Havok: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (20 page)

I
saw
that little spitfire's knees buckle and I caught her as she fell. My hands slid under her arms, my fingers feeling the soft but firm curves of her waist. Good fucking God, she felt so tender and precious in my hands. Her face was absolutely gorgeous. And there was something about her that I couldn't put my finger on.

...The fuck was my problem, anyway? If Axl Archer, VP of the Sons of Chaos and killer of men, was getting sentimental over a hot piece of ass that'd waltzed right into club business, then I'd well and truly fucking lost it.

I mean, shit, I'd been under a lot of pressure lately keeping the whole fucking club running smoothly. I couldn't rule out the possibility that I'd finally reached my limit, snapped, and gone utterly fucking nuts. In fact, it was the only explanation that made any sense. Because this wasn't like me. I didn't get worked up over pussy.

But when Lynch stormed toward us and reached out for the girl, I instinctively thrust my palm into his chest, knocking him backward and creating a barrier between us. She'd fucked up, but no way in hell was I gonna let a petulant little punk like Lynch put his hands on her. Jesus. Men of honor didn't beat up a girl. This was about principle. The electricity she sent through my body with every touch had nothing to do with it.

At least that's what I told myself.

"Back off," I barked at Lynch. He stepped forward again, driving his weight into my outstretched hand, a dangerous look in his eyes. My palm pressed back against his chest, locking us in place like two warring bucks. The girl hung like a rag doll in my other arm.

"This's fucked," growled Lynch, staring at me with glassy eyes. "Girl's an operative. A Reaper. A video camera. You gotta be fucking kidding me."

Around us, chaos festered. The junkyard sand was muddied with dark red streaks, and overhead the sun beat down harder than ever. I could see two or three patches still lying in the sand, motionless. Dash, my best buddy, was kneeling down next to one of them alongside our medic, Red. Looked like the newest prospect. Poor kid had only been 18. Shit. Only a year older than I was when Ryker had pulled me off the streets.

I cleared the thought from my head. We needed to fucking get out of here fast, before the ice showed up.

"Fucking bullshit she is," I said. "Scared her to death back in that truck. Not a Reaper." I shook my head, feeling her soft, precious weight against my hard chest and abs. She felt light as a summer cloud, her hair spilling over my bicep, stray strands pinched in the crook of my elbow.

Ryker's voice broke through the dull background roar. "Lynch! Get your fuckin' ass over here!" Lynch gave me one final hateful glare, then turned and jogged toward the sound of Ryker's voice.

Logically, Lynch was right. She could be a snitch. We couldn't rule it out and the whole situation was fucking weird. But I thought back to the truck—how one look at her had sucked all the air out of my lungs. There was no deception in her eyes. Those were honest eyes if I'd ever seen any.

Then, I felt her stir in my arms, and those beautiful eyes fluttered open. She met my gaze and a lump formed in my stomach. "Wha... What happened?"

"You passed out," I said. I wanted to brush her hair out of her eyes and examine her body for injuries. But then I saw the prospect being hauled up off the ground and toward the box truck. Damn. Just a kid. My neck twitched. "Guess you finally realized how much shit you're in," I finished.

She regained her footing, taking her weight off my arm. She stepped backward, away from me. "Damn," she said in a whisper, her eyes darting around nervously. She began to open her mouth again but was interrupted by Ryker, Lynch, and Dash walking up to us.

Ryker stepped close to her, his pointed leather boots aimed right at her like daggers. I bristled, waiting for him to speak.

He stared hard into her eyes, his thick silver and black ponytail blowing in the hot breeze. He spoke simply. "Explain yourself."

The girl swallowed hard. "I'm a film student."

"Name?"

"Holly... Brown."

Ryker stared at her hard, not speaking. Ryker was a good judge of character. He didn't become president of the Sons by making a habit of misreading people. My fists involuntarily clenched, but I wasn't gonna speak out of line. I wasn't like Lynch.

Finally, Ryker spoke again. "The ever-loving fuck were you doin' out here," he said, motioning toward Dash, who held the busted-up video camera, "with that thing? Hell of a strange coincidence."

Holly responded quietly. "Footage for my project." She added, "I hid when I saw you."

Lynch spoke up. "But you kept fucking rolling. Didn't you? Stuck your nose where it didn't belong."

She looked down at the ground, not replying.

