Chapter 2 Temptation at the Clubhouse
Killian’s POV
God, I am fucking bored. If Ramsey whines about wanting to be my Old Lady for even one more minute, I swear I’ll shove this beer bottle right through my own skull just to escape. One decent fuck last weekend and she’s latched on like a barnacle, convinced she’s my girl now. Should’ve listened to Slate when he warned me she was a psycho in heels.
“Ramsey, unless you want me to throttle you, shut the fuck up. You’re a club girl, not my woman. Last weekend was a drunken mistake-should’ve never happened. My Old Lady will never be someone who’s fucked my brothers unless I tell her to, and you’ve screwed most of the club. So, get lost.”
?
She pouts, undeterred. “But Killian, it was so
I let out a sigh, annoyed. “No second
good. Come on, I want more.”
- Not ever.
Go find someone else to cling to.”
She huffs, spins away, and storms toward a table packed with six other club girls-chattering, sipping their drinks, hungry for trouble. Maybe I should just take my bike out for a spin, clear my head. These girls are getting too bold, too desperate. Hell, we need new blood around here; the familiar faces are wearing thin.
I’m halfway to my room, fingers itching for my bike keys, when she walks in. A vision in red. Long, black hair bounces over her shoulders as she glides through the door, every inch of her screaming trouble. Her dress hugs her body-toned, sun-kissed skin and curves that refuse to be ignored. Legs like sin, the kind that beg to be wrapped around a man’s head. Her face is flawless, that red mouth daring any man to say no, eyes sparkling with secrets. She heads for the bar, where Gia breaks into the biggest grin I’ve seen all week, slipping out from behind the counter to pull her into a tight hug. The girl’s back is to me now, and I catch myself groaning under my breath. That ass is a fucking work of art-round, perfect, made for grabbing.
My dick stirs in my jeans. I want to bury myself in that body, get lost and never be found. Gia holds her at arm’s length, giving her an appraising once-over, then shakes her head in mock disapproval. The girl just shoots back a lopsided grin, all mischief and defiance. I wonder what the story is there.
“Hey, Killian.” Blaise’s voice cuts in, deep and cool. The President of the Steel Furies stands beside me, eyes fixed on the new arrival. I recognize that look. He wants her too.
I shoot him a grin. “Dibs.”
His steel-gray eyes flick my way, then he smirks. Blaise’s older, salt-and-pepper hair kept sharp, beard trimmed. The man’s got fifteen years on my thirty-two, but he still draws every woman in the room. “She’s a little young for me,” he rumbles, “but damn, that dress… She’s either looking for trouble or running from it.”
“She’s looking for something,” I say, draining the last of my beer. “And I’m going to be what she finds.” I toss the bottle into the metal trash can, the clang ringing out over the bar’s low hum.
Together we watch her take a seat, spinning on the barstool. She scans the room, talking to Gia, green eyes prowling over the Furies. She pauses at the pool tables. I follow her gaze-Slate, Raptor, and two club girls hold court there. Slate keeps darting glances toward the bar, then back to the game. After a third time, he cracks a rare smile, and-holy shit-he blushes. Slate, the guy built like a mountain, mean as hell, blushing like a teenager. He’s been through more fights than I can count, and yet here he
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is, flustered.
Slate’s face is all hard angles, scars, and busted cartilage. He’s got a scar running from beneath his right eye down to his jaw, blue eyes cold as winter, and hair he keeps in a messy bun. Not the sort of man who blushes easy. I can’t help but laugh.
I glance back to the bar. Gia is grinning so wide she looks like she’s going to burst. The girl has turned to her and said something that has Gia laughing so hard she nearly spills her drink.
I nudge Blaise. “You know who she is?”
He doesn’t look away from the bars
home.”
“What kind of trouble?”
He shrugs. “Didn’t say.’
Gia’s sister. Asked for a pass tonight. Something’s up at
I nod, storing that little detail away. New girl, new problems.
“I’m getting another beer,” I say. “You want one?”
Blaise shakes his head, tension creasing his brow. “Not tonight. I’ve got a meeting. Need a clear head for it.”
He looks…worried. Not his usual calm.
“You good, Sarge?” I ask, watching him closely.
He sighs. “Got any advice for making peace with a woman you’ve screwed things up with?”
I bark a laugh. “Don’t try talking sense until you’ve given her at least three orgasms. After that, women will agree to anything.”
Blaise throws his head back and laughs, the sound rumbling through the bar. “If only it was that easy, Killian. Don’t think she’s letting me anywhere near her bed right now. I really fucked up.’
“Then I’m out of ideas. Relationships aren’t my thing. I’m good at killing and fucking. Love? Not so much.”
“One day, Killian,” Blaise says, voice suddenly heavy, “a woman’s going to come along who makes you want more than a single night.”
I shrug, smirking. “Not likely. Haven’t met a bitch yet who can handle my kind of crazy.”
He grins, eyes suddenly distant. “Maybe not. But maybe one will balance it.”
“You getting philosophical on me now, Sarge?”
Blaise shrugs with that wry smile of his. “Well, I double major in psychology and law before I jump into this life twenty years back. Sometimes, I even manage to sound like I know what I’m talking about.”
His dry wisdom draws a low laugh out of me. The world thinks of bikers as nothing but wild outlaws, but with the Steel Furies, most of us are anything but uneducated. More than half the chapter carries college degrees-Business, Economics, Physics-hell, two of us are actual doctors. Our President and our VP. Medic, our Vice President, is a full-fledged MD, which earned him the name.
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Plenty of these men grow up in the lap of privilege, in families with legacies to protect and reputations to uphold. But most of us run from all that, refusing to be shaped by our bloodlines. Blaise is living proof. He spends years following the script his parents hand him-until they try to force him into a marriage with a woman he doesn’t love. That’s when he breaks free. He walks out, rides west, and pledges himself to the Lords’ original mother chapter. When they look to expand, Blaise volunteers, eager to build something of his own. His reputation earns him a chapter in New York-his city, his
rules.
I’m no college boy, never have been. I take the hard road: ten years as a Marine, eat sand, dodge death, take a bullet to the chest that nearly ends me. The Corps gives me an honorable discharge, and I drift until one night in a dingy bar I cross paths with Blaise. Six guys from the Mayhem Crew corner him while his brothers are outside, ready to ride. He’s fighting off three, fists flying, and the other three are closing in. That’s when I step in-snap a beer bottle, drop them before they know what hit them. By the time Blaise handles his share, mine are bleeding on the floor. Sirens wail in the distance. He grabs me, throws me onto his bike, and I ride with him into the night. The rest, as they say, is history.
For four years now, I’ve been the club’s Fixer-the man they call when someone crosses the line. Exiled members, traitors, anyone who knows too much and can’t be trusted. I make sure they pay for their betrayal. That’s how I come to be called Killian. Around here, it’s just another way of saying “Rest In Peace.” Once the club exiles you, I’m the last face you see.
“I’ll stick to my one-and-done policy,” I say, the old defense back in my
voice.
Blaise grins. “You do you, Killy. But when that one girl comes along and has you twisted in knots, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Maybe I’ll have some advice, if I ever get my own shit sorted.” He claps my shoulder, then disappears toward his office, leaving me in the thick of noise and temptation.
I turn, eyes sweeping the room just in time to watch the girl at the bar slam back three shots in quick succession. The bold set of her jaw, the way her lips linger on the glass-she’s not here to play it safe. I can feel the pull, the moment sharpening. It’s time to make my move.
Xx
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