Clubwhore (Devil's Renegade MC #1)(11)

Who the hell played this?

Which brings me to the second thing that gets my attention—a huge man wearing a Devil’s Renegades’ cut, occupying a barstool. The difference between him and the guys from this chapter is his bottom rocker that reads Lake Charles. It’s…him.

Shit. I haven’t even brushed my hair. Or my teeth…

“Good mornin’.” The deep Cajun accent freezes me in my tracks. How the fuck did he know I was behind him? And why the hell do I feel hot all of a sudden just at the sound of his voice? “I heard your door open.” I take a minute to collect myself before going any closer. It doesn’t take long for my desperate need of coffee to have me moving forward. And the desire to finally put a name to his face is becoming desperate too.

I round the bar to find coffee already made. I pour a cup, keeping my back to him and hoping like hell there’s enough light for me to check out his features and his finger. He’d said he wasn’t married, but you can never be sure. Not that it mattered now…he’d had me twice already.

Slowly, I turn and come face to face with him. I thought I knew all the guys from Lake Charles. I’ve met every one of them, fucked most of them and half of their ol’ ladies. But suddenly I wonder if he’s the ghost I’d heard rumors about. No fucking way…

“Devil’s Renegades Sergeant at Arms Bryce, Lake Charles.” Yes fucking way. Extending his large hand in my direction, I drop my eyes to his other one before taking it. No ring. “We haven’t officially met.” His playful tone is mirrored in his warm green eyes.

“Delilah.” Did I just breathe my name? I did. But shit…his lips are full and curved into a small smile. He’s so sexy…dangerously sexy. Actually, I’d heard he was dangerous. The silent kind of dangerous that sneaks up on you and takes you out before you even realize what’s happening. The kind that can cut you and you won’t even feel it until you’re bleeding. The Ruthless Gentle Giant. That’s what they call him. It never made sense before, but now I get it. He’s soft spoken and kind on the outside, but pure evil on the inside. How do I know this? I swear I can see it in his eyes.

“Will you excuse me just one minute?” I offer him an apologetic smile before releasing his hand that’s still warm around mine. His smile widens slightly in amusement as I hurriedly head through the side door to the kitchen.

Turning on the tap, I splash my face with the freezing cold water that nearly takes my breath. I continue to cup my hands under the faucet and douse my face until I feel more like myself and less like whoever in the hell that girl was that walked in here.

Once I’m fully awake, my face is dry, and I’ve rinsed some of the disgusting from my mouth, I head back to where Bryce is still sitting.

I feel marginally more in control, but not as much as I wish. This guy’s doing something to me and I don’t like it. Needing him to prove to me he’s an asshole or say something that will make me like him less, I decide to strike up a conversation with Mr. Fuckingwithmyhead.

“I thought you were a ghost. Or a figment of everyone’s imagination,” I say, topping off my coffee and his. “I’ve been here two years and I’ve only seen you twice.” Fucked you twice…

“I can assure you I’m real.” No shit he’s real… My belly flips when I remember how thick and filling his cock felt inside me.

“So where’ve you been hiding?” I’m trying like hell not to flirt, and failing miserably.

“Around.”

“Evasive much?” I ask with a smile, which he returns.

“I like to keep to myself.” I nod in understanding. I know all too well about that. “And you?”

“And me what?”

“Why are you hiding?”

I let out a laugh, then remember I’d yet to brush my teeth. Taking a step back, I lean against the counter behind me—making sure there are at least a foot and the bar between us. “I’m not hiding. You see me, don’t you?”

“I see you.” There’s some underlying meaning to his answer that I refuse to overthink this early in the morning. “But why are you here?”

“Because this is my job.”

“Don’t you live here?”

“Yes.”

“Then wouldn’t this be your home? Not just your job?” The way his eyes narrow when they appraise me makes me feel like he’s trying to figure out the answer before I say it. And the soft, smooth sound of his voice seems to match perfectly with the music playing in the room. It makes me want to tell him everything.

