Clubwhore (Devil's Renegade MC #1)(45)

I’m hyperventilating. And he’s closing in on me. Then entire room is closing in on me. Caging me. I’m panicking. My skin is sweaty, and clammy.

Bryce approaches, watching me steadily. “Do you know what I do on Sundays?” he asks, in a tone so gentle I feel warmth spread through my belly and dull the itch there. I shake my head.

The corner of his lip turns up—his hand grasps mine. “Come on.” He leads me to the bedroom—kissing the back of my head before giving me a gentle push inside. “Get dressed.” I spin on my heels to face him, but he’s already disappearing down the hall.

I don’t really want to go anywhere with him. I want him to hurt me. I want to drive to Baton Rouge. I want my brother. I want my beast back in his cage. Then I want Bryce to hold me and let me cry in his chest as I recover. But I find myself slipping into the same clothes I wore yesterday. By the time I’m dressed, he’s standing in the doorway.

He’s wearing his cut—the sight of it making his appearance one of authority despite the tenderness in his eyes. It’s warm enough out to not need a jacket, but he holds both of ours in his hand. A leather bag is slung over his shoulder.

“Where are we going?” I ask, hugging myself and pinching the very back of my arms. It feels good, and relieves a little bit of the tension coiled tight in my chest. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“Riding.”

My eyes sweep across his body once more—taking in the weathered leather of his cut and dirty patches. “But your bike isn’t here.” I pinch myself again, and this time he steps forward and takes my hand—bringing it to his lips to kiss my palm.

“One of the guys brought it over last night while we were gone. It’s in the shed.” He tugs on my hand. “Come.”

Come.

The way he says the word has heat flashing between my thighs. The moment is fleeting, but it was there. And it felt good—better than pain. But after it’s passed, I become anxious with the confusion, and dig my nails into my palm.

I’m handed a helmet, which I manage to tighten all on my own. He checks it anyway before assisting me on the bike once he’s sure it’s secure. He lifts his leg and slides on the seat, the move fluid and graceful. I lean back against the sissy bar, and can’t help but wonder if he’d put it on just for me.

Loud, rumbling pipes echo around us—vibrating the backs of my thighs and my ass. He leans the bike to lift the kickstand, and my arms fly instinctively around his waist. He smirks at me in the mirror. I’d rode before, but I was shit-faced drunk both times—not caring one way or another if I face planted the asphalt or not.

Fisting his cut in my hands, I press my chest against his back as he steers us down the driveway and onto the asphalt road. After a few minutes, my grip loosens and I relax. I tentatively slide back on the seat and straighten—allowing the sissy bar to support me.

I move with him—my body instinctively trusting him to handle the iron horse as he leans with every curve of the road. The wind feels good in my face. The air is clean, crisp with just a hint of exhaust fumes.

It’s not enough to have me forgetting the incessant urges inside me, the swarm of bees buzzing around my head, or the feel of tiny insects crawling over my skin. But the silence is peaceful, and I find myself enjoying the ride as much as one can in my state.

I have no idea where we are. All I know is that we’ve crossed the highway, only to continue down another country road. The houses are miles apart—few and far between. Herds of cattle and rows of chicken houses are scattered sparsely throughout the rural community.

I hate I can’t enjoy the full experience. But every time I feel myself slipping from my thoughts, and ignoring everything that isn’t the view, reality comes barreling back.

It’s Sunday.

And for the first time in two years, I’m not where I’m supposed to be. As much as I want to hate my mother, I can’t. It’s not in me to hate. Just like it’s not in me to love. But a love for a mother is different. I care about her … worry about her wellbeing.

If I’m not there to give her money, how will she pay her bills? How will she buy groceries? What if she’s sick, or hurt? They don’t even know how to contact me. And if they have a phone, I’m not aware of it. There was no need for them to call and ask me anything. They knew I’d be there on Sunday—just as I always had…just like I thought I always would.

My hands tighten on my thighs. The tips of my fingers curling into my jeans and punishing the flesh. It’s not enough. I need more. I’d pull my hair, but it’s trapped beneath my helmet. Looking down at the rough, gray asphalt as it passes in a blur, I consider what it would feel like to drag my skin across it at our current speed.

