Hellbent (Four Horsemen MC Book 5) (14 page)

Pretty Boy came, cock twitching and come pulsing thickly down Shep's knuckles. He threw his head back, gasping into the air as his chest heaved. The sight was Shep's undoing. His entire body clenched and he came harder than he had since he was a teenager. He recaptured Pretty Boy's mouth, licking into him leisurely as his heart rate slowed.

Finally he leaned back against the shower wall, letting the water clean the mess from his hands and stomach. "Fuck me."

Pretty Boy grinned. "Keep saying that and I'm going to take you seriously."

Shep watched him from slitted eyes as he rotated under the water, slicked his hands through his hair and took a deep breath. He stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel off the shelf and holding it out.

"My job's just never done," Shep muttered, lips quirking in a satiated smile. He shut off the water and stepped out.

"No rest for the wicked." Pretty Boy smirked.

Shep took the towel, his brain in a haze as he gently patted Pretty Boy's injuries dry, then took long passes over the unmarred skin. Finally, he slung the towel around Pretty Boy's narrow hips, standing close enough to feel the shower warmed heat of his skin as he tucked the end in tightly.

Pretty Boy opened the door, steam billowing into the cool hallway as Shep tucked another towel around his hips. He followed Pretty Boy towards Shep's bedroom, his throat tightening with every step.

When they walked in the bedroom, Shep closed the door, leaning his forehead against it for a second. "What are we doing here?"

Pretty Boy grinned and said, "Thought you'd give me something to sleep in. Maybe let me sleep here with you, since we already got the molesting part of the night over with?"

Shep swallowed. "Noah …"

His head dropped and he wet his lips. "I know I’m asking a lot right now. But don't … make me sleep alone tonight. I won't touch you, if that's what you want. Just—"

Shep held up his hand to shush him. A little too intimate, but the idea of not being able to keep his eyes on Pretty Boy all night after being so worried about him was irresistible.  "You can stay."

Pretty Boy smiled slowly. "So about those clothes?"

He dug out two pairs of boxers from his dresser drawer and tossed one to Pretty Boy. He paused. "You need …?"

"Naw, I got it." Pretty Boy stiffly maneuvered into the boxers, then crawled on top of the bed. He yanked the covers down as he pulled himself up and slowly rolled between the sheets. "Fuck that's good."

"You've been saying that a lot tonight," Shep said softly. He flicked off the light and climbed into bed, folding one arm behind his head as he lay back. He grabbed a smoke from his bedside table and lit it, hitting the power switch on his outward facing window fan.

"Can I bum one of those?"

Shep started to toss the pack at him, but unsure if he could maneuver without panging his injuries, instead he passed him the one he'd already lit and fixed himself another. He moved the chipped, plastic ashtray to the middle of the bed between them and tried not to think about how intimate the gesture felt. He was just being practical. No sense in Pretty Boy wrenching his arm trying to lean over Shep or getting ashes on the floor.

Pretty Boy exhaled slowly. "So, Shep. How many guys have you fucked?"

"I like the casual way you said that," Shep said idly. "Like I didn't you hear you take a breath and gear up to ask."

"At the moment where I'm sitting in a bed, smoking a post-orgasm cigarette with a person, it feels like a reasonable question." The room was dark, Pretty Boy just a silhouette in the muted moonlight of the curtain, a red, glowing dot in the black as he smoked.

"I’m clean," he said, tone flat.

"No, I believe you. I am, too. And I can show you the test results if you want," Pretty Boy said, voice a little too careful. Like people regularly assumed he wouldn't be.

"I've seen 'em. You leave your shit everywhere." Shep snorted. Suddenly, he wondered if Pretty Boy had wanted him to see those papers. He shrugged off the thought.

Pretty Boy coaxed, "Tell me."

"You only care about the guys?" Shep drawled.

"I ain't seen you with a woman you were taking serious since you broke it off with Amy." Pretty Boy shifted, the fabric of the sheets whispering against each other. "And I know you didn't fuck her."

Shep cleared his throat. "We were waiting."

"You were engaged." The flick of his cigarette seemed pointed.

"That's not actually where the waiting's supposed to stop." Shep smirked a little. "Look, I ended things with her when I …left seminary. And no, there hasn't been a single other woman I've taken serious like that since."