"Boss," Lynch continued, speaking to Ryker but keeping his eyes locked onto Holly's, "Ain't no reason to take a chance on this broad. She came into the desert of her own volition. Let's take her a little deeper into it and leave 'er there."

Dash nodded. "She brought bloodshed upon the Sons. Willingly or not, it doesn't matter."

The muscles in my neck tightened. Leaving any innocent to die in the desert wasn't justice. And
especially
not her. Even a gun to my head at that moment couldn't have convinced me to do that.

Fortunately, it didn't come to that.

Ryker turned his head and looked at me. "What d'you think, VP?"

Holly was looking sidelong at me, her eyes anxious. I paused for a second of thought and then spoke. "Look, we gotta split. Cops could be here any minute. We don't got the time to figure this out now. But if she's a Reaper, we gotta know. We take her back to the clubhouse and figure it out later."

Ryker looked in my eyes and slowly nodded. "It's decided. We'll find the truth later."

I reached out toward Holly with my palm, everything a blur. She took my hand and I led her away from the other guys, Lynch seething. We got on my bike and we rode like hell away from that pit of death.

M
y body sank
into the cool sheets, surrendering to the weight of his tanned, muscled body. My nipples stiffened, aching for his touch. His kisses turned to bites, sneaking their way down my neck, and all my muscles clenched. My fingernails left their mark on his back as his thick, swollen manhood pressed against me through the elastic fabric of my sweatpants. I needed him inside me.

Then I woke up and I remembered everything.

The room was small and dark, and the walls were paneled with wood. Real wood, not imitation, and it had a rich veneer as if it'd been there for generations. Motorcycle memorabilia hung on the walls, leather clothing hung sloppily in the closet, and a large, faded Union flag hung over the window, darkening the room. Some light peeked through, but I'd lost all sense of time. I felt hidden, secluded, as if I were a secret not meant to be exposed. I must've been here overnight. When they'd left me, I'd fallen asleep fast, utterly drained from the heat and the chaos of the day.

But I ran my hands over my body, and I was in one piece. Whole.

I thought back to yesterday. The junkyard. The bikers. The total mayhem and how suddenly it'd all happened. It was crazy. 24 hours ago, I'd just been the same old brainiac Holly doing my thing. Now I was in some criminal biker's bed, mixed up in dangerous business that wasn't my own. Oh, and responsible for starting a deadly gunfight.

They say life can change in an instant, and mine sure had. But that wasn't the worst of it.

The worst part was how he—this criminal biker—had instantly made me feel something I'd never felt before. Some deep, fundamental attraction.

What the hell was wrong with me? After being taken by a strange and dangerous man on a motorcycle, you'd think escape would be my plan. But for some strange, stupid, and completely illogical reason, I felt a compulsion to get a little closer, to take in a little more of that indescribable feeling he gave me.

It made absolutely no sense. I'd read about Stockholm Syndrome, where prisoners become sympathetic to their captors. Was that my problem?

Whatever. I felt dumb. This was probably the same effect he had on all women, many of whom were far more gorgeous than I was. I was being ridiculous, wasting my brainpower on something that didn't even matter.

Then the door unlatched, interrupting my train of thought. My impossibly handsome captor stepped into the room, all burly shoulders, arms, muscle, tattoos, and jawline. He shut the door again behind him. I sat bolt upright in bed, instinctively pulling the covers over myself, even though I had slept in my clothes.

"Was startin' to think you'd never wake up," he said. His voice was gravelly and weary, his mouth a grim line. His thick black hair hung down over his forehead, annoyingly attractive for being so unkempt. Dark circles shaded the areas under his eyes. His broad shoulders were still covered by his black leather cut, the front lapel emblazoned with the club patch.

"How long have I been here?" I demanded.

His eyebrow rose, his eyes scanning me. "Since yesterday evening. It's past noon. Been up all night waitin' for you to wake the fuck up."

"Oh my god," I said, an acidic urgency permeating my stomach. "I should be in class right now." I patted around my jean pockets, feeling for my phone, but my pockets were empty.

He reached into his vest pocket and produced it. But instead of tossing it to me, he put it back in his pocket. "Sorry. Had to make sure you wouldn't call the cops."

It dawned on me that class might be on hold for a while. "I just want to go home," I said.

"Yeah," he said slowly, his brow furrowing. "Can't let you. Not yet."

