Reign Page 7

  Bitch was under my skin and I knew it. And Cash knew it. And it was a problem.

  “Then why the fuck you all gung-ho to start a fucking war, man?” he asked, grabbing my arm, dragging me down the hall of bedrooms, past two bitches sucking face, and into my room.

  My room was where I brought my bitches. Big California king bed, black sheets, dark gray walls. A dresser with some changes of clothes. Flatscreen. A bathroom off the side. Nothing special. Streamlined. Sterile almost. Because it wasn't home. It was a fuckpad. It was where I crashed when I tied on one too many to drive back to my place.

  Cash slammed the door, leaning against it, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “I ain't going to war. This is just on me.” I paused, shaking my head at his anger. “She told me some of her story, man,” I told him, sitting down on the edge of my bed. “Just a small fucking part of it. She was cryin' tellin' me. They fucking tortured her. Beat her until she couldn't stand. Starved her. Threatened to rape her.”

  “This is V. This shit is nothing new,” Cash said, shrugging. Sometimes, not often, but every once in a while, Cash could be the coldest fuck you've ever met. This was one of those times. Gone was the brother everyone knew- charming, funny, laid- back, womanizing. This was Cash, the criminal. And he was ice.

  “Her father is an importer,” I said, dropping the bomb.

  All I got was a raised brow. “He's trying to scare her father into giving him access to the containers,” he guessed.

  “Yeah.”

  “To ship in girls.”

  “Yeah.”

  Cash bit down on the inside of his cheek, a habit he did when he was thinking, a tell he had when he played poker. His eyes cut back to mine, his voice low and hollow when he said, “You sure you want to do this? Think long and think hard. V has been trading skin since Pops was in charge here. You know that. I know that. Dad certainly knew that. This is not new fucking information. Going against him with the entire club behind you would be risky. Going after him alone is a fucking suicide mission.”

  I knew what I was asking him to accept. And I knew why he needed to remind me. That's why he was VP. Not because of blood obligation. But because he was the only one strong enough to stand up to me when he thought I needed it. And then back the fuck down and do his job when I gave him the go, regardless of his personal feelings.

  That being said, he was still my brother. And he thought I was being reckless. And he wasn't going to give in easily.

  The burden of power didn't rest easy on my shoulders. I wasn't dumb or careless enough to always believe I was right. I fucked up. I made bad decisions. But, ultimately, those decisions were mine to make. I had to do that. And I had to deal with the consequences. No one else knew how heavy that hung.

  So I couldn't ask them to get behind me on a personal vendetta.

  My teeth clenched together when I looked at him.

  “She. Fucking. Screams.”

  Cash's eyes flashed and he sighed, running a hand across the shaved side of his head. “So he has to pay.”

  “He has to pay.”

  “When are you telling the men?”

  “I'm not. They don't need to know this.”

  “Reign...”

  I knew that voice. The 'you're being an idiot' voice.

  “They don't need to know this. They know this, they'll want in and I'm not bringing another war on them. The new guys might not remember, but the last war cost us huge. It cost us Pops, man.”

  Cash ducked his head, nodding. “And now you're asking me to let you go ahead and get yourself killed. Think of the club, man.”

  “I die, the club has you. Case closed. But I ain't dying so stop worrying like a woman over it.”

  He sighed and his mouth opened, wanting to say more, before he closed it again. “So what the fuck we doing up here gabbing like bitches then?” he asked, giving me one of his lazy, easy grins. “There is whiskey and pussy down the hall and I got a taste for both,” he said, wrenching the door open. “Ever lick whiskey off pussy, man?” he asked casually, walking back down the hall. “Fucking heaven.”

  Cash was back.

  And there was nothing standing between him and his booze or his bitches. So I let him go, standing back against the bar, nursing my whiskey.

  “Hey, Prez,” Wolf said, moving to stand next to me. Wolf was a huge wall of a man. My height, but solid. He ran into a brick wall, the wall moved. He was a few years older than me, his brown hair kept in some obnoxious undercut style with a massive, but carefully groomed beard. His honey-light eyes caught mine and held. “What's going on?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  “Hear things?”