"But … you've been with guys." From the dip in mattress and change in his voice, Shep put together Pretty Boy must have turned on his side to face him.

Shep stubbed out his cigarette, cracked his knuckles and lit another. He took his time on the inhale, wishing there was some way he could dodge this conversation. Not like there were a lot of sides of himself he talked to other people about, but this sure as shit was not one of them.

His throat worked, mouth opening and closing a few times before he finally managed in a dry whisper, "Yes."

Pretty Boy's breath hitched.

     His chest tightened and even though he knew it was too dark to see anyway, he closed his eyes. "The way you were coming at me, I kinda thought you'd worked that out already."

"I always assumed. Guess, I just didn't ..." Pretty Boy paused. "Wasn't sure I'd ever hear you admit it."

"There was a time when …" Shep trailed off, muttering curses. "You were doing thirty days in lockup for something stupid like assaulting livestock—"

"Assault with a domesticated farm animal," he corrected. When Shep didn't reply, Pretty Boy added, "I threw a chicken … maybe a bit harder than intended."

Shep chuckled.

"The chicken was fine by the way. Missing a few feathers maybe, but you know—
intact."

"And the guy you threw the chicken at?" Shep couldn't help asking.

"Pissed." Pretty Boy sighed. "Apparently."

Shep swallowed. "Anyways, my dad died and I stayed out in Memphis for two weeks making funeral arrangements and getting his estate settled and stupid, lawyer bullshit like that. Ended up drinking at this dive bar, doing an open mic night."

A non-committal hum came from Pretty Boy's direction.

"The bartender I'd been glued to all night got up and did this knockout cover of an old Dusty Springfield song. I think I just forgot where I was, watching him sing. Drunk off my ass, when he got through I asked him to have a smoke with me out back." Shep put out his cigarette, exhaling towards the ceiling.

"Picking up the bartender, huh? Not bad." Pretty Boy's tones were even and edged with approval.

"Anyways, you don't need the gritty details. But I saw him a few more times after that, once in his apartment." Shep could feel his face burning, again thankful for the cover of night.

Pretty Boy moved the ashtray to his bedside table from the sound of the clunk. Shep felt the bed dip and bend, as he settled closer. "And he was your first?"

"Yeah, I guess." Shep cleared his throat.

"You fucked him?" he asked him softly.

"Yeah," Shep whispered, leaning back against the pillows and lacing his fingers behind his head. He could still feel the weight of the wet night air in Memphis, the slow rhythm of a city with blues. "I can't explain what happened. I was so far away from here and my father was fucking dead, and what I did … just didn't feel like it mattered. Like I was in some kind of haze."

He had drank beer and eaten barbecue, alone in the crowds. No one recognized him. No one needed anything from him. He was dealing with fucking awful shit concerning his dad, but knowing that tirade of judgement was never coming his way again had lifted an anchor from his shoulder.

Shep shook his head. "Like I was free."

"Damn." Pretty Boy whistled lowly. "That's a helluva first time. Did you only top?"

"Yeah," Shep said too quickly to pull off casual. "I've never … the guys I was with, I didn't really trust them like that, you know?"

He moved around on the bed and Shep thought he had crept closer. "I was bottom first time. And his girlfriend was watching, so I don't think I can say I relate. But I hear what you're saying."

"How old were you?"

"Seventeen? Or just about." The sharp shift in the pillows might have been a shrug. "They both hit me up a few years later and we had a thing for awhile. I'm really not all about the two at once thing, but fucking around's a nice distraction."

Shep took a deep breath. "What's your number?"

"My …? Oh." Pretty Boy squirmed around a bit. "Sixty-eight."

He choked, finally pounding on his sternum with his fist to get things situated back in breathing order. Weakly, he tried for a smirking tone. "And how many of their names do you know?"

"All of 'em." Pretty Boy nudged his shoulder and Shep suddenly realized how close he'd gotten. "I have a fantastic fucking memory. That's how I made PIC."

Shep laughed. "You earned it."

A comfortable silence fell between them. Shep's brain played alternating scenes of Pretty Boy getting beaten and of the two of them in the shower. There was no way he was fucking sleeping. He was about to get up and offer to make them some eggs  when Pretty Boy started to snore. Shep was pretty damn sure there was stupid fucking grin all over his face right now.

