Page 17 of Contracted to the Bikers

Jessy beams, furiously scribbling away as soon as he hands the paper back. Jessy’s half-eaten plate of food now sits forgotten as she loses herself in the project. Boone watches over her shoulder, quietly making suggestions and offering help.

Sloane watches them too, and she has that look again. With Boone, it goes deeper than just approval. She trusts him. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does because Boone didn’t have to work for it. She doesn’t fight him or push back; the same goes for Cruz. They slip past her defenses like they were never there.

Meanwhile, I get teeth—every damn time. I drag a hand over my jaw and lean back further in my chair, watching the whole thing play out like it has nothing to do with me, like it doesn’t bother me. But it does. I can’t stop thinking about Sloane since she walked in here and agreed to be mine like meant nothing. She thought she could reduce this place and our customs to paperwork and terms. She thinks she’s my old lady in name only. For now, I’ll let her believe that. But she’s mine. I’ll happily share her with Cruz and Boone if that’s what it takes; it wouldn’t be the first time. I have to claim her to make her my old lady in every way that counts, or it will kill me.

I watch the way she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she reads, the way her fingers pause over the keyboard when Jessy laughs, the way her shoulders relax just a fraction in this room she swore she wouldn’t belong in.

Frustration and attraction bubble up inside me as they always do when I’m near her. It’s almost like a physical ache, an itch I can’t scratch. I try to avoid her, but I can’t, always finding myself drawn into her orbit until I crash into her and we collide. I want to taste her, to peel off that armor and see the softness underneath, to make her scream my name and beg me for more. I want her so badly it hurts, but underneath the physical desire, there’s something softer, something that I haven’t fully accepted yet. All I know is that I want that look she gives them, and I hate that I don’t get it. Not yet.

***

Later, the noise has died down, and the lights are dim, I’m in my room, not sleeping, because I don’t sleep until late. I’m staring at nothing in particular when I hear it. The sound is soft at first, like the mewling of a kitten, then sharper. I realize with a start that it’s Jessy crying, and I’m on my feet before I think about it.

Her door is cracked open when I get there, the room bathed in the soft green glow of her nightlight. Jessy curls into herself, blanket twisted around her legs, breath coming too fast as she moans out in her nightmare. I don’t hesitate or think; I act on instinct. I sit on the edge of the bed, reach for the first thing on the nightstand, one of her books, and start reading. I don’t want to wake her too abruptly and frighten her further. Waking to the sight of me in her room might be worse than a nightmare, but I can’t leave her like this, and I can’t bring myself to face Sloane’s barbs. I speak softly and steadily, hoping the story will pierce through the nightmare, soothe her subconscious, and give her a life raft to cling to.

Gradually, her breathing slows, and her fingers uncurl from the blanket. Encouraged, I keep reading page after page, until she settles and the tension leaves her small body. The room feels quiet again, peaceful. I close the book but don’t move right away. I’ll give it a minute to make sure. Fast asleep like this, she’s so vulnerable, so small, I feel a pang of anger at whoever tried to hurt this innocent child and the overwhelming desire to keep her safe. “You’re safe, you’re always safe with us,” I whisper, perhaps trying to reassure myself more than her.

The air shifts, and I feel the presence of someone in the doorway. I look up to see Sloane standing, watching. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, she just stands there, half-shadowed in the hall, like she doesn’t want to interrupt something she doesn’t quite understand.

For a second, neither of us moves, suspended in disbelief, before there’s a shift between us, it’s subtle but real. I get up and slowly walk toward Sloane. She doesn’t back up, not this time.

“She’s fine,” I murmur.

“I know.” Her voice is quiet, less sharp and guarded than normal. Then she adds, “Thank you.”

It hits me harder than anything she’s thrown at me all week. Have I finally gotten what the others have found so easily? We stand there a second longer than necessary. Then I nod once and walk past her. If I don’t leave now, I’m not entirely sure what I’ll do. I don’t want to spoil the one peaceful moment we’ve had, as much as I want to pull her into my arms and kiss those soft lips.

