't the kind of face that could take a man out at the knees.
No one would ever accuse me of being a romantic, but there was no other way to say it.
The soft bone structure.
The light eyes.
The full, bright red lips.
An image of that mouth wrapped around my cock shot through my head, her head tipped up, eyes open, watching me as she sucked me deep. My cock stiffened a bit at the idea.
But it wasn't just the looks. Though let's face it, that was undoubtedly a factor.
No.
There was something in her eyes. Something weighted. Something dark, guarded, but somehow certain. Confident.
A soft and a hard place at the same time, that was what she was.
And that was some intriguing shit, now, wasn't it?
I nodded my chin at Cam, a silent thanks, placing my hand on the table, getting ready to stand. When a man moved into the picture, sliding in front of her, taking up all the space between her and the bar. Close. Too close for a random pickup.
With a sigh, I eased back into my chair, reaching for my beer.
No one could say I was the most moral of men. I'd been in heroin and cocaine dealing MCs. I'd been an enforcer, beating the shit out of people solely for the paycheck. I'd taken up the generous offers of an unknown number of clubwhores. I sold guns to other undesirables.
But I didn't fuck around with women who had men. At least not if I knew they had men. Sometimes shit happened, and drama was inevitable, but I wasn't about to set my sights on a woman who already had a man.
Cam's hand slammed down on the table, drawing my attention to where he was rolling his eyes at me. Like he was in on something I had missed.
Curious, my gaze slid across the bar again, looking for what I might have missed.
The woman had her gaze trained on the door.
And the man - oh.
I half turned back to Cam, seeing his smirk, feeling one of my own pulling at my lips.
Because the man I thought was her man was flirting with a man to his side, stroking his hand down his tie suggestively.
And, on closer inspection, they had the same eyes.
Brother, not boyfriend.
I drained my drink, getting to my feet, making my way across the bar.
"Oh, well, boo, no one has to kno..." the man's voice trailed off, clearly picking up on a bi vibe from the man who outwardly seemed straight as his gaze fell on me. "Well, look at this fine ass mother fucker," he exclaimed, leaning back against the bar, a hand going to his heart. "Don't worry, Denzel," he added, shaking his head. "I know you aren't here for me. Bitch, stop looking at the door. This fine piece of man meat wants to chat your pretty ass up. Thaddeus," he told me, reaching out his free hand. The other was still holding the tie of the curious man to his side.
"Virgin."
His brow raised at that. "A nickname, I hope. Not a declaration. Because, no offense, but my little sis deserves a man who knows how to slide her on into home, not some fumbling first timer."
"Road name," I clarified, making his eyes move over to the leather cut over my black tee.
"Oh, shit. He rides a bike. Are you listening to me?" he demanded, snapping at his sister who turned back, brows furrowed, apparently lost in her own head.
"Not at all actually."
"She's a work in progress," Thaddeus explained, excusing his sister for her lack of sociability. "Girl, this is Virgin," he explained, making the woman's gaze finally move to me for the first time.
Maybe she was good at distant and hard.
But there was no mistaking the way her lips parted, the way her eyes roamed over my face. The way she had to work at keeping them from roving lower.
"This is my sister, Freddie," Thaddeus went on when she said nothing. "Fred, this is where you say hi to the nice man."
Her gaze cut to him, eyes rolling a bit. But she was the sort who placated her big brother, so she looked back at me with a simple, "Hi."
"Not in the mood, huh?" I asked, shrugging a shoulder.
"Well..." she started to let me down.
"Um, hell the fuck yes, she's in the mood. Need I remind you of your rather impressive dry spell that..."
"Thad!" Freddie hissed, eyes going round. And, if I wasn't mistaken, her cheeks got a little bit red too. Blushing, now that I hadn't expected.
"Dry spell, huh?" I asked, watching as her gaze tentatively moved back to me, not quite making eye contact, making me wonder about my earlier assessment of her confidence. "I could help you with that."
"Really, I just came here to..."
"Stop being a cock-block to your big brother, see some new faces, get hit on by hot bikers..." Thad reminded her. "Listen, honey child, when a man with that Shamar Moore smile and that Channing Tatum body wants to buy your pretty ass a drink, you let them buy you a drink. And you let your brother talk to this gentlemen right here about whose place we are going to be hooking up at tonight," he said, giving the guy's tie a tug. "Go on with your cloistered self," he added when his sister didn't seem like she was going to budge, placing a hand between her shoulder blades and shoving her forward, making her stumble off heels it seemed like she wasn't accustomed to and into my chest.
My arm wrapped around her back, holding her to me as her hands planted on my chest, her head angling up. "Guess you know when you're not wanted, huh?" I asked with a smile as her brother Mm-hmm'd from behind her. "Come on. Let me get you a drink."
A bit caught off-guard, she let me right her on her heels, not shrugging away my arm from her hips as I guided her through the crowd.
It wasn't lost on me - though she seemed blithely unaware - that every set of male eyes watched her progress across the room. Eye-fucked her. Sent envious or angry looks in my direction.
Sorry, guys. You gotta nut-up if you want to get the girl. Pansy-ass, insecure bastards need not apply.
That was one lesson I was certainly glad I learned young thanks to the environment I was raised in. The women being as come-and-go as they were in the biker world, you didn't learn to base your self-esteem on whether you got laid or shot down one night. Because there was always the next girl, the next night. If you stepped up to the plate often enough, you were all but guaranteed a home run here and there.
"Freddie, this is Cam. Cam, Freddie," I remembered my manners - something literally pounded into me at some points of my childhood - as we stood in front of my booth.