Pretty Boy rolled, fitting against his body and nuzzling his forehead into Shep's shoulder. Shep should get up. He should go to the guest room. He just couldn't bring himself to move.

He settled into the mattress, angling his shoulder so Pretty Boy's neck wasn't at such a sharp angle and closed his eyes. The last thought he remembered having was that he was never gonna be able to fuckin' sleep with all this shit on his mind.

Chapter Fourteen

Nobody fucks with kids.

~Four Horsemen Prospect Handbook

* * *

When Pretty Boy woke up, he felt like he'd slept for a hundred years. He was seven kinds of sore, but his body was on the mend. The grey light of morning drifted through the pale curtains. Shepherd sat on the edge of the bed, blinking sleepily into the dawn. It was oddly intimate. Pretty Boy had imagined waking up next to Shep more times than he could count.

The reality, while under more innocent circumstances, tightened his chest. A pit of dread opened in his stomach, like another shoe could drop at any moment, but he pushed it aside.  He was here with Shep right now and that was all that mattered. He planned on enjoyin’ the moment.

Damn, he was beautiful. All gilded and tawny, outlined in sunlight. Everything Pretty Boy'd ever wanted shining right there in front of him.

Shep cleared his throat, standing and shuffling into his jeans from the day before. He exuded every
fuck this awkward
morning cliché Pretty Boy had ever seen.

"Morning," Pretty Boy said softly, trying not to spook him.

Shep closed his eyes and wet his lips. "Morning. Coffee?"

"Please." He barely got the words out before Shep was gone.
There's that other shoe.

He took his time, picking through Shep's closet and drawers to find some clothes that might fit him a little better than the last set. He ended up in Shep's incredibly worn
Crossroad Crows
t-shirt—limited edition, the band had made them for the club—and a pair of sun bleached wranglers just barely hanging on to their blue with blown-out knees. He heard a motorcycle pull up as he headed into the bathroom and by the time he padded out into the kitchen, he could hear Duke's voice echoing through the small house.

Most of Shep's face was hidden by his upended Dr. Pepper can when Pretty Boy spotted him, posted up at the breakfast bar. Duke was helping himself to a cup of coffee and his medical bag was on the kitchen table.

"I'm fine. I just got out of the hospital," Pretty Boy protested before anyone else said a word.

"Club rules. You get injured, Duke checks you out. End of story." Shep gave him the
I ain't budging
look.

Pretty Boy sighed and pulled off his shirt, letting Duke poke and prod, then flash lights in his eyes. "Y'all get that they wouldn't have let me out of the hospital with a concussion, right? Not without telling you?"

"Shut the fuck up and put your arms out," Duke barked. "This'll go faster without you bitching."

The man was efficient, even if he did come off as rather unfeeling. He finished examining Pretty Boy with clean, precise movements—not quite gentle, but not tweaking his injuries either. Duke might not give two shits about Pretty Boy as a person, but he was obviously a skilled doctor.

When he was finally through, Duke exchanged some kind of loaded expression with Shep and the two of them got up and walked outside without saying shit to him.

Fuck that.

Pretty Boy trailed to the front door, catching it just before it close and set his ear against the crack.

" …your boy looks fine, Shep. A little worse for wear, but they did a good job setting his ribs, considering the past injuries. He should be good to go for Revelation." Duke's low baritone echoed up the driveway.

"Appreciate you taking the time, bro." Shep's whiskey tenor.

"Look man, I know what you're going through right now." Duke's voice barely carried to Pretty Boy's ears. It was the kindest tone he'd ever heard from Duke.

"I seriously doubt that," Shep said wryly.

"I know what's going on with you and Pretty Boy," Duke said exasperated.

There was muttered cursing and the sound of what had to be Shep's soda can splattering on the pavement.

"Motherfucker!" Shep shouted.

"Calm down, bro—it's just a soda. I’ll buy you another."

Pretty Boy muffled a snicker.

"Look, you're all kinds of fucking over-protective and it's obvious if you know what you're looking for," Duke explained patiently. Pretty Boy would give his left nut to see Shep's face right now. "Saw it in the military all the time."