The Rush: The Hell's Disciples MC (The Hell's Disciples MC Series) Page 4

  Her face is a mask of bullshit.

  Her hair is a mess, lipstick smeared, clothes inside out, and her eyes narrowed and mad.

  Snatching her arm, I pull her to a stop. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  She doesn’t look scared of me, but she doesn’t look happy with me either. “Yeah, I am, T.”

  “Why?”

  “Coming here was a bad idea. I could get fired over this shit.”

  She’s making shit up, pulling excuses out of her ass. Me leaving that room, leaving her alone, gave her time to think, and she did just that. She’s been doing this for the past year, thinking up bullshit reasons why letting me fuck her wouldn’t be a good idea. “You know goddamn well Sonny won’t fire you for fucking someone you met at the club.”

  “Still. …” she says, giving me some lame ass comeback.

  “Still nothing, Doll Face. Now, take your ass upstairs and get it naked.”

  I smile.

  She doesn’t return it.

  In fact, she crosses her arms, my gun still in her hand. We’re standing in the yard, a couple of my brothers and my nosy as fuck sister watching, but I really couldn’t give a fuck less. The only thing I care about is holding my gun and a sudden grudge against me.

  “I’m not going back upstairs with you.”

  “Ten minutes ago, you couldn’t wait to ride my dick.”

  “I was stupid ten minutes ago.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  Tires on gravel in the lot has be turning my head. Bailey takes advantage of the distraction and takes off toward the car pulling in.

  The bitch is fast.

  There’s a woman in the driver’s seat and she waves, waiting for Bailey from inside.

  Bailey stops at the car, her hand on the handle.

  “I like you, T, a lot. But I’m just not interested in getting mixed up in feelings and shit.”

  “Feelings and shit?”

  That throws me.

  She has feelings for me?

  She opens the door. “You’re bad for me. I’ve done bad, and I’m not interested in doing it again.”

  She’s not wrong, but I’m not telling her that. “Bailey—”

  “No.”

  No?

  Just no?

  Jesus Christ, I’m a fucking sucker for this bitch because I just let her go. I watch her get into the car.

  What the fuck am I supposed to say to that?

  I want to pull her ass out of it, but I know that’s not how this shit works. I’ve been around long enough to know that me putting her over my shoulder and taking her back to my bed won’t work, not in the long run, and not with a woman like Bailey. If I want a chance, I’ve gotta fucking work for it. Her pussy isn’t free, and it isn’t easy.

  “You know I’m not gonna stop, Doll Face.”

  She doesn’t smile, but I can see that shit in her eyes. She’s amused. She likes the idea. “I know.”

  “You keeping my gun, baby?”

  She nods her head, holding it up. “Yeah. In case you decide to try and kidnap me, I can shoot you.”

  “Good idea. Watch your back, Doll, because I’m out here watching and waiting for you to let your guard down.”

  This time, she does smile. “T,” she chastises, smiling, embarrassed by how much she liked that shit.

  “Be careful, Bailey, because I’m comin’ for ya.”

  BAILEY

  Stormi left me on my front porch, watching her taillights disappear down my dark street before altogether fading into the inky darkness as she turned the corner and out of my gated community.

  My road is quiet.

  My neighbors are asleep.

  Wealthy people are boring. Asleep by ten and up at the crack of dawn, drinking their fancy espressos. They drive sports cars and wear polos. They live in nice houses with lawn maintenance workers and nannies.

  They have posh lives.

  I have none of those things.

  But I’m trying.

  It’s one in the morning, and instead of crawling into bed, I head for my walk-in closet.

  Looking at myself in the large mirror hanging on the wall at the back, I frown.

  My cheeks are pink.

  My lips are swollen.

  My hair tussled.

  My eyes? They’re dead, lifeless—empty.

  I don’t like who I am, but I can’t stop it.

  I was raised this way.

