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So, yeah, the sweet butts were limited to the Fury members without an ol’ lady. That meant they were down to only six: Rev, Easy, Dutch, Dodge, Ozzy and Whip.
And right now, Rev wasn’t in the mood to do anything with any of them. Even if he was, he wasn’t sure he’d want to do it in front of Reilly. If she saw him doing a sweet butt, would she get bent and take off to find some random dick out there and revenge-bang him?
Jesus fuck.
He ground a hand back and forth over his mouth, trying to stifle another loud curse.
This fucking run couldn’t be over soon enough. If he wouldn’t be ridden until his ass was chapped, he’d peel off and go get lost somewhere with booze and a bong. Then when he woke up from his damn stupor, it would be time to go to work and everything would be back to the way it was before…
He barked out a painful laugh and Easy frowned at him.
“You okay, brother?” E shouted over the wind and the roar of their exhaust.
No, he wasn’t fucking okay.
Unless something changed, he was starting to wonder if he’d ever be okay again.
Especially since shortly after they got back to the farm and while getting ready to party for the evening, he spotted Trip and Deacon taking Reilly into the barn and up to the executive meeting room upstairs.
Rev’s asshole had never been so tightly puckered in his life than at that sight.
Reilly’s heart thumped so loudly in her ears, she could hardly hear what Trip was saying as he and Deacon escorted her into The Barn and upstairs to where the club officers had their meetings.
She’d only been up there a couple of times. It was rare any women went upstairs and into their “sacred” room that held the heavy scent of testosterone in the air. Unless, of course, they needed to grab something from the storage area that was tucked between the meeting room and the two apartments on the backside of the bunkhouse.
The heavy, rectangular table that sat in the middle of the space had the BFMC logo carved into the top. Whoever had hand carved it had skills. The table was worn and parts of the wood were nicked and stained since the table was as old as the club. And not the current Blood Fury old, but the Originals old since it had belonged to them. She wouldn’t be surprised if the guys had lifted their legs to mark it like the dogs they could be. The chair at the end, where Trip currently sat as president, was the same chair his father Buck, the former president, had used.
Deacon, who Reilly also considered her ol’ man-in-law, yanked out an empty chair along the side and jerked his chin toward it. “Sit down.”
“What’s this about?” Her pulse was now throbbing at her temples so hard, they could probably see it.
Trip, wearing his ever-present black ball cap pulled low, tipped his head toward the chair. “Sit. Got somethin’ important to discuss with you.”
Should she drop to her knees right where she stood and beg for leniency for Rev? Blame everything on herself? Tell them she forced him?
Throw herself at their mercy?
Offer to take his place for the blanket party?
He didn’t deserve whatever they would do to him. It was all her fault. She never should’ve insisted on going along.
She—
“Sit down, Reilly,” Trip ordered more firmly.
Shit.
“It’s not what you think,” she began weakly as she moved to where Deacon stood behind the pulled-out chair. As she sat, the club’s treasurer rounded the table and settled in the chair to Trip’s right, directly across the wide table from her.
She was afraid to look her sister’s ol’ man in the eye. If she did, she just might start confessing everything in hopes to spare Rev.
“What ain’t?” Trip asked with a small shake of his head.
“What you think. It isn’t what you think.”
“What the fuck you talkin’ about, Lee?” Deacon asked, his brow now wrinkled.
“Why you brought me up here. Whatever you think is wrong. It’s not what you think.” Holy shit. She was babbling like a damn fool.
Late one night, she had stumbled across a documentary on police interrogation and she needed to take a page out of that book. She should just sit down, shut up and let them do all the talking. Then she should either say nothing or simply flat out deny everything.
That sounded like a plan.
If that didn’t work, she’d go back to her original plan of throwing herself at their mercy and begging for Rev to be spared.
“What fuckin’ drugs have you done?” Trip asked, frowning. “You’re actin’ crazy.”
Deacon snorted. “When has she ever been normal?”
Like he should talk. “None. I… Wait. Why did you bring me up here?”
“Fuck that. Now I wanna know why you got all paranoid,” Trip said, pinning his dark eyes on her. “What the fuck d’you need to tell us?”
