Page 5

Dravin

F uck me on a biscuit, no one implied that this job would be easy, but I thought that at least Marcus’ sister would have an ounce of common sense, or at minimum, the ability to be logical.

I suppose that I thought there’d be something of him in her.

Then again, over the past few years, Marcus was so different, maybe I didn’t know him at all. I saw the same charisma that drew people to him, the same loyalty, the same drive, the same brilliance. I just couldn’t fathom how he’d turn it around and channel it into everything he was once against.

However he’d changed, in my head, Marcus will always be the man who saved me and honestly, made living bearable most of the time. I was honored to know him, and even if he’d never saved my life, I would have done this for him.

I’m doing it, even though my patience is beyond worn thin. It’s been filed down to wafer thin translucence. Kael is enough to make a bunch of one percenters look like sweet, angelic little babes.

We’ve been here in Hart for just about two weeks, and she hasn’t made even the slightest attempt to get to know anyone from the club.

The guys aren’t half bad and their old ladies are incredible women.

They’ve gone out of their way to try to make Kael feel welcome, including getting the rental house ready for her.

Has she shown so much as an ounce of gratitude?

If she had, I wouldn’t be creeping around the corner of the house like a fucking stalker, barely keeping my frustration from boiling over.

In my line of work, people get in touch with people like me through underground methods.

They learn from other people who have used me, where I might be found.

It was Wizard, the club’s IT guy who put their Prez in contact with me.

From that first call, I knew that Wizard—whoever he was—had some serious skills because he didn’t use regular anything to track me down.

The club had a problem not long ago. They’d found some money and, not wanting problems, gave it back to the rightful owner.

Except the ‘rightful owner’ was a thief who’d scammed many people out of their cash.

She’d taken it and gone to Europe. They wanted her found and brought back here so the money could be returned.

She hadn’t converted it or funneled it digitally, so Wizard couldn’t just go in and steal it back.

They were too busy to track her all over the globe, so they sent me.

I went because, at risk of sounding incredibly corny, justice is an idea that I believe in.

Before I took the job, I did my research.

The Satan’s Angels were established in Hart by their current Prez’s grandfather.

He passed the gauntlet down to his son, who apparently passed it down to his.

Media can be manipulated, but whatever channels I went down, I found only a few shadowy things which either meant they were clean, or good at hiding the bodies.

The club’s main source of revenue used to be weapons, but unlike other clubs, they didn’t rely on drugs or women.

They have a few legal weed farms in Canada.

Over the past year, they’ve diversified and moved most of their money into surprisingly legal channels.

They now own and operate more legit businesses than anything.

Even before that, they’d stamped out most of the crime in Hart, and have been active in community service, trying to find solutions for homelessness, funding schools and community centers, and making sure that things like drugs and human trafficking don’t exist there.

So, no. The club isn’t bad .

They aren’t saints.

They’re just human.

But entirely different than the shit Marcus was running.

Tyrant extended an offer to prospect with them and join their IT team—meaning Wizard. I didn’t see myself taking it, but then, I didn’t see Kael going full rogue and needing to bug us out fast , either.

It was an out when I needed one. The club had properties they were willing to rent to me. After completing that job, I met Wizard, Tyrant, and their VP, Raiden. They struck me as genuine, salt of the earth men.

No matter how desperate I was for a quick out, I never would have agreed to this or brought Kael here if she wouldn’t be safe.

This gig wasn’t designed with the sole objective of making her life miserable, despite what she might think.

I’ve finally had enough and I’m rounding the corner of the little blue house via the cracked cement sidewalk to dial her in, but I stop short, immediately knocked back a foot.

I’m bristling with impatience and an emotion I’m not used to feeling—helplessness—and it’s obviously doing a number on my head.

I’m nowhere near as aware as I should be, and I’m fully unprepared for the sight of her sunbathing in a scrap of a bikini.

She’s sprawled out in a lawn chair, the unmown grass so long all around her that it almost completely swallows her up.