  My mom was a hooker. A real, honest-to-fucking-goodness prostitute. She was a hustler—she is a hustler—and I was raised no different. Being fatherless, the only role model in my life was a man-hating woman hell-bent on using and abusing men any way she could before they did it to her.

  Everything I know I learned from her.

  And as hard as I try not to, I find more of her in me than I’d like.

  But, unlike me, she was never able to accomplish more than making just enough to house, feed, and clothe the two of us—barely—and blamed me for it, resented me, even.

  My hustle pays for my two grand a month rent. My hustle bought me my car. My hustle affords me expensive shoes and bags. My hustle lets me live comfortably.

  My hustle is men and their perversions.

  I don’t hate men, not like my mother does, but I use them just the same.

  My hustle doesn’t involve letting men fuck me for money in the front seat of their shitty car, some dingy alley, or a seedy motel. My hustle is my mind and body, my time and attention, and I’m damn good at it.

  Pulling off my jean shorts, the ones T peeled off my body no more than an hour ago, I leave them on the floor, refusing to think about how much better it felt to have his hands pulling on the waist of them than my own.

  Next goes my shirt.

  Last are my panties, the ones T liked so much.

  For some reason, letting another man see me wearing them feels wrong.

  Those panties are for him.

  Pulling on a satiny pink G-string, I fluff my hair and put on a little lipstick before posing in front of my mirror, snapping picture after picture of my nearly naked body.

  I don’t smile with my lips.

  I smile with my eyes.

  I play sweet.

  I play sultry.

  I play my role.

  Clients don’t pay for the real me. The boring me. The insecure me. The me who stays up late working on homework. The real me who eats six tacos in a sitting. The real me who’s more tomboy than princess.

  They pay for an image, an illusion.

  They pay for sex.

  And I give them exactly what the pay for.

  Scrolling through the pictures I just took of myself, I think about sending one to T. I wonder what his reaction would be? I wonder if he’d demand my address, show up uninvited, and fuck me against my closet wall?

  Wishful thinking.

  So I don’t.

  Not after the way I left.

  I might be a tease, but what I’m not is stupid.

  I send two to Walt instead. Fifty-six, rich and powerful, he treats me good. A few pictures and he pays my rent. A date and he buys me a bag. A weekend away, he gifts me a car.

  You pay me, and I provide a service for that payment. My service is just a little different than most.

  Walt responds to my text immediately.

  You always know how to brighten a boring business trip.

  I’m good at my job. ;)

  Always, baby girl. Always. When can I take you out for dinner?

  When you’re back in town.

  My phone dings, and it’s not from a text message. It’s a notification from my bank, alerting me that Walt deposited money into my account.

  Three hundred dollars for some topless selfies.

  I don’t have to look at my phone to know.

  Grabbing my purse from the floor, I pull out the bag I keep my money in from work, a medium sized zipper pouch. Inside is twelve hundred dollars, four hundred of which is from T, money I could never spend.


  I put it in the paper bag in my drawer.

  Someday I’ll tell him I can’t accept his money.

  Someday I’ll give it all back to him.

  I’ll tell him I want him in my life more than I want the money.

  Someday.

  5

  T

  “HOW FAST YOU think this fucker will go?” Rock asks, pedal to the floor.

  “The gutless wonder?” Hand out the window, I pound on the side of the old nineteen-eighties box van. “About fifty, max.”

  “Fuck,” he groans, chucking his cigarette out the window. “We’re never getting there if that’s the damn case.”

  “The Russians like to keep us in the lap of luxury, yeah?”

  “We’ve got very different views of luxury.”

  “You too good for this beauty?” I chuckle.

  “El expects me home and alive,” is all he says, and I get it. This fucker is a piece of fucking shit. It’s old, rusty, and falling apart. Hell, I’m surprised we’ve made it through the desert this far without losing the motor.

  “Shit. We need gas, again. This fucker is a damn gas guzzler.”

  “Miss my bike, man.”

