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“Eagle.” There is a little plea in her voice when she says my name and the zipper of my jeans suddenly feels uncomfortably tight around my cock. Lacey Mercer is not my type.
Ah fuck, forget that. She’s every man’s type. Every man with eyes, at least.
What I should say is she’s way, way out of my league.
She’s tall but wears sky-high heels that show off bare legs that I’d love to see wrapped around my shoulders. The tight bun at the nape of her neck gives off a sexy librarian vibe, but those eyes... Those eyes were made for fucking. I can’t count the number of times I’ve imagined those eyes staring up at me while her lips wrap around my cock.
My boss may be all business, but she has a body I’d kill to fuck. The tight skirts she wears can’t hide her generous ass, an ass I want in my hands, on my face, bouncing on my lap. I’ve strained my vision so many times trying to peek at her tits behind those boring-ass blouses, I’m surprised I don’t need glasses.
She turns that chocolate gaze on me and crosses her arms over the nearly sheer white blouse, which only makes me that much more aware of the hell of a nice rack she’s got buttoned down under the gauzy fabric.
I should not be noticing her tits, but fuck, I’m a man, and Lacey Mercer is smokin’ hot. Even if she is an icy bitch and my boss. When my name slips between her full, pink lips again, my blood heats and I have to think about grandmas, knitting, and other dick-softening images.
Thankfully, a second later, there’s whoop at the door and a familiar voice breaks the tension. “Hey, asshole!”
I hear the heavy stomp of boots and then my brother’s meaty fist punches me in the ribs.
Lacey gives us a stare, then lets out a sigh and looks from me to my brother from the MC.
“Brute, good morning. Thank you for coming. You’re right on time.” Her voice is composed and cold. I immediately miss the sound of her almost begging my name even if she was only talking about work. She motions toward the tailor lady and then back to us. “Gentlemen,” she says formally, a term that always makes me want to bust a nut laughing.
We aren’t gentlemen. We’re bikers—or I guess we were. Since the MC’s gone clean, we do a lot less drinkin’, fightin’, and fuckin’ than I’d like.
I miss the old days.
The days before Morris got himself an old lady and became a dad two times over. Before our club president found out he had a grown daughter and welcomed in a whole new generation of his family and became a fucking granddaddy.
These days the Disciples are basically a social club—not a biker gang. But they are still my family. My life.
All of my brothers have gone mostly legit. I’m the one who still hasn’t found my footing. Maybe it’s my age—more likely, it’s my attitude—but this old dog isn’t about new tricks.Working security at posh hotels is a far cry from busting heads in bars for fun, but I do get to threaten rowdy rich dickheads every once in a while. And I get paid a shit-ton more than I can believe for standing around looking mean, which I don’t even have to try to do. Sometimes the venue or the happy couple tosses in a meal and drinks on top of the pay. Not a bad gig for a motherfucker with no special skills except riding and making trouble.
Brute barks a laugh, but then flicks a serious look at Lacey. “What’s this all about? We in some kind of trouble?” He shrugs.
“I already asked.” I shrug. “Appears not.”
“For once,” Brute mutters, and I am about to start laughing when I see the tense look on Lacey’s face.
“Go on, then,” I say, meeting Lacey’s eyes. “You convince Brute, and you got me too.”
“Convince me? Of what?” Brute looks at the seamstress lady, then frowns. “What’d I miss?”
I point to the clothing rack that has several garment bags hanging on it. “We’re about to get the Cinderella special,” I tell him.
He looks confused, and just as he opens his mouth to curse somebody out, Lacey sighs.
“The wedding this weekend,” she says, her voice catching just enough that I notice it. “The bride and groom have requested that even our security staff wear formalwear.” She puts on a bright smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and waves at the Margaret woman. “They’ve covered the costs. We just need to get you fitted.”
Brute isn’t even sitting yet, and he turns on a heel and heads toward the door. “Nope. Not me. I’m out.”
I stand to leave with him, but one look back at the slight tremble of Lacey’s lower lip, and I stop dead. She doesn’t look like she’s about to cry—she looks vulnerable. Like if she says what’s really on her mind, her careful mask will melt like an ice sculpture left out in the Florida sun.
“Yo, asshole. Hold up a sec.” I nod at Brute, then turn back to Lacey. “Why the uniform now?” I press.
Brute and I have worked dozens of these events. Weddings, bar mitzvahs, reunions, holiday parties. The Lantana is an exclusive, expensive place. The kind of place you don’t want to wipe your mouth on the napkins cause they’re white silk or some shit.
I go more for the neon beer sign, varnished tables, and sticky floor vibe. But the gardens are beautiful, and they have a massive man-made pond with koi and swans that they fix up for fancy parties. Apparently, their insurance requires on-site security staff to make sure no one gets too drunk and takes a dunk. It’s never been a problem so far, but I’ve helped plenty of old ladies out of their chairs over the last couple years. There’s absolutely nothing about this job I can’t do while wearing a decent suit.
I nod at Lacey. “Isn’t it some kind of safety risk to have us all dolled up?” I ask. “What if I got to beat a guy down? That thing got any give to it?”