"Nice to meet you," came from Freddie, as knee-jerk as my own call to social niceties. I'd bet good money on there being a hardass woman figure in her life just like there had been in mine from time to time.
Cam gave her a chin jerk. "Cam doesn't speak," I explained as I pulled out a chair for her to slip into.
I felt out of my depths with Cam, with his condition, not quite knowing if I was being offensive by explaining or providing a relief to the stress that new interactions no doubt brought along. I meant to ask Liv or even Astrid when she happened around, but never seemed to remember.
I figured it was better to explain than have someone ask why he wasn't speaking.
"Oh, okay. I, ah, there must be a sort of comfort in that at times," she said, giving him a wobbly sort of smile. Something telling. Uncertain. Like she was struggling. Like she wished she had an excuse not to talk to people.
Not to talk to me.
I glanced back at her brother, figuring if she wanted out, I would give her an out. I didn't fuck around with trying to convince a woman to want me. You did or you didn't. Either way, I was good. But her brother was making his way to the door, his arm holding the tie of the man over his shoulder, leading him out the door like a puppy.
Freddie's gaze followed mine.
"Seriously?" she asked, shaking her head. "He was my ride," she added when my brow quirked up.
"Cab. Uber. Back of my bike. Plenty of ways to make it home. What are you drinking?"
"Oh, um. Just a soda is fine."
"You clean?" I asked, thinking of Laz, of Beth, again wondering if I was being too blunt.
"Clean? Oh, ah, no. I just... I've never been much of a drinker."
"Fair enough," I said, going to the bar, ordering us both soda. Fucking soda. I hadn't had soda since I was a teenager. But, well, if I wanted her to take me up on the offer to drive her home - and, let's face it, I did - then I needed to lay off the drinks too. I walked back holding two cups topped with fucking umbrellas - the bartender had jokes, it seemed, seeing he knew I was usually one for harder shit.
"Thanks. I really am just going to finish this and head out. I have some, ah, job hunting to do tomorrow."
Something about the word job rang false to me. But what was there to lie about there? What other kind of hunting was there to do?
"What do you do?" I asked, sensing this was a swing and miss, but not wanting to be rude.
"I, um, cook." Again, a false note. And, again, why lie?
"I make a mean bowl of cereal," I offered, getting rewarded with a surprised, charmed smile.
"Everyone in my family knows how to cook," she told me, giving me a true note. "It was how we first learned to show love, I guess. Thad is better than I am."
"Is he a cook?"
"No. He teaches a cardio dance workout class at the gym."
"Which gym?"
"Ah, the one that used to be a nightclub."
I wasn't originally from the area, so that didn't help me. But I figured it wasn't Lo and Janie's place since they'd probably burn it down before they held a cardio dance workout class. Shane Mallick's place then.
I had a sudden, utterly uncharacteristic urge to take up a membership, see if I could weasel out some information from her much more outgoing brother.
That wasn't me.
I wasn't an investigator.
A Facebook stalker.
Hell, I didn't even have a fucking Facebook account.
I, in general, was a let the chips fall where they may kind of person. I didn't get riled. I didn't get wrapped up in some inconsistencies and try to figure them out, track down leads. No. That wasn't me. I just moved on to the next girl when something seemed off about one.
"What do you do?" she asked, looking between the two of us.
"We're Henchmen," I supplied.
"Oh," she said, those perfect lips forming a big O for a second as recognition hit.
"Gonna run screaming now?" I asked, sensing that she was clearly not like the typical bar chick who had fed on endless years of sexualized crime shows that left them with a thirst not just for bad boys but actually bad men. Criminals. Mob members. Gangsters. And, in my case, arms dealing bikers. Granted, it was just a fleeting thing. Just an itch that needed scratching. Just a fantasy that needed fulfilling. Not many women - the old ladies of the club aside, of course - signed up to lock it down with a man such as me. And, well the women that belonged to Henchmen men were, as a whole, a different breed of women, unique creatures entirely.
"Screaming, no. I'm not shocked - or scared - that easily," she told me, and even as she said it, the confidence that I had seen earlier came back, got stronger, made her harder, tougher.
Social conventions and flirting flustered her, shook her confidence. But crime bolstered her up?
Who the hell was this woman?
"But?" I prompted, sensing it floating in the air around us.
"But, like I said," she went on, taking a long sip of her soda before finishing, "I have places to be tomorrow. Thank you for the drink. And it was nice meeting you," she added, getting to her feet, making the two of us do the same. "I hope you find what you're looking for tonight," she added in parting, turning, and hustling her way through the crowd and out the door.
I turned back to Cam, finding his brows furrowed too, apparently as lost as I was feeling.
"That was fucking weird, right?" I asked, needing the confirmation. That she was off. That the interaction as weird. That I wasn't reading too much into it because she was a fantasy come to life. Camden's head was nodding, his shoulders shrugging. "She was lying about the job, about cooking..." Again, more nods from my silent brother. "Weird," I added again, dropping down, getting another round, knowing it was going to be a night I hoofed it since I planned to drink until the urge to chase her fine ass down evaporated.
I hope you find what you're looking for tonight.
The words haunted me.
Even after four more rounds.
Even after getting back to the compound, hanging with the guys, having some more drinks.
Even after a shower and climbing into bed.
Because, to be perfectly honest, I was pretty sure what I was looking for was her.
And that shit, yeah, that was fucked up.
Not like me.
But it was there, niggling at my brain even as sleep finally claimed me.