  Rock nods. “No shit. Never miss it more than when we’re driving in a cage.”

  “Cage is only good for one thing, and that’s hauling shit.”

  Checking the map on my cell, service spotty as fuck, I see a gas station about fifteen miles up the highway.

  “Think she’ll make it fifteen miles?”

  “If not, then we’re walkin’.”

  “You’re fucking walking.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Ten minutes down the road, the gas station pops up on our right and we pull in. It’s the only goddamn thing we’ve seen in this shithole over the last hundred miles.

  “Fuck, this place is scary,” Rock mutters, pulling up to the pump.

  The station is old and weathered, paint peeling and covered in a layer of dust. There’s a man out front in a pair of old coveralls, whittling at a piece of wood.

  Rock cuts the engine and we both get out.

  The heat out here is fucking stifling, smacking you right in the face and making you gasp for breath.

  “It’s at least a hundred out here.” Sweat instantly collects on my brow and rolls down the back of my neck.

  “You know that saying, hot as hell? This must be hell.”

  “You pay, I’ll pump.”

  Rock walks into the building, and as soon as he does, a convertible comes hauling ass into the station, skidding to a stop on the other side of the pump.

  A couple of women get out, all of them staring at me.

  Jesus.

  They make no effort to hide their ogling, eyes wide and wondering.

  “Got a fan club,” Rock chuckles, walking out of the station and up next to me.

  They’re wearing short skirts and tiny tops, and the only goddamn thing I can think about is Bailey.

  They don’t come close.

  “Not interested.”

  “Not interested? You join a convent?”

  I shake my head and grunt.

  “Yeah, that’s right, that dancer down at The Cat has got you by the balls.”

  She’s got me by more than just the balls.

  “Hi,” one of the women coos, getting brave as she peeks around the pump at me.

  I don’t say a damn thing, but Rocky does.

  El owns the motherfucker, but the asshole still likes to flirt. “Hey, sweetheart.”

  She smiles at him, and then looks at me, licking her lips.

  “I think she wants some T,” Rock grins, walking around the box truck.

  I’m uninterested, not stupid. The bitch is decent. She’s fuckable. But the idea of fucking someone other than Bailey doesn’t interest me.

  I jerk my chin up at her before pulling the gas nozzle from the truck. Placing it back on the stand, I hop back into the truck.

  I’m driving this time.

  Pulling out of the lot, I watch in the side mirror as the bitch in the skirt frowns, her hands thrown up and falling to her sides in defeat.

  I don’t know who the fuck I am anymore.

  Fucking Bailey.

  Six months ago, I would’ve fucked that bitch in that disgusting bathroom on the side of the building, and wouldn’t have thought twice about it. Now? Now I’m driving away, thinking about Bailey and the pussy she won’t give me.

  I’m fucked.

  _______________

  Rolling up to the US–Mexico border, there are three cars in line in front of us, and rows of cars on either side. We’ve been gone three days, and we’re about a day out from heading home. With little stops and sleeping in this motherfucker, I’m ready to be done, and more than ready to be home.

  We’re in lane four, and I picked this lane for a reason.

  The line moves and I pull up a spot.

  The box van I’m driving is loaded with illegal guns for the Russians. There’s enough ammo and weapons in the back to put me away for life, and I don’t take that shit lightly. I may be crazy and impulsive, but I’ve got a lot of life left to live, and doing it in prison ain’t my idea of a good life.

  “You ready?” Rock asks me, nodding at the line moving ahead of us.

  “Yeah.”

  “No sweat?”

  “Nah,” I murmur.

  Pulling up to the small glass box, I jerk my chin up at Jose, the border patrol agent.

  “T,” he greets in his thick accent as he walks out of the box and toward the window. He leans in, elbow on the frame. “How are you? How’s your old man?”

  “Good. How about you? The family?”

  Jose grins. “Kids are good. Getting big.”

