Eagle

I grew up in the house next door to Lazaro Mendoza. But after high school, we went in different directions. He inherited his father’s wealth and power in the cartel and I patched out with my MC, receiving full membership honors. And though we’re often on opposing sides now, whenever I walk into his house, we’re like brothers again. No questions asked, no judgment.

I open the front door without knocking and Lazaro’s bodyguard, Diaz, meets me halfway through the living room. We shake hands. “Diaz.”

“Mr. Laramie, how nice to see you again. Can I escort you downstairs?”

I slap his back. “I think I can find my way.” I trudge through the formal dining room, skirt the kitchen, and take the stairs two at a time. As I near the landing, I hear my friend’s unmistakable baritone. I smile. The fool knocked up his girlfriend and now he’s trapped, but doesn’t hold back from bragging about it.

“Fifteen minutes in my backseat earned me a lifetime commitment.” Lazaro is finishing as I appear.

“Fifteen minutes?” I ask. “That’s nothing to be proud of. You’re the quickest fuck she’s ever had, popping in and out every ten minutes.”

“Eagle,” he says, “you’re late.”

We fist bump and he smiles like a drunk fool. The caterer hands me a beer. I claim the empty barstool next to Lazaro, then scan the plush room. There’s a porno playing on the big screen and the sex almost looks like it’s been choreographed with the Metallica song pounding from the speakers. Nearly fifty guys are gathered around two tournament grade pool tables. Serious money is being exchanged already. The room opens into the backyard where there’s an in-ground pool and hot tub. I laugh at the mob beyond the French doors. “How many losers did you invite?”

Lazaro gives me a toothy grin. “Two hundred.”

I shake my head. “And the entertainment?”

He holds his hands out. “Only the best for me.”

That means strippers and anything else I can imagine. He points to the far corner of the room. A raised stage and pole. Holy shit. “You’re sick.”

“Nah,” he says. “If you’re gonna fall—do it with style.”

I nod. The farthest thing from my mind is marriage. I doubt I’ll ever settle down. But I’ve watched four of my brothers get hitched over the last two years. I raise my bottle. “Here’s to keeping your dick in your pants.”

Lazaro shakes his head. “Who said anything about that?”

That’s where I draw the line. Fucking around as a single guy is one thing . . . taking a vow another.

The lights suddenly dim. We rotate on our barstools, and Diaz calls everyone to attention. Time for the strippers. The rush inside sounds like a herd of elephants. Good thing the game room has the capacity of a small bar. I order a Martini with extra olives and scan the mixed crowd. Let’s just say Lazaro doesn’t have discriminating taste. There’s a mixture of gangbangers and businessmen here. I’m the only one wearing MC patches, which suits me just fine.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Diaz says, attempting to be a professional DJ. “As you know, our gracious host, Mr. Lazaro Mendoza, is getting married tomorrow . . .” The crowd explodes in applause. “In remembrance of his freedom, please enjoy the company of our special guests. Jeanie and Jana—twin sisters from Las Vegas.”

Diaz is a serious throwback from the old days, somewhere between the Rat Pack and Scarface. I’m waiting for him to play Dean Martin. Instead, the music switches from metal to Justin Timberlake. I laugh, nearly spitting out my drink on Lazaro. “Really?” I throw him a what the fuck look.

“Shut up.” He crosses his arms over his chest and stares at the stage.

The dancers are nearly six feet tall with more plastic parts than a blowup doll. I’m instantly turned off. Not that I’m completely opposed to enhancements—but those tits . . . Lazaro’s brothers appear, then drag him to the stage. They handcuff him to a chair and unbutton his shirt, and then the twins slather him with baby oil. Too much for me. I wander to the back of the room, enjoying the cool breeze blowing in from the Gulf of Mexico. December in Holly Beach is beautiful. There’s a cabana and guest quarters near the pool. I know the entertainment doesn’t end in the game room. I hear catcalls from the guest house and head that way, hoping whatever darlin’ awaits is better than the feature act.

Serafina

I instantly freeze when my ass grazes the barrel of a gun. Of all the moments for Tony to leave me alone. And of all the parties for Ben not to send an extra bouncer. He thinks rich guys are safe. I try not to lose it. I’m surrounded by thugs sporting their colors and tats. I’m dancing for one of the leaders—introduced as Tito.

“Por que te tienes a bailar bonita?”

He wants to know why I quit dancing. I turn around, resting my hands on his shoulders. I lean forward and whisper. “Because your gun poked me in the ass.”

“Mierda.” He laughs. “Your mouth is gonna get you in trouble.”

