Clubwhore (Devil's Renegade MC #1)(13)

“I copied the idea from a home makeover show. It’s gonna be featured in the South Mississippi Magazine next spring. I’m bringing class back to The Avenues.”

“It’s beautiful,” I say, smiling proudly up at him. There’s something admirable about a guy like him rising above the challenges he’s faced with every day and making something great of himself. To me, it doesn’t matter how in the hell he makes his living. I’d be just as proud if he worked at Wal-Mart.

“Help yourself to a drink.” He points to the endless bottles of liquor and wine covering the island. “I’ll be back shortly with your stuff.”

I nod, even though I hate the word “shortly.” That’s a little longer than “a few” but not as long as “a while.” Really, it means, “I don’t fucking know when I’ll have your shit ready, but you’ll get it when you get it.”

Twisting off the cap on a bottle of Jack, I pour a decent amount in a glass before opening the refrigerator in search of ice. Filling it up, I top it off with a splash of Sprite, and shut the door. I don’t react, but my heart pounds a little heavier when I come face to face with a guy whose pupils are the size of quarters.

“You’re new.” He licks his lips and I start to smile, but then I remember I’m not at work. And I don’t have to do any fucking thing.

“Not interested,” I say, leveling him with a look before stepping around his tall frame to lean against the counter—on the other side of the kitchen from him.

Laughing, he shakes his head and walks toward me, dragging his finger along the counter. I just stare in amusement. I wonder if he realizes that’s only sexy when girls do it. “You don’t even know what I’m offering.”

“I guess it’s a damn good thing I’m not in the market for anything, isn’t it?” Taking a much needed pull from my glass, I close my eyes and savor the taste as it slides down my throat. When I open them again, he’s standing right in front of me.

“That was sexy.”

“I can assure you I wasn’t intending it to be that way. And no, I’m not some girl who’s playing hard to get, then doing sexy shit for attention. When I said I wasn’t interested, I meant it. So run along and find someone else to annoy.”

He continues to look at me with the same expression he wore the entire time I was speaking, as if it’s taking the words a little longer than necessary to sink in. I know the moment it hits him because he looks slightly offended, but undeterred.

“I think attention is exactly what you need.” I’m guessing he’s a pretty college boy who’s not used to being told no. He has the whole Zack-Morris-from-Saved-by-the-Bell vibe going for him, and judging by his expensive polo and designer jeans, I’m almost positive he’s had a privileged upbringing. Ugh. These are always the worst.

“This will make the fourth time I’ve told you to get the hell away from me. That’s three more than I’d have told anyone else. Leave, or I’ll make you leave.”

He smiles, then noticing the look on my face, turns the corners of his lips down. “Hey,” he snaps, narrowing his eyes and taking a step closer. “Don’t threaten me, bitch.”

“I wouldn’t.”

I’m so caught up in my own thoughts on how to bring this very deserving man as much pain as possible that it takes me a moment to realize the voice I hear doesn’t belong to me. Or to the man in front of me.

It belongs to him. I don’t want to look.

But I do.

And when I do, I’m glad I did.

Familiar green eyes stare back at me.

This man is a force to be reckoned with.

He’s like a god—a mythical one, but he’s the best one. The big one. Zeus. The god of the sky and ruler of all the other gods who are insignificant in his presence. Far-fetched? I think not. He’s just that fucking powerful.

He’s six foot four, three hundred pounds of pure muscle. His forearms are bigger than my thighs. And he’s just standing there, his thick hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans that had to be custom made to accommodate them. His head is tilted back just slightly, his chin pointing in the direction of the man he’s speaking too--making his appearance even that much more intimidating. Not only that, but his big lungs must require all the oxygen in the room, because I can’t breathe.

“Huh?” The man in front of me is less than a foot away, but his voice sounds far off. It’s like I’m in a tunnel, and Bryce is the light at the other end.

“I said, I wouldn’t.” The accent is thick, but the guy must understand.

“I won’t.” And he didn’t.