  “Feel it,” I half lied.

  “When you need me,” Wolf said, tipping his beer at me.

  Wolf was a quiet fuck. Never had more than five words to rub together at a time, but he was as loyal as they came. And he was his own brand of ruthless that came in handy in a lot of operations.

  “I know, man. Appreciate it.”

  “Need a bitch?” he asked, no doubt sensing my sour mood.

  I needed the bitch back at my house. In my bed. Holding my gun that I had shoved at her and told her how to use it just in case. I needed her. But I wasn't gonna get her.

  “Yeah,” I said, throwing back my drink.

  Fuck it.

  Eleven

  Summer

  He left me.

  I spent a full day with my 'ass planted on his bed' watching endless hours of television and falling asleep out of pure boredom. I only went out once, to use the bathroom and shower. And there he was with his 'ass planted on the couch', wide awake, staring out the backdoor into the yard. He didn't so much as glance my way.

  He didn't offer me food and I didn't ask.

  I had already eaten enough to hold me over for a week.

  He didn't come in to change or sleep in his own bed.

  I smelled coffee in the morning, but I didn't go out to grab any. I heard him downstairs, the chain on the punching bag clang, clang, clanging away for the better part of an hour. Then he came up and showered. Then I found myself wondering what he was wearing since his clothes were in the bedroom and he hadn't come in.

  I got a strong mental picture of him walking around naked and I didn't exactly push that thought away. Okay. I kinda relished in the thought for a few minutes. Alright. Maybe like half an hour. But no one would blame me. Knowing how good that man looked shirtless, one could only assume he was good looking everywhere.

  I wasn't a man-crazy girl. Before V, before I was taken, before everything... I worked long hours and then made a lot of time for girlfriends. Shopping. Socializing. Coffee dates. Midnight margaritas on Thursdays. Pedicures on Sundays. I kept my time full. But very rarely with men. I dated casually when someone acceptable showed interest. But it usually didn't get very far. I had three relationships. And by “relationships” I mean we dated for an appropriate amount of time and then became exclusive and then had sex.

  I wasn't a fling girl.

  And I wasn't a girl who drooled over the opposite sex.

  But I was drooling.

  And I didn't understand it.

  Maybe it was because he swept in all badass Prince Charming and saved me. Which was sort-of the truth. Even if his brand of saving came with threats of war and disappearing me.

  Whatever the hell it was, it would pass.

  Whatever my weird infatuation was, it would pass.

  It wasn't like Reign No-Last-Name was a suitable choice for me.

  Far from.

  And I was ever practical about things like intimacy.

  So it would pass.

  I hoped.

  And then around seven o'clock, after literally not a peep all day and half of the day before, he walked down the hall.

  I felt my heart skip into overdrive as I frantically made sure my hair was an alluring kind of wild not the 'I rolled around in bed for an entire day and now birds could lay eggs in my hair' kind of wi
ld.

  Then he was in the doorway. Dressed. And I mean dressed. Black jeans, black tee, boots, and his cut. He also had a nasty looking gun in his hand.

  “I have to go to the compound,” he said as if it explained why he was approaching me with a gun.

  I felt myself scramble up on the bed, slamming my back up against the headboard as he sat down on the mattress by my legs.

  “I said I wasn't going to hurt you,” he reminded me, holding up the gun by the side. “I'm going out and Cash has to go with me so I have to leave you alone. No one knows about this place but me and Cash. No one. So you won't have a problem. But for my peace of mind, I'm not leavin' you defenseless. I'm guessin' you ain't never used a gun before.”

  “No,” I said, settling back into a more normal position.

  He popped out the magazine, then pushed it back in, giving me a second to see the very shiny, very lethal golden bullets. “This is a Glock 19. Lotta cops use this. It's light but it might be wide for your little hands,” he said, showing me the back of it. “It's loaded so you leave it on the nightstand unless you think there's trouble. If you think there's trouble, you pull this safety and you wrap your hands around the handle and you take your pointer finger and you lay it against the gun. You do not,” he paused. “Look at me,” he commanded and my eyes rose. “You do not put your finger on the trigger until you actually see a threat, understand? Finger stays on the gun so you don't accidentally fuckin' shoot me. You see a threat, you point for mid-body, you pull the trigger. And you keep fuckin' shooting until they go down.”