“I don’t like the word home, and this isn’t a house. It’s a place which happens to be where I’m employed, therefore it’s just my job. I’m all work, all the time.”

“So do my brothers offer workman’s comp? Or did you sign a waiver?” At my confusion, his thick finger points in the direction of my face. Without makeup, the fading bruise near my hairline from last Sunday is still visible.

“This was personal.” He gives me an expectant look and it’s the first step in the direction of me liking him a little less. “Personal as in nobody’s business but mine.”

I see a flash of anger in his eyes before he dips them to his cup. I also notice the way his body stiffens and the veins in his neck seem to thicken. But when he meets my gaze again he’s relaxed and any trace of anger is gone—replaced with determination.

Threading his fingers together, he lays his arms on top of the bar and leans closer. “I’m making it my business.” The cold in his voice is seriously chilling. Like, I have goosebumps. I’ve never felt afraid or uncomfortable around any of these men. But this guy is starting to scare the shit out of me.

“I need to go,” I whisper, dropping my eyes and wrapping my other hand around my cup in an attempt to keep them from visibly shaking.

“Do I scare you, Delilah?” His tone is strong, rich and confident, but I can hear the hint of regret. Suddenly, the desire to reassure him that I’m okay and I’m now aware that he didn’t intend to scare me outweighs my desire to turn and run. What the fuck?

“No. I mean. Yes, but it’s okay.” Damn. I can’t even lie. This is bad…really, really bad.

“Why is that okay?” Regret gone. Control back. Did he do that intentionally?

“It’s not okay. I just…” I just what? Nothing because I feel stupid and I sound stupid and I don’t understand what in the hell is going on with me right now.

“Look at me, Delilah.” On their own accord, my eyes meet his. I think he put something in my coffee. I feel hypnotized. “It’s not okay to feel afraid in your own home. And this is your home, no matter what you choose to call it.”

I’m nodding, repeating his words in my head like a mantra. This is my home. This is my home. Why? Because he says it is and for some reason, I feel like he has that much control over me right now. I liked him better when he was fucking me and I didn’t have to think or feel anything but what he was doing to me.

“It’s not okay for a man to put their hands on a woman either. Not like that. I don’t care who they are.” The walls inside me shake a little. It’s like he’s an earthquake, and as long as I’m in his presence, he has the power to crumble something inside of me I thought was indestructible. But I can’t break away. I can’t run from him. Some magnetic force is emanating from him and holding me here. A part of me hates it, but a part of me wants to give in.

He’s so…different than the others. He seems educated, worldly and although his appearance suggests he’s the epitome of a bad-ass biker, the way he speaks and acts suggests something totally different—like Luke. He belongs, but in an unconventional kind of way.

“Nobody told me you were still around.” The sound of Linda’s voice has never been so welcome. Giving me a wink, Bryce turns on his barstool to face the woman whose arm is around his shoulders. The instant his back is to me, the trance breaks and I pull in a deep breath.

“Please tell me you haven’t staked your claim, Delilah.”

Now fully in control of myself, I set my cup down on the bar with a little more force than necessary—pissed at myself for letting someone else control me in the first place.

That’s not who you are anymore.

You don’t need to be controlled.

You have Sunday.

You have your brother.

At the reminder, my hand moves to my head, softly caressing the bruise there.

Linda clears her throat and shoots me a look, wanting an answer. But thankfully, Bryce keeps his back to me.

“No, ma’am. He’s all yours.”

She beams as I pass. I want to slap her. He’s not mine. What we had was sex. Hot, dirty, mind-blowing sex. Nothing more and nothing less. But even though I know these things, something sparks inside me—something infuriatingly unwelcome and completely maddening.

Jealousy.





CHAPTER 8



“Knock, knock.”

I look past my reflection in the mirror on my vanity to see Red and Dallas walk inside my room—like they fucking own the place. After my morning with Mr. Drivesmecrazy, and my afternoon of shitty TV, I’m not really in the mood for trespassers.