I have no fucking clue what the demand entailed. I don’t know what might have become if he had--whatever. But the guy leaves the room—maybe even the entire country. Bryce didn’t threaten him. But he didn’t have to. There’s an underlying meaning in everything he says, and people just get it.

“You shouldn’t be here.” Shit. Now he’s talking to me. He’s looking at me. And I can feel that control I had only moments ago slipping away quickly.

“I’m leaving,” I promise, avoiding his eyes at all costs. I even find something appealing about the ice cubes in my glass—anything to keep me from looking at him. I’m searching for a reason to my sudden change in behavior. I only come up with one answer, but it doesn’t explain shit. I’m this way because of him—this man I don’t even know.

“Everything okay?” Willie asks, looking between me and Bryce whose eyes I can still feel on me.

Without a second thought, I nearly trip over my own feet to grab the paper sack from Willie’s fingers. With so much shit happening all at once inside me, I simply forget to pay the man and turn to leave. Reaching out, he grabs my arm and stops me. I look down at his hand at the same moment I feel the floor shake beneath my feet. Immediately he lets go.

“My bad, man. I just need my money,” Willie says, holding his hands up in surrender.

Shoving my hands in my pocket, I pull out the wad of cash and thrust it in his palm. Not bothering to thank him, I speed walk through the house then break into a run toward my car. I don’t allow myself to breathe until I’m safely behind the wheel.

Tossing the bag on the passenger seat, I fumble for the keys in the ignition, but they’re not here. Frantically I search the floorboard, my breathing coming in short gasps as I become more panicked with every second that passes and I don’t find them. What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m never like this. This—whatever this is—feels foreign and familiar to me all at the same time.

With no warning, my door is jerked open and I’m so on edge, I let out a scream and scramble backwards across the seat away from my intruder.

“Hey.” Bryce’s soothing voice fills the dark car and instinctively I look up at him. His brows are drawn together in confusion and worry is etched all over his face. It’s too much. His presence is too much. I feel those walls crumbling again and I finally put a name to what I’m feeling in this moment. Fear.

I’m afraid.

I’m terrified.

I have to get away from him.

Rationally I know he’d never hurt me. But terror overpowers any lucid thought and uses it as a trigger to memories. Bad memories. Things I thought I’d forgotten, but are now at the forefront of my mind. So I do what I have to do. What I never got a chance to do before.

I run.





CHAPTER 9



Two Years Ago

“Can I help you?” My eyes scan the room, searching for Lucas Carmical, owner of Carmical Construction. They fall to the nameplate on the desk the man speaking is sitting behind.

“Ma’am? Can I help you?” No fucking way. Surely he’s sitting in his boss’ chair. Guys like him don’t work on Sunday. Hell, men as pretty as him shouldn’t have to work at all. If he was mine, all he’d have to do is just wake up every morning.

“I’m looking for Lucas Carmical?”

He smiles, and it’s so magnificently charming, it’s nearly surreal. Actually, the whole fucking scene is surreal. This guy is beautiful. Stop-and-stare, take-a-picture, must-be-a-movie-star beautiful. Too beautiful to steal from. Which is exactly what I’m here to do.

“Call me Luke.” Standing, he extends his hand out to me. He’s tall, I’m guessing around six two or six three. The sleeves of his white dress shirt are rolled to his elbows, giving me a nice view of the tattoos that crawl up his arms. The top three buttons of his shirt are undone, exposing a chest that’s hard and flawless and the start to what I’m sure is a perfect physique.

“Delilah.” Shit. Did I really just use my real name? I’m nervous for all of two seconds. Then my hand touches his and I’m calm. Weird…

“How can I help you?” He’s amused at my reaction. I’m sure he gets this a lot. That’s probably why he didn’t say my name. I’m glad he didn’t. I might’ve died.

At the thought of death, I’m snapped out of fairytale land and back to the present. Die… That’s what’s going to happen to me if I don’t get my shit together. I’m going to die.

Straightening my spine, I lift my chin and find a voice that isn’t all breathy and stupid. “I’m looking for a job.”