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She cleared her throat. “Talk to me about the other women.”
Now he felt sick. He stood up straight and would have backed up, but she hooked her hands around his kutte and held him in place.
“Other women?”
“The other women here. Not the wives. Like the one who was on you earlier. What did you call her?”
“Heidi?” Aw, hell. This couldn’t be good.
“Okay. You called her something else, too.”
He was getting on the same page, but it looked like a nail-biter. “Sweetbutt.”
“Fuck’s sake, Eight. Really?”
“I didn’t make it up. That’s what they’re called.” It was pretty damn clear he wouldn’t be getting Marcella over to the sofa anytime soon.
“Does your office have lighting?” she asked.
Eight reached over and flipped the switch. The fluorescent in the middle of the ceiling flickered on. Marcella blinked and slipped out from between him and the door.
“Dear lord, this is a mess.”
“It’s an office.”
“That’s one word for it, I suppose.” She saw the sofa. “Dare I ask how much bodily fluid that upholstery has soaked up?”
“I don’t bring sweetbutts into my office.” He couldn’t speak for what Becker, who’d put that sofa in here, might have done on it with Sage, but he thought it was fairly clean. He’d had an idea to put that into question now, but Marcella was obviously in the mood to talk.
She went over, sat down, and patted the cushion beside her.
So he was going to get her to the sofa after all—but he doubted they’d be doing what he’d hoped they be doing. He sat beside her, stretching his arm behind her on the top of the sofa.
“What do you want to know about sweetbutts?”
“How many of the women here have you fucked?”
Shit. Really? “Do you really want that answer?”
“Yes.”
He could see in her eyes that she did, but also that she was afraid of it. He considered lying. It would be so fucking easy to tell her what she wanted to hear. But if she was going to be with him, with his family, in this clubhouse, where everybody gossiped like old ladies over a garden fence, she’d hear the truth eventually, and then he’d have a very angry woman on his hands.
So he said, “Most of them.”
She swallowed and nodded. “How recently?”
“A few months back. I told you it’s only been you since before we hooked up again.”
“I fucking hate you saying it like that. We’re not hooking up, Eight. Not this time.”
She was right. He hadn’t thought about what the phrase meant, beyond having sex. But it was too casual for what they were now doing. “Sorry. But it’s only been you, Marce.”
“These women … these … nope, can’t say that stupid word. They’re around all the time? To service the Bulls?”
“They don’t live here. They hang out in the evenings. Not during the week too often, but some are around every weekend for sure. And everybody’s on deck for a party. We have one girl in charge of the others. There’s a roster and shit. It’s pretty organized.”
He’d hoped that would ease her mind, but he’d been wrong. She lifted a single eyebrow and gave him her deadly side-eye. “So … they’re prostitutes?”