A hotness welled up inside me. "Am I being kidnapped?" I said, looking into his eyes angrily. I couldn't believe the mess I was in.

"Wouldn't toss around accusations if I were you," he said, crossing his arms and staring straight into my eyes. "Without me, you might be rottin' in the desert right now."

"I told you," I said, shifting uncomfortably, "I don't know who you are and I don't care. I was filming for a class project. That's it."

"What the hell kind of project takes you to the middle of the fuckin' desert?" he asked.

"A documentary of Coppertail."

He scoffed. "Oh, of Coppertail. Great idea for a video."

"It's my home town," I said, feeling defensive. "You don't have to be a dick."

He stared at me for a moment and then erupted in laughter. "I didn't know they had people like you in Coppertail."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Why was he such a jerk?

"Nothing, darlin'," he said, a twinkle in his eyes. Then his expression turned serious and I noticed the weariness on his face again. "You'll get your chance to explain to the club tonight. Then you can get outta here, or do whatever. But right now I need some sleep."

"This is your room?" I asked incredulously.

"Yeah."

"So I've been sleeping in your bed?"

"Yeah," he smirked. "Lucky you, huh?"

Who did this asshole think he was? I was angry that my circumstances were so far out of my control. And that he was such a smug dick. And that despite everything, I couldn't take my eyes off him. At best, I guessed he might be generously willing to use me for a fuck before throwing me away. That's probably what his whole "darlin'" routine was about. Ugh.

"Gross," I said, but I had to force my face to make a convincing frown.

A faint flicker of a grin crossed his face. "Bullshit," he said.

"I don't even know your name."

"It's Axl. Axl Archer."

I opened my mouth to shoot back another smart-ass reply, but before I could, he said, "Just do something with yourself so I can catch some shut-eye."

I glanced around the room again. There was only a small desk with an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair. "I have to sit at that thing?"

He sighed, visibly annoyed. He shrugged off his cut, tossed it onto the desk, and bent over to unlace his boots. His sculpted shoulders and biceps bulged under his white undershirt. "I don't give a flying fuck. But I highly suggest not leaving this room if you know what's good for you."

I crossed my arms, annoyed, and scooted over to the very edge of the bed. I sat up against the backboard. "That enough space for you, princess?" I said.

He stared at me for a second, then chuckled under his breath. "Whatever, darlin'," he said, collapsing onto the opposite side of the bed. He turned away from me, lying on his side. He grabbed a pillow and tucked it under his head. "Don't wake me up."

I silently glared at the back of his head, my arms still crossed. After only two or three minutes, his back began to rise and fall regularly.

I didn't want to, but I thought back to my dream as I watched him lie an arm's length away from me. The feeling of him on top of me, claiming me, about to fill me up.

I wanted it so bad. And that
really
pissed me off.

W
hen I finally woke up
, it was pitch black outside. I'd slept all day since passing out at noon. Good. That's how I fucking liked it. My kind of schedule.

No light came through the cracks of the window. My head throbbed, pounding from a concoction of violence, booze, and sleep deprivation. It'd been a long night at the bar downstairs while Holly slept in my bed. I always heard that civilians slept like the dead after seeing club shit go down—just 'cause of pure adrenaline. I guess it was true, 'cause she'd been out for almost 18 hours. Me, I could drink it off, but not everybody's got the stomach for this shit.

So yeah, she'd been in my bed, and goddamn was she gorgeous. I didn't know what'd possessed me to allow it, though. I didn't just let furniture crash in my bed for the night. They put out and then got out. Those were the rules and every club slut knew them.

But fuck, there was just something about Holly. It wasn't just her tight body teasing me, getting my gears turning. There was something else. Something in the way she carried herself, something about the quiet confidence. Civvies usually turned into a blubbering fuckin' mess in a position like this. But she held it together. And there was something under that shyness that suggested a kind soul.

And that was worth something to me. I mean, shit, ever since Ryker had gotten me off the streets and into the club, I'd done some fucked up shit. To people that deserved it, of course. But Holly didn't seem capable of that garbage, and that refreshed me. Even I could appreciate a woman who didn't stoop down to the club lifestyle. Not like the hanger-on and beggar sluts that came and went.

Or maybe none of that was true, and I was just another horny piece of shit.

Nah. There
was
something about her.