Chapter 7

Sloane

The longer I’m here, the more insane I swear I’m going. Perhaps it’s stress, or maybe it’s just been so long since I’ve been living around men that my sex drive has been kicked into overdrive. That must surely be the only logical explanation as to why I feel like a nymphomaniac at a porn convention. Maybe it’s because I have excess energy I need to burn off. I used to run every morning before work, but now Rook says it isn’t safe for me to run outside, so I’ve been forced to use the treadmill in the clubhouse gym, which isn’t the same.

I’ve been having dreams as well. In them, I’m having all kinds of crazy, wild sex that I’ve never even imagined myself doing before, let alone acted on. The worst part is, it’s not just about one guy. Rook, Cruz, and Boone are the starring attractions in my nightly porno screening.

Yes, they are all attractive. I can’t deny that I find them all attractive in different ways. But surely, I shouldn’t be having these kinds of dreams? Dreams that are slowly bleeding into daytime fantasies that leave me touching myself to thoughts of having sex with all three of them at once, cumming harder and quicker than ever before. I feel like I can’t trust myself to be around them in case I lose control and throw myself at them, which would, of course, be humiliating when they turned me down. Or worse, one of them might say yes, and then I’d be in the exact same position I would be in if I had let Rook remove that towel the other day.

It’s just a fantasy, I know that, but it’s getting out of control.

I’m sure that it’s simply because I overheard a conversation the other night in the restroom that has somehow inspired these fever dreams, worming its way into my subconscious. Two of the women who hang around the clubhouse were talking about how Rook, Boone, and Cruz used to like sharing one woman between them, and wondering if they were all sharing me now that I’m Rook’s old lady, or if Cruz and Boone were still up for grabs.

I couldn’t help but feel a small pang of satisfaction when I heard them say that, apparently, since my arrival, all three men haven’t shown interest in hooking up. Then one girl lamented Rook being off the market and said some bitchy things about me, at which point I walked out of the stall, enjoying the look of horror on their faces as I sailed past, head held high. Rook was right, to these people, being someone’s old lady means something, and the women have been falling over themselves to please me ever since, perhaps scared of what might happen if I told Rook.

I force my attention back to the screen in front of me. Whether the guys enjoy sharing a woman or not is irrelevant. It isn’t going to happen, so I shouldn’t waste time thinking about it. Still, my mind wanders. How does a set up like that even work?

A knock at my door startles me, and I sit bolt upright as if caught doing something illicit. “Come in.” My voice sounds flustered, and I breathe a sigh of relief when Cruz walks in.

“I brought you some food, I knew you wouldn’t have eaten yet,” he says. He’s right, I haven’t, to my surprise, I’ve long missed lunch. He walks over and places a sandwich on my desk, balancing it on the one free corner of space.

“Did Jessy—”

Cruz answers my question before I can finish it. “Yep, Cindy made lunch for us all earlier. Boone’s entertaining her now.” A flash of guilt runs through me when I realize I’ve barely seen my daughter today. Cindy’s one of the club girls—girl is probably not the best word as she’s in her late thirties—and she’s become like an auntie to Jessy. But however much Jessy likes them and however good they are to her, she needs her mom. Cruz must see the emotion in my expression as he asks, “Is everything okay? You seem different lately. You’ve been distracted the past few days.”

That’s one way to put it. If only he knew why. I opt for the more obvious answer. “Just work, and everything else is getting to me, I guess. I shouldn’t be leaving Jessy with you all so much.”

Cruz shrugs, casual as always, though he is more serious than normal. “Jessy’s a doll, we enjoy it. As for work, maybe you should give yourself a bit more downtime, or let us help more. That’s why you came to us, isn’t it? I know we don’t have legal knowledge, but we could at least share our intel on who is working for Escar. He’s in jail, so he has to have people he ordered to handle you. If we work together, we might find them quicker.”

Rook has said more or less the same thing, but somehow, coming from Cruz, it doesn’t feel like an accusation. “I guess,” I agree slowly. He does have a point.