Okay, is he playing games or completely serious? He’s not the first thug I’ve danced for, but there’s something about him that makes me uncomfortable. I give him a look. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You’re supposed to keep your trap shut, bitch. Dance.” He grabs my ass.

I smack his hands away. “Mantener sus malditas manos quietas,” I warn. “If I want you to touch me, I’ll ask.” I’m not in the mood for this shit. Apparently Diaz didn’t have a talk with his guests. I grab my top from the back of Tito’s chair and start to walk away.

I cringe when I hear him chamber a round. “Come back here.”

I face him, not more than ten feet away. “Really?” I’m about to crap my G-string. “And if I don’t, you’ll shoot me?”

He eyeballs his gun, then me. “No,” he admits. “But I’ll shove the barrel up your pussy.”

The guys behind me snicker. There’s only one way out of here, and judging by the wall of sweaty bodies behind me, it’s likely kicking and screaming. “Not interested.” Defiance never gets a girl anywhere. I know better. My whole body shivers in fear. For some reason, I don’t want this asshole to win. Call me stupid—I’m sinfully prideful. It’s an Italian thing.

Tito leans forward in his seat, then lays his handgun on his lap. “Come here, mamacita.” He switches back to nice guy mode. “I won’t hurt you.” He holds his hands up.

I shake my head. “I’m outta here.”

“Bring her back,” Tito commands.

Two of his friends grab my arms. I fight to break free, but they’re too strong. “Let me go.”

The room explodes with laughter. These guys are going to get their money’s worth, voluntarily or otherwise. With them still holding me, I’m forced to face Tito.

He stands up. “I tried being nice, mamacita. What does it take to get a look at your pretty little snatch?” He shoves his fingers down the front of my panties. “You’re not done dancing for me yet.”

His associates turn me loose. Bad call on their part.

“Leave me alone!” I kick him in the shin with the metal tip of my stiletto, and he removes his fingers. If I could, I’d take his eye out with my shoe.

“Fuck!” He slaps my cheek, and I stumble back.

My face stings and I’m imagining the worst. I’m sure he’s going to forcefeed me the barrel of his gun. I close my eyes, preparing for whatever comes next.

God help me.

Eagle

I arrive in the guest house just as I hear a woman shout, “Leave me alone!”

The room is jammed and I can’t see who she is.

But, when I hear Tito yell “Fuck,” I know something bad is going on. A few acquaintances standing nearby shake hands with me. I maneuver through the crowd and watch the girl stumble back, like she’s been hit or pushed. What the fuck? I haven’t gotten a clear look at her, but she’s wearing a black G-string and high heels. Another dancer.

My blood boils as Tito shoves a gun in the girl’s face.

“Take your G-string off,” he demands.

“No,” she says and her voice doesn’t waver.

Lazaro didn’t tell me he invited half of Beaumont to his party. I recognize most of them, all foot soldiers for the Mendoza family. I don’t ask questions, and Lazaro doesn’t volunteer any information. It’s worked until now. I reach inside my jacket and pull out my Glock. It’s loaded.

“Do it, mamacita.”

I watch as she sheds her thong. I’m staring at her profile, temporarily mesmerized by how beautiful she is. Snap out of it, asshole. With my gun hanging at my side, I step forward. “Tito.”

He looks at me. “Caleb.” He grins drunkenly. “You made it just in time, this bitch is gonna dance for us, and maybe a little more for the VIPs.” He waves his gun around. “Good girl. Spread your legs.”

“Fuck off,” she says, fearless.

Tito growls.

I aim my firearm at his chest. “Let her go, Tito.”

No one moves. They know better. I’m protected, hell, I’m a Laramie, which carries its own weight with this crowd.

“It’s like that, bro?” Tito stares at me.

“Take it however you want,” I offer. “There’s not going to be any violence tonight. What will Lazaro say?” There’s a quick murmur—the other guests know better than to cause trouble in this house. “Let her go, now.”

He shrugs and looks at the girl, then back at me. “Just having some fun. You want the bitch? Take her.” He shoves the girl in my direction, but she manages to stay on her feet.

I lower my weapon. Never trust a roomful of heroin dealers. The girl still hasn’t looked at me directly. Instead, she collects her bag. Then I watch as she races for the door. The crowd parts, letting her go.

What the fuck? Lazaro doesn’t like unnecessary violence, and he sure as hell wouldn’t like anyone abusing women, stripper or otherwise. Hell, I don’t accept it on any level. And if this were my house, Tito would get a bullet. I whip around and address him. “That’s bullshit,” I yell. “What the fuck were you thinking?” But I don’t have time to stick around and find out.

Tito gives me a shrug. “What Lazaro doesn’t see . . .”

“Might come back and bite you in the ass,” I warn, my blood still boiling.