I rubbed my eyes and flipped onto my back. A dull glow came from the corner of the room. Holly sat at my desk, the lamplight on, her legs pulled up to her chest as if to isolate herself from her surroundings. On the desk was her phone and she was poking at it. She must've heard me stir, because she turned toward me, her face angry as the devil's.

"You changed the passcode," she said hotly.

I grimaced, my temples on fire. It was too fucking early to get sassed. Shit just never fucking ended around here. "Already told you," I said, "You gotta lay low while we deal with this."

"I need to call my roommates. They're probably worried to death."

"Thought college was about independence," I groaned, shutting my eyes and applying pressure to my forehead.

"I went into the desert and didn't come back. They're gonna be worried. What do you know about college, anyway?"

I chuckled. "A college degree don't do much for you in this lifestyle, darlin'. Don't remember a spot for that on the club application."

"Shocking."

I got out of bed, stretching my muscles. I caught Holly staring out of the corner of my eye as I grabbed a bottle of aspirin from the dresser. She stood up and walked over to me, holding out her phone.

"You said I'm not being kidnapped. So let me text them."

I thought for a minute and groaned. "Give it to me," I said. She handed over the phone and I unlocked it.

"What am I supposed to say, anyway?"

"That you're fine. Not to worry."

She eyed me. "Will I be fine?"

You'll be more than fine if I have my way with you.

"Everyone wants this to blow over as fast as possible."

I watched her text her roommates and dial her parents, ready to snatch the phone out of her hands if she called the heat. But she played by the rules. When she hung up, I held out my hand.

She handed over her phone again with a scowl, and as she did so, our hands touched. She didn't withdraw, though. Energy seared through me like a solar ray.

Maybe I really was losing my fucking mind. I didn't understand why she had this effect on me, and I didn't like that. It was fucking dangerous.

I stepped closer to her, her knees touching my legs. She looked up into my eyes, her expression suddenly shy. But I knew it wasn't the fucking time to make a move on this chick. She'd slopped enough shit on our plates already, and part of me felt like it'd just be a damn shame if any of my scumbaggery rubbed off on her. Not that I knew it'd work anyway. Yeah, she couldn't help staring at me, but that didn't really mean shit. She probably hated my guts for keeping her here.

Breaking our gaze and stepping away from her, I took the phone from her fingers and hit the lock button. The screen powered off with a click.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and grabbed my boots, pulling them onto my feet and lacing them up. I looked at the clock: 7:29pm. "Club meeting at eight," I said. "We'll figure out what happens to you then."

"And what do I do until then?"

"Stay here," I said. "And don't fucking leave until I come back."

I walked to the door, opened it, and slipped out of the room. I needed a fucking reality check, and I was going to get it.

I thundered down the stairs to the clubhouse common room, where the bar and pool table were. At least a dozen guys were mingling there, already waiting for the meeting. My buddy Dash caught my eye. Dash was my bro. He'd been with me through thick and thin, ever since the beginning. He'd saved my ass on more than a few occasions.

"Yo, VP, how was she?" A couple other guys looked over and snickered.

Normally I'd have laughed it up with the guys. But with this chick it just pissed me off for some reason.

I shook my head. "Didn't take advantage of her, I'm not a fuckin' brute," I said. "And don't say another fucking word about that girl."

The guys stared, their expressions shellshocked.

I walked over to the bar where I recognized a blonde with big tits that I'd hooked up with before. She was sitting with another piece of furniture. Couldn't remember her name, but I slung my arm around her shoulder.

"Hey doll," I said, putting on my winning grin, "Something's going on with the pipes... downstairs. Need you to come take a closer look."

She grinned back at me, proud to have been singled out by the club VP, understanding my intentions. "Hey Axl honey," she said, "I'm an expert plumber. Just show me where the problem is."

I held her hand as she got off the barstool, and took her into a curtained-off side room that we called the VIP room. I unzipped my jeans and took out my thick, veiny cock. She dropped to her knees and took it in her mouth, tonguing me with years of experience. But she sucked and sucked, and I just wasn't feeling it. All I could think about was that little spitfire in my room. I shut my eyes, imagining it was Holly, and then—only then—did I start to get into it.

But a moment later I was interrupted by someone ripping the curtains aside.

It was Holly. She looked at the scene in front of her, then shook her head, turned around and stomped toward the club exit.