A hand on my leg makes me jump, and my eyes shoot to the mirror to find Bryce staring back at me. His full face helmet shields everything but his eyes from view. The sincere gaze locks on mine as his hand rubs up and down my leg—not squeezing or pinching, but slow soft strokes I find comforting, when it should feel irritating.

His hand leaves me as the bike slows, before turning down a small right-away that’s been cleared of timber. Woods line both sides of the path—thick cutover surrounded by a web of trees. I notice several of the trees are marked with orange tape intended for loggers.

I look over Bryce’s shoulder to find a clearing ahead. It’s deep and wide, stretching for thirty or forty yards before another thicket of trees and underbrush continue. As we near, I realize the clearing is a ravine. At the bottom is the river, scattered with huge logs and stones that create several tiny waterfalls.

The moment Bryce cuts the engine, the peaceful sound of flowing water fills my ears. The tranquility alone is powerful enough to drown out the buzz I’ve been hearing all day.

I walk next to him down a narrow, uneven path through the thick woods. It’s a bit of an incline. The movement tames my breathing, but the pressure of everything else still weighs heavy on my chest.

We come to a clearing that overlooks the river. It’s serene, the landscape a portrait of massive trees, flowing water and sandy banks. Bryce climbs over a pile of rocks and takes a seat on a flat, smooth stone that rests at the top. His legs dangle over the sides just above the water. Patting the surface beside him, he motions for me.

“Sit.”

I climb up, stumbling over the jagged rocks, but he grabs my elbow to steady me until I’m seated. Our thighs touch, and the connection burns me through my clothes. I’m so aware of his presence. It makes me uneasy.

“Here.” Smoke swirls around me as he passes me a cigarette. I take it, greedily pulling a drag—inhaling the smoke deep into my lungs, delighting in the slow burn. Damn, I wish I had some weed.

I finish my smoke in silence. No sooner is the butt floating down the river than he’s passing me another one.

“My mama lives in Baton Rouge,” I say, speaking without thought. “Her and my brother. I did have a shitty home life. I was a nuisance to them…a waste of space and nothing more than another mouth to feed in their eyes. And neither ever let me forget it.

“When I was ten, my school contacted child services when I repeatedly showed up covered in bruises. I lied, of course. Even at a young age, I knew what story to tell. But they came anyway. Asked a bunch of questions, scribbled some words in a notebook and left. The next day, my dad left too. My mama blamed me.”

Bryce fingers a lock of my hair, but stays silent. My eyes fixate on the slow-moving current of the river as the memories resurface—bringing with them the same feelings of inadequacy they always do.

“They made me believe it was my fault. Not a day passed that I wasn’t reminded of why we were poor. Why my mama couldn’t have nice things. Why my brother had to play on the neighbor’s swing set. I was abused and it was my fault, because I got caught. ”

Pulling the last drag from the cigarette, I let it singe the tip of my fingers before thumping in the water. Another is lit, waiting for me, and I accept it. Chain smoking is not something I practice, but in this moment, it feels right—much like spilling my dark secrets.

I blow out a puff of smoke and look out over the land. In my peripherals I can see Bryce watching me. “Sometimes I would go weeks without speaking. The darkness was my friend. It was my escape. Then, as always, I’d fuck up and do something stupid. My brother would beat the shit outta me, and I was back to reality.”

I let out a breath of laughter that holds no humor. “So that’s what I do on Sundays. That’s how I cope. I got to Baton Rouge, and provoke my brother until he gets angry enough to hit me. Whether I need it or not, it’s a constant trigger.” I finally turn to face him. His eyes are guarded, giving nothing away. “Now do you see the level of fucked up you’re dealing with? I can’t be fixed, Bryce. This is who I am.”

His finger lingers in my hair as he appraises me silently. His expression unchanging—the monotony of his soft stare calming me.

“I know exactly what I’m dealing with, Love. And like I said before, I know what you need.” His admission makes my body quake. I need a distraction. I need to focus on something other than the way his eyes on me make me feel.