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Marcella didn’t reply. Love was a strong word to use for what was growing between her and Eight. It hadn’t been so long ago that her prevailing emotion at any thought of the guy was anger. But if she were honest with herself, she’d admit that the way she’d felt lately was creeping into love territory.
Another good reason to take things slow.
~oOo~
The party was in full swing when Marcella arrived, with music blaring and lights blazing, and it took her a while to find a place to park. She had to walk almost the full length of the block, and by the time she arrived at the plain black door with the angry bull painted on it and a sign above it reading BRAZEN BULLS MC, she was intimidated.
There were a lot of rough-looking men loitering around the Bulls compound, and they all got an eyeful of her as she passed.
She made a living playing in honky-tonks and blues bars, most of which weren’t exactly located in the neighborhoods of the rich and famous, or frequented by the people who lived in such neighborhoods. She knew how to handle herself around roughnecks. But tonight, she felt different. More vulnerable.
However, none of those guys touched her or accosted her in any way. A few made suggestive comments, but nothing foul. Along the lines ofHey pretty mama. She gave them all a long-ago perfected smile, friendly but not inviting, and moved on.
The door was closed, but Marcella didn’t try to knock. Not only would it be highly unlikely for anyone to hear her over the music—Stevie Ray Vaughn’s ‘Dirty Pool,’ nice—but it was a party, and she didn’t figure bikers to be big on social niceties. She went straight in.
Inside was the chaos of a very large party. The room was huge and had the garish brightness of way too many lights—in the ceiling, on the walls, and about ten thousand Christmas lights, multicolor and white bulbs both, draped around the ceiling and wrapped around support beams. Some people were dancing to the very loud music, but most were trying to talk over it.
The people themselves were … interesting. She’d expected to see a lot of men in kuttes, and she did, but only about half the guys she saw were MC, and not all of them were Bulls. Even the guys without kuttes looked like bikers, for the most part.
Something that surprised her: it was a pretty diverse crowd. There were a lot of Black people here, in fact. Only a few wore kuttes, but she’d say about a third, maybe more, of the partiers were people of color. It was a diverse neighborhood, but she had not expected a diverse crowd here. That was cool.
But the women … huh.
Biker babes. She knew this. She should have expected it. Butdamn, there were a whole lot of young, nubile, scantily clad women, and they were draped over these men like scarves. What the fuck. Eight had said most of his ‘brothers’ were family men. What were all these bimbos doing here?
Marcella had tried to dress like a biker’s girlfriend. She wore red leather pants, high-heeled black boots, and a red and gold brocade vest for a top. Over that ensemble, she had her trusty leather jacket, biker style. She’d done her makeup like she’d be onstage. For jewelry, she wore her hammered gold cuff choker and big gold hoop earrings.
She was overdressed. Apparently, she should have worn a thong and pasties.
And where was Eight in the midst of Caligula’s house party? Sitting at the bar, grinning at a skinny little chick who looked like she’d had her ass surgically implanted on her chest. Said skinny chick was leaning on Eight, her arms crossed on his shoulder so those huge titties hugged his bicep like a hotdog bun.
Aw,hellno.
Pushing through the dense crowd, Marcella made a beeline, ready to rip open Eight’s asshole and pour lye straight in.
He saw her coming and grinned, then pushed Hotdog Bun off. “Hey, baby.”
“Who. The fuck. Is she?” Marcella gave Hotdog Bun the most withering look she could muster.
The girl, who’d showed signs of fight when Marcella asked her question, shrank a little in the heat of Marcella’s glare.
“Get lost, Heidi,” Eight said. The girl gave him one quick look, which he missed, since his attention was on Marcella. Then she disappeared.
Eight reached for Marcella, but she batted his hand away. “What thefuck, Eight?”
“Nothin’ was goin’ on, Marce. We were talking.”
“She’d all but climbed up on your lap!” Because Marcella wouldn’t let him get close, they were yelling to be heard over the music, and she sensed people near them starting to pay attention.
Eight sensed it, too. He grabbed her arm and yanked, pulling her close, brooking no resistance. At her ear, he said in a growl, “Calm down. She’s a sweetbutt. They’re here to serve us. But I haven’t fucked anybody but you since before we started hooking up again.”
She didn’t like the way he’d said that—hooking up was different from what they were doing now—and shehatedbeing told to calm down, but she focused on the more important part. He really was being faithful.
And that made her feel a little bit guilty.
During rehearsals and now the production of the video, while she and Dash were making out and simulating sex and she was trying and failing not to notice his erection—or her own response—she’d been telling herself that she didn’t need to feel guilty because it was just work. And that was true.
The thing with Dash was awkward, but it wasn’t a big deal. They were tight friends, they’d dated, until recently they’d still been each other’s occasional booty call, but there was no deep attraction between them. Lines were getting a bit blurry with the video, yes, but only in physicality, not emotion. She was invested in making it work with Eight.
