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Dash nodded knowingly. “You got it.” He gave Eight a sly grin. “Don’t keep her out too late now.”
Eight shaped his mouth into something he probably meant to be a similarly playful, but it came off as a snarl. “I got her.”
As the band made its way backstage, greeting fans on the way, Eight pulled Marcella up against him and walked her away from the throng. He must have been making a murder face, because the throng parted for them.
“Where are we going?” she asked as he led them away from the Bulls, too.
“Someplace private. With a door.”
She laughed. “Baby, I’m wearing leather pants, and by now sweat has glued them to my legs. If you want to get dirty, we’re gonna have to wait until after the show.”
He pushed through the kitchen doors, went down a hall and around a corner, found a door marked storage, and tried the knob. It gave, and he pushed her into a small dark room full of shelves full of supplies.
He slammed the door, dragged a stack of boxes in front of it, and pushed her back against a shelf.
“How do you know your way around here so well?”
“I’ve seen you play here four times now.”
“Yeah, but we don’t play in the pantry.”
He grinned. “We also got a new gig here, working security on their bigger shows.”
“You did?” She tried to imagine Luther, the owner of this Greenwood club, thinking a bunch of Southside bikers would make good bouncers here.
A few months ago, she herself wouldn’t have drawn a very thick line between the Brazen Bulls and the white-supremacist shitheads who’d crawled out of their spider holes and back into the light the past few years, but now she knew the family that made up the club, and her opinion was significantly improved—and more nuanced. But Luther didn’t have that same insight.
Then she remembered a brief convo she’d had with the man, after a show, when Eight had been there with her. He’d said he was surprised she’d be with a guy like that, and she’d said something like,you’d be surprised about the Bulls, I think.
Had that little comment made Luther think differently, too?
“We did. I don’t want to talk about work. I want to fuck you.”
As he started snatching at her clothes, Marcella laughed and grabbed his hands. “You know I’m sealed into these damn things, Eight. If we get them off, I’ll never get them back up my legs, and I’ve got another set to play.”
His grin grew sharp. “They don’t have to come down your legs, Marce. Just off your ass.”
“You are not going up my ass in the Azure pantry, Edgar.”
They both stopped at the sound of that name, which she hadn’t used in months, since he’d asked her to stop and she’d cared not to hurt him. She didn’t know why it had come out now, after all this time.
“I’m sorry, babe,” she said at once. “I don’t know why—”
“It’s okay,” he said.
“No, it’s not.”
“Yeah, it is. It sounded different.” This time his smile was soft. “I don’t know why, but it sounded different. Didn’t hurt.”
She put her hand on his face. “Maybe because I love you.”
He covered her hand with his. “Yeah. Maybe that. It’s okay when somebody who loves me says it.” Now his smile became quintessentially Eight Ball. “I still wanna fuck you unconscious right now.”
“And you’re still not going up my ass in the pantry.”
“I hear ya. Trust me, baby.” He opened her fly and peeled her pants and thong off her hips. Turning her, he pushed her to lean over a stack of beer cases. She heard his belt and zipper, and she wondered what he thought they’d accomplish when she could barely spread her—oh.
Actually the sound that flew from her mouth as he sank hard and fast and deep into her pussy was more like UGHGHGNNNNGHGHGH.