She has a lawnmower. It’s in the garden shed back here with a bunch of other tools.

She hasn’t done much of anything here. I know, because the club has cameras set up and I’m constantly doing surveillance.

I did make one concession to her and swear that I’d be as unobtrusive as possible, and it would only be me driving by her house.

It’s exhausting, trying to keep her safe, while shielding the club from her at the same time. I’m the go-between, and I’ve had enough of her attitude.

While simultaneously being as awful as she can be to people who only wish her well, she’s texted me multiple times on the number I gave her, calling me a creep excessively, because she noticed my car driving past the house at three in the morning.

And a voyeur. Times twelve.

It wasn’t true. I was just doing my job.

I was doing my job for thirteen fucking months, watching her while forcing myself not to feel anything.

But I’m being exactly what she said in her texts by not announcing myself.

I should clear my throat. Close my eyes and douse them with brain bleach.

Stop trying to inhale the air to see if it carries the sweet, tempting scent of peonies and roses.

I should just walk up and give her hell for letting anyone sneak up on her like this.

We’re only safe- ish here. She still needs to be vigilant and careful.

Do I do any of that? No. I stare at my dead brother-in-arms’ little sister like I’m new to this planet and I’ve never seen a woman before.

She’s tall, but muscular, thanks to the rigid training regime she’s kept up all this past year.

I never thought she’d be crazy enough to do something like getting herself involved in a cage fight.

I thought her training was a way to ensure she’d be able to fight off anyone if they came for her and I approved.

She needed to do something to keep herself from feeling like a victim and focusing on her grief.

Some people cry or rage to get it out of their system.

She spent most of her learning all the many ways to incapacitate or kill a person.

She’s finely constructed, even with the sleek muscle covering every inch of her body, but her breasts are not fine boned.

I mean…

Damn it .

The only thing her top hides are her nipples, and even then, I can see the dark tips peeking around the scraps of fabric.

She’s got her long black hair piled up in a messy bun. I wanted her to cut it all off, but just like the first time, her response was to tell me to go fuck myself. The only thing she’s been happy about in this new move was being able to take her hair closer to her natural color.

My eyes keep going, writing my own death notice.

They trickle down her flat, hard stomach where the ridges of her abs stick out and continue lower, down to the neon green scrap of the bikini bottoms. Her long, shapely legs are spread open, one foot planted on the chair, the other with her toes splayed in the long grass.

For just a second, I imagine myself down there, her foot on my shoulder, my hands spreading her thighs apart so I can devour her sweet—

I tear my eyes over to the fence, adjust my raging erection, and curse under my breath loud enough that she quickly scrambles off the chair. The movement does nothing except dislodge her top.

Exposing one dark, perfect nipple completely.

My mouth goes bone dry. My balls practically burst and my cock weeps in my boxers.

This is sick. It’s dangerous. I’ve always been able to keep my distance.

She never knew I was there. I was always just making good on my word.

I made a promise to a man who knew his days were numbered that I’d keep his sister safe, not ogle her after just fantasized about how I’d make her come all over my face while riding my tongue and fingers to oblivion.

I rip my t-shirt over my head and eat up the distance to us in three strides. Her lips part and something flashes in her eyes that isn’t quite fear or anger. I whip the t-shirt over her head and grasp her hand, dragging her through the tiny backyard and in through the backdoor of the house.

I break the contact between our bodies as soon as I can thrust her in and change places with her, so my huge frame blocks the door.

“What about keeping us on the right side of that unmown fucking grass out there do you not quite comprehend? When I said don’t draw attention to yourself, I meant don’t sit outside practically naked where half the neighborhood can see you and photograph you. ”

“Bro, that’s the most backward, chauvinistic bit of toxic masculinity I’ve heard in a while,” she retorts, enunciating almost every word, dragging them out to drive me crazy.

“I’m not your bro.”

She crosses her arms, pushing her breasts up in my t-shirt. “No. My bro is dead and all I have is you in his place. You’re right about that. So, I’ll rephrase. You’re a dude-bro.”