  “Okay,” I found myself saying though I was pretty damn sure I would never be able to pick up the gun, let alone shoot someone with it.

  Somehow, he picked up on that. He pulled the magazine and moved to grab my hand. “It's not loaded,” he reminded me, shoving the gun into my right hand. “Now show me how I told you to hold it.”

  He was right. It was lighter than I thought a gun would be. But maybe that was only because the bullets weren't in it. I picked it up, wrapping three fingers around the handle, my thumb across the back, and my forefinger laying down the length of the side.

  “Good,” he said, getting off the bed and moving back toward the door. “Now aim it at me.”

  “What?”

  “Babe, need to know you won't aim for my chest and hit my foot. Aim it at me.” So I did. “Lower,” he told me, and I lowered it slightly. “There. That's where you shoot,” he said, nodding, making his way back toward me. He took the gun, loaded it, then handed it back to me. “Pick it up and point it toward the door. Now how do you pull the safety?” he asked, and I demonstrated. “Good. After that it's just wrapping your finger on the trigger and pulling. That's it. Got it?”

  “Got it,” I agreed, putting the safety back on and placing the gun on the nightstand. “So you're leaving.”

  “Just a couple hours. Wouldn't go if I didn't have to. You'll be fine.”

  And with that, he got up, walked out of the bedroom, slammed the front door, and rumbled off.

  I jumped out of the bed, following my hunger toward the kitchen, rummaging around for whatever supplies Cash had dropped the day before.

  And I found a lot of dude food. Chips and glass jars of dips. Peanut butter and jelly. White bread. Boxes of cereal. With a shrug, I made a cup of coffee, grabbed a soda along with a bag of Doritos and a bag of corn chips and both dips: the salsa kind and the cheesy kind. I had been living on food I wouldn't have fed a dog for three months, I deserved to shamelessly eat junk food in bed on a Friday night.

  So I did.

  Then eleven rolled around. Twelve. One. Two. Three.

  Still no Reign.

  And then I heard it.

  Awake and more than slightly freaked out about being alone, I had the TV down super low. And I heard it. Footsteps. But I hadn't heard a car or bike. There had been nothing. But there were footsteps. And then there was the front door closing. And then the footsteps were in the house.

  My heart flew into my throat as I scrambled out from under the blankets and flew down onto the floor beside the bed. Then, realizing how girly and stupid a reaction that was when there was someone potentially coming in to drag me the fuck back to V, I stood up, grabbed the gun, pulled the safety, spread my legs wide, and aimed, my finger laying across the gun like I was told to.

  And thank god it wasn't on the trigger.

  Because not a second later, there was Reign. In the bedroom doorway.

  His head jerked up. Seeing me, his brow quirked, a smirk toyed with his lips. “Hey babe.”

  “You're drunk,” I accused, still holding the gun aimed at his chest. My insides were starting to feel shaky from all the unnecessary adrenaline. But on top of that, I was pissed. He made me almost fucking pee myself in fear because he was too drunk to fucking think of announcing himself when he walked in the door?

  “Yep,” he agreed, still watching me, still looking amused.

  And then it wasn't just my insides shaking. My arms were shaking so bad the gun could barely stay in focus. “You scared me,” I accused.

  “Baby...” he said, his voice dropping. He moved forward, wholly unconcerned about a shaking woman holding a loaded gun pointed at him. He got closer, clamping a hand on the top of the gun and pushing it downward before taking it from my hand, putting the safety back on, and putting it down on the nightstand.

  “I didn't hear your bike and then there were footsteps...”

  “Couldn't drive,” he shrugged. Close up, I could see why. Well, no. I could smell why. He reeked of alcohol.

