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“Day off, Bou. Quit asking so many fucking questions and grab a drink.” He pointed with his beer.
Bou grinned at me and left. I missed her body on mine immediately as I watched her beautiful ass saunter over to the cooler.
Celt threw an arm over my shoulder. Big fucker, not many could do that so easily.
“Let me intro you to the gang,” he said.
I peeled my eyes away from my woman—
Wait a hot fucking minute. My woman? What the fuck, Wilde? She’s not yours. Can’t be.
I did my best to clear that out of my head and pay attention as we approached the group. Several of the men, leathered and tatted up, stood around the fire, bellowing laughter. A few sat in cheap plastic reclining lawn chairs off to the sides with whores already on their cocks, bobbing or riding. A fucking free-for-all. Nothing new to me, but odd to be in that scene with Bou.
Celt traced my line of sight to the fuckery and then back to Bou.
“She’s all good,” he said with an unsteady nudge. “Ssseen it all. One of the guys mostly. Hell, she’s put every fucking cock here in his goddamn rightful place at one point or another. Fucking prouda my ssstrong sssis.” He emptied his beer.
Cook walked over from the grill, spatula in hand, wearing another one of those goddamn frilly aprons. This one read, “Once you put my meat in your mouth, you’re gonna wanna swallow.” I looked at him sideways, and he gave a hearty laugh as he reached out his hand. “Glad you could make it. Grab a bun. Brats are ready on the grill.”
I held up my hands. “Sorry man. Not into swallowing any kind of man meat.” Flashing a grin, I took a swig of the beer. It was nice—weird, but comfortable—to be kicking back in this kind of setting.
Celt bellowed and clapped me square on the back. “Might just fit in around here, yet.”
I grabbed two brats and slathered them with spicy mustard and sauerkraut. “You do it up nice, Cook. But you need to lose the fucking candy-ass aprons.”
The burly man laughed. “Not a chance, man.”
I palmed the food in one hand, took my beer, and went back to where I belonged, where I needed to be, where—though impossible—I never wanted to fucking leave: Bou’s side.
The evening grew fully dark except for the bonfire, and I clung to the shadows to observe. About a dozen men and half that number of hookers were getting drunker and higher as the fire raged. The smell of marijuana cloyed in the air. Bou never partook and never looked twice at the whores, and I saw in her what Celt had said. Her being one of the men. They gave her the same respect and handshakes as they gave one another. That strength was the singular most cock-hardening thing I’d ever experienced. Yet, oddly, there was a strange surge in my chest. I was about to whisk her away out of the fire and try to relieve a little of the pain that throbbed in my groin when headlights illuminated the hill. Instinctively, I grabbed Bou’s wrist and pulled her behind me.
The truck—the cargo or moving kind—came to a stop and rolled up the tail. Several more women, tits nearly hanging out of their tanks, hopped out of the back. The driver stepped inside and fired up the stereo system. He cranked the volume and Chester Bennington belted out Somewhere I Belong into the foothills. I felt hollow in my midsection as I listened to those lyrics. I pulled my girl in front of me, molded myself around her from behind, and started to sway. God, I had missed the sound of that motherfucker’s voice, and I was going to fry in hell for feeling exactly what he sang as the beer vaguely numbed my senses.
Wanting to rip the accursed clothes from between us, I pressed my cock up against her perfect ass, showing her exactly how much I wanted to get away from this crowd. The noise she made when she felt me made it throb even harder. I let out a low rumble and pressed my lips into the side of her neck then behind her ear. She shivered, and I could smell her arousal. I nipped the soft skin just under her chin and let lust seep into my voice. “Torture. This is... these clothes are... fuck-ing torture.”
She pressed her hips back and grinned devilishly at me over one shoulder.
I pinched her ass.
She squealed.
Fuck! That sound! A-fucking-dorable. I dropped my head backward, lifting my face to the bright stars above with a low groan. I wanted to howl, but I kept my lips pressed tightly together. I wanted her to feel the frustration rumbling through my body, but I didn’t want to alert the entire goddamn party.
A mouse-like, but also hoarse, voice interrupted the building tension. “Wanna make it three?”
I leveled my gaze on the source of that voice, ready to tell her nicely—or maybe not-so-nicely—that this was a two-person game. Violet eyes set deep in hollow dark circles stared at us. The same violet eyes I’d seen once before. The hair on my arms stood on end. No one—not a goddamn person in the fucking world—had natural purple eyes. She wore a blank expression in her sunken cheeks and an angry scar on her jaw. I was back in fucking LA on the night I’d ratted out the AX3. I moved slowly, placing myself between Bou and the cunt who’d imagined she could lead me square into that ambush by Paola’s henchmen at The Diamond.
The whore’s face still seemed to be made of plastic. Business. That’s all she was here for. Fucking business. I knew it in my bones. My upper lip twitched toward a full-on snarl. I scanned her lanky body, looking for somewhere she might be packing. Pockmarks on her arms glowed in the firelight and screamed junky, but her packing anything was impossible with the scraps of material that hung from her bones.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I demanded, searching the others in the crowd for any other familiarity.
“Looking for fun. Just like you.” She folded her bones of arms over her chest as she spoke and finished abruptly with, “Wilde.”
27
Bou
When the whore stepped up to us, something shifted in Wilde, like the hackles going up on a wolf. Whatever the situation, he went on high alert, latched onto my wrist, and pulled me away from that sickly rail.