  “Next time you’re up our way, swing through, yeah?”

  “Will do.” Jose takes a step back from the truck and looks down the length of it. “Standard transport?” he questions, nodding at the back.

  I nod in return.

  He knows.

  He steps back up to the truck and reaches in, shaking my hand.

  Rock watches, smirking when I slip Jose a couple of bills. He needs the money, and I don’t need the fucking hassle.

  Mutually beneficial.

  “It was good to see you, T. Safe travels.”

  “Tell Marie I said ‘hi.’ It was good to see you too, man.”

  Pulling through the border, we make it back onto American soil. Finally, I can breathe again. As often and as effortless as this shit can go, it doesn’t always, and today wasn’t the day for me to have to bullshit my way back across the border.

  “Jesus.” Rock exhales loudly. “Sucking cock for a living now?”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Getting too old to lie your way through the border?”

  “Too fucking tired for that shit.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, got other shit on my mind.”

  And her name is Bailey.

  BAILEY

  “You following me, baby?” the voice catcalls me as I’m walking down the sidewalk.

  I shiver.

  T.

  Back turned, I smirk to myself before schooling my features.

  Turning, I look across the street to see T and a couple of his brothers. Sitting on his bike, and he jerks his chin up at me when we make eye contact.

  I fight the smile clawing at my lips, but fail.

  I can’t lie, seeing him makes me happy.

  Too happy.

  Happier than it should.

  He doesn’t return the smile, his face stone, but he does get off his bike. Slowly. Gracefully. As graceful as a massive man made of muscles and a solid frame can, which is surprisingly agile and light considering his size.

  I should go inside.

  I have shit to do.

  I can’t seem to keep moving, though.

  I haven’t seen T since I left his club a few nights ago and took his gun with me, promising to put a bullet in his ass if he tried anyth
ing funny. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about him.

  I thought about him while I was in the shower, my fingers brushing against my nipples.

  I thought about him while I laid in bed, a hand slipping between my thighs.

  I thought about him while I danced for other men, picturing his face instead of theirs.

  I thought about him while I stared at my phone, wishing I could call him.

  “How you doin’, Doll Face?” he asks, walking up to me with so much swagger and cocky attitude, I have to press my thighs together to dull the ache building between them.

  “Better than you’re about to be doing,” I tease, patting my purse where his gun is sitting somewhere at the bottom with a stray lipstick, loose change, and a bottle or two of body spray.

  His thick eyebrows bounce up to his hairline. “You gonna put a bullet in my ass just for talking to you?”

  “It all depends on how this conversation ends,” I quip, watching him closely.

  He holds up his big hands. “No funny business.”

  “You better pray you don’t make me mad.”

  Wearing nothing special, just a black tee, a jacket with his cut over it, some dark jeans and boots, I wonder how it’s possible that he looks so damn good wearing basic ass clothes. The man looks like James Dean’s older, cooler, hotter brother. It’s severely unfair. It took me an hour to get ready this morning, and I’m sure he just rolled out of bed like that.

  “Rather not. Rather you like me enough not to put me on my ass.”

  “I’m good,” I tell him. “How are you?”

  “I’m doing all right. Just waiting on you to give me the go ahead.”

  It’s my turn to quirk a brow. “The go ahead to what? Get me in your bed?”

  We’re standing on the sidewalk outside a small block of businesses. A café. A bath and body store. Coffee shop. A shoe and retail store. People walking by. A lady holding the hands of two small children passes, her eyes wide and cautious as she walks around us. She’s looking at T like he’s possibly the devil come to life to take her kids. She not wrong about the devil part at least.

  But it’s the man in the window of the café, his face damn near pressed against the glass watching us who worries me. He looks like the type to cause a scene, and I worry even more when T steps close to me, caging me against the wall of the building, and the guy gets up.

  Hands on either side of my head, T gets close. “Nah. The go ahead to get you on the back of my bike and then in my bed.”