  “Couldn't say it was you? You just let me have a fucking panic attack thinking someone was here?”

  “Wasn't my brightest plan,” he agreed.

  “You could have...” the rest of my argument got muffled against the material of his shirt as he pulled me forward and wrapped his arms around me. And damn if I didn't melt right into him again, my arms going across his lower back as his stroked up my spine and into my hair.

  “Won't do it again,” he murmured and I felt his warm breath on my hair.

  I nodded, relaxing into him, feeling my wobbly insides settle. I took a deep breath, expecting to inhale Reign: soap and man and the barest hint of manly detergent. But that wasn't what I got. What I got was smoke. And alcohol. And... perfume.

  Perfume.

  I felt myself straighten immediately, stiffening, my arms falling from around him.

  “What's up?” he asked, squeezing me and suddenly I wanted him off of me. Away from me.

  “You need a shower,” I said, jerking away. My eyes fell as I stepped away from him, crawling back in the bed. “You stink of smoke and booze and perfume,” I snapped, reaching for the remote and turning the volume back up.

  I could feel his gaze on me for a long minute before he stepped away, walking over to the dresser, grabbing sweatpants, and going into the hall. The bathroom door shut and the shower water turned on.

  And I drowned my very strange, very unwelcome feelings of jealousy in half a bag of Doritos smothered in cheesy dip.

  Because jealousy was ridiculous. It was so ridiculous that they needed a new word for how ridiculous it was. He wasn't mine. He wasn't even close to mine. He was a random guy who did something nice for me. So what he kissed me? He was the hottest guy in five states wide, he probably kissed every half-bangable babe he crossed paths with. I wasn't special. I was just ready lips in close proximity to his.

  Augh.

  I was so stupid.

  The shower stopped, the door opened, there was fiddling in the kitchen, and then I heard footsteps coming closer. Like, as in, he was coming back to the bedroom.

  I kept my eyes on the TV, eating even though I felt ready to burst.

  “Doritos in cold salsa con queso sauce?” He asked, putting his coffee cup on his nightstand.

  “Dip,” I corrected, my tone a little snippy.

  “What?”

  “It's dip, not sauce.”

  I could practical
ly feel the eyebrow lift I was getting. Couldn't see it because I was refusing to look at him.

  “What's got your panties in a bunch?”

  Oh, the asshole.

  Who asked women things like that?

  “Nothing.”

  “Really? 'Cause you're acting like I'm some lazy house husband who forgot to rinse out his beer cans before he recycled them.”

  “Trust me,” I said, my voice cold, “you have no effect on my panties, Reign.”

  That was the wrong thing to say.

  Like... really wrong.

  Like... he saw it as some kind of challenge wrong.

  Because he was coming toward me, around the bed, sitting down by my hip. “I have no effect on your panties, huh?”

  “Nope.” Aside from the fact that anytime he got within five feet of me, I was turned on as all-get-out for no good reason.

  “You're sure about that?” he asked, his voice dipping even lower than usual, the sound feeling like it slipped under my skin and reverberated against all my internal organs. His hand moved outward, stroking up my thigh, slipping slightly inward as he rounded my hip. And I should have pushed him off. I really should have. But I was too busy watching his big, beat up, scarred hand move over my pants, slide up toward the waistband, but not slip under. No, he stroked across my belly, sending a shock of wetness between my legs. As if sensing it, his hand moved downward, pressing hard between my thighs, making me arch up against him, and a throaty gasp to escape my lips. “No, no effect at all,” he said, giving me a grin that would have just... melted my panties if I didn't get a very clear flash of him doing what he was doing to me to another woman. Just hours before.

  And I was definitely not that girl.

  The girl who was okay with that.

  I jerked upright. “You want me,” I started, making my eyes hold his even though the heat there made me want to lay back and tell him to take me, “you don't come to me with hands heavy with the scent of other women,” I snapped, swinging my legs off the bed and storming toward the door.

  I half expected him to follow me, to argue with me, or try to change my mind. But he didn't. I took myself out to the couch and settled in, staring at the empty fireplace until I finally passed out.