Angelo may have been drunk and angry but reason hadn’t completely deserted him. He spat into the sand. “Never,” he grumbled. Some of his boys murmured in agreement.
Orion was already tired of the whole business. “So are we done with this shit? You and your bitches come inside and have a round on the house.”
Angelo lifted his head slowly. The fire may have gone out of him but he still wouldn’t walk away looking weak.
Grayson took a step forward, spreading his arms wide, recognizing the man’s dilemma. Angelo had hauled his boys and their bikes out here for a reason. It didn’t matter that the reason didn’t exist; he couldn’t just meekly let it go. “What’ll it take?” Grayson asked quietly.
Angelo gave him a grim smile. “Two from my fist and keep standing.”
Grayson glanced back at Orion. The big man nodded. Grayson removed his leather cut and the faded t-shirt underneath, tossing them back to Casper for safe keeping.
“Go,” he said.
The first blow was a stiff uppercut which caught him underneath his left eye. Angelo was a head shorter but outweighed him by a good fifty pounds and he’d been a boxer before his burgeoning gut got in the way. Grayson had to take a step back to stay upright but it was okay. The second punch aimed for his ribs. He’d taken dozens of hits like that clamoring through the teeming mess of Picacho and knew how to stiffen his body and let the muscle bounce it.
Grayson exhaled as his abdomen relaxed and his face swelled. They weren’t too bad as blows went. The Mojave Marauders VP was trying to save face and be fair at the same time. He slapped Grayson on the shoulder good naturedly as he followed Orion into the Riverbottom Bar. “We’re square, kid.”
The tension loosened among the other men and they began to mock the hell out of each other. Casper handed him his clothes back and shook his head with a grin.
Grayson returned the smile but then it fell away a second later when he saw her. She was pushing her way through the broad backs of the men to reach him.
He said her name, “Promise,” trying to keep his voice even to let the girl know it was all right. But she had witnessed everything and wouldn’t be held back.
“Gray,” she whispered, touching the swelling under his eye with one hand while allowing her fingertips to trail across his bare chest with the other. Then she threw her arms around his neck as she had when they danced, only this time it was urgent.
And he groaned as his body instantly responded to the feel of her. She knew it, arching into him. When their mouths met it was the sweetest agony he had ever known. His hands moved all over her with their own plan and she clutched him more tightly. When he lifted her with ease, her legs went around his waist, their mouths still fastened together. As she broke the kiss briefly she looked soulfully into his eyes and whispered a single word.
“Now.”
He carried her back to his trailer as her lips moved tortuously along his neck.
He had told himself that he wouldn’t allow this. He reasoned that the last thing she needed was him. But he hadn’t counted on the fact that her desire was as great as his.
Grayson had to force himself to play gently as he peeled off her clothes and covered her with his mouth, his hands. She moaned, helping him get where he wanted. She touched the rigid outline of his organ tentatively, and then more insistently, as she released the length and held it in her hand while Grayson just about lost his goddamn mind. He had to have her.
Now, she had demanded. And now it would happen.
This, after all, was a dance older than time.
This was how they were meant to be.
PART ONE
“Remember, all men would be tyrants if they could.” -Abigail Adams
“Ditat Deus.” God enriches. -Arizona State Motto
“You are now beyond Hope.” Painted billboard outside Hope, Arizona.
“No man can judge me.” -Words tattooed on Grayson Mercado’s left shoulder.
Chapter One
The dress was beautiful. The women who were to be my sister wives had shopped for it in Phoenix. They’d meant it to be a kindness. The four of them presented the large box to me at my mother’s house the day before the wedding in the presence of my father and the Bishop, who was also my uncle. I accepted it with false gratitude and held it up to my body as they exclaimed over the sight in one voice. It was a lovely material, though plainly patterned with no embellishments. The sleeves were unfashionably long to accommodate the church’s modest requirements but the bodice was fitted and the skirt was full.
My mother brought her small dressing mirror and held it up so that I might see the way my red hair showed a stark contrast to the blindingly white fabric. The satin was soft against my skin and I knew it had to be expensive.