I stalk outside, hoping to catch the girl. She’s near the pool. The soft lighting reveals a perfect body. Nothing but silky skin and curves. Especially her ass.

“Sorry for what happened,” I say.

She doesn’t respond.

“Why were you alone in there?” I’m pissed, and it’s evident in my icy tone. I’ve buried several passarounds who were careless enough to turn tricks outside of the MC. Where’s this girl’s escort? All dancers have security. Or is she stupid enough to risk her life for a few hundred dollars?

When she finally looks at me, I swear my heart stops. Angry green eyes pierce me. Dark curls tumble down her shoulders. And that mouth. Dios mio, I’m thinking unnatural thoughts. My gaze sweeps her body again.

“Up here.” She snaps her fingers and points at her eyes.

I smile—filthy thoughts swirl through my mind. I’d like to bend her over one of those lounge chairs and give her a reason to bitch me out. But there’s more to the instant attraction. I can’t explain it—don’t want to. “Where do you expect me to look when you’re half naked?”

She puts her hand on her hip. “Anywhere above the shoulders is safe.”

Nothing about her is safe. “I think you owe me a thank you.”

I get a fuck you scowl. “I handled it.”

“Really?” I laugh. “Loved the gun thing—is that a new trick?” I hope I’m coming off as an asshole; she needs to remember this moment so she never makes the same mistake again.

She slaps my face. “Thanks, douchebag. Will that do?”

I rub my cheek, aware that I deserved it. Throwing attitude at a girl who just got the shit scared out of her was a bad move. On top of that, she’s beautiful and wild. But when she raises her hand again, I snatch her wrist midair, and she trembles on contact. “The first one was a freebie,” I say. “Come with me.”

Refusal isn’t an option. I drag her to the cabana, push her inside, then close and lock the door. “Sit.”

She plops down on one of the overstuffed chairs. I open the mini fridge, searching for anything with alcohol. She needs a drink and so do I. There’s beer and wine coolers. I look over my shoulder at her, trying to guess what she’d like. Red wine. I grab the closest thing—a wine cooler—and open it. I knee the fridge shut and walk to her chair.

She accepts the drink and gulps like she’s dying of thirst. “Thank you,” she says between swallows.

I nod and claim the chair opposite hers. “You’re safe with me.”

“Am I?” She looks me over, looking doubtful.

Has she been in a similar situation before? Does she distrust men in general, or just ones that wear patches? “If you weren’t . . .”

“I don’t need you to explain.” She holds up her hand. “I’m not an idiot.”

“No?”

She glares. “I suppose you think I am for being alone down there. It didn’t start out that way, believe me.”

I do. “Let’s try the civilized approach. Who are you?”

She sets the bottle on a side table. “Serafina.”

“Is that your stage name?”

“No.” Her smile is radiant and I’m instantly rock hard. “Who you see is what you get.”

“Why?” I ask surprised. “Isn’t anonymity priceless?”

Serafina, or whatever her real name is, checks me out before she answers. “There’s no such thing in my world. My name is Serafina Scala.”

Italian. I want to fuck her. “I like Italian girls.”

“So does every other guy.”

That sweet face is hard to read, but I can tell she’s interested in me. Though her scowl suggests otherwise, her body language reveals more than she probably realizes. Instead of angling her body away from me like someone who’s trying to protect herself, she leans forward and opens her legs slightly whenever I talk. I’ve caught her gaze drifting to my crotch, too. I’d be more than happy to show her what’s down there—my cock is begging for some action.

I also appreciate her rough edges. She’s obviously experienced some bad shit, which makes her worthy of my time. “Where are you from, Serafina Scala?” I like the way her name rolls off my tongue. And speaking of Italian, just like in The Godfather when Michael Corleone sees Apollonia for the first time, I’m struck by a lust thunderbolt.

All of a sudden she’s breathing hard and looks like a cornered animal, desperate to escape.

“Texarkana,” she answers, her voice reduced to a whisper, her eyes keenly focused on me.

“Hey,” I try to reassure her that’s she’s really safe with me. “No one is going to hurt you while I’m here.”

“Who are you?” she asks.

More like what I am. I’m sure my patches scream get the fuck away. Unless she has a taste for one percenters. That would be a bonus for me, giving me every reason to come on stronger. “Eagle.” I use my club name.

“Just Eagle?”

“Yep. Just Eagle.”

She folds her hands on her lap. I’m trying not to stare at her flat stomach or perfect breasts. Or the tiny diamond studs glittering in her hard nipples. Shit. I shift uncomfortably in my chair. She needs to get dressed before I relieve her of that lacy material covering her pussy and fuck her senseless. “Want another drink?”

“Sure.”