He’d found he was right about that, just wrong about which man.
He’d also found it was him who drove her to that man.
But bottom line, the shit he pulled, the pain he’d landed on her was not right.
Christ, he hadn’t slept in months.
Christ, he could not get the taste of her fear when he’d taken her to them out of his mouth, the sight of his brothers going at her, the feel of his hand wrapped around her neck, the look on her face when she saw the monster in him.
If he kept being a pussy, he could blame that monster on his mother.
If he kept being an asshole, he could blame that monster on his club.
If he kept being a dickhead, he could blame his grief and the knowledge he felt down to his soul that it should have been him who died young, who was wiped from this earth and it wouldn’t be a loss, and not his brother, who was a loss, for bringing out that monster.
But it was him who let that monster free.
So that was all on him.
“Throttle?” Web called.
Wind, Ride, Fire, Free.
Chaos’s motto.
“We gotta have some kind of mission,” he grunted. “We set what we’re about, a name’ll fall outta that.”
“He’s right,” Rainman said.
“Do we need a kinda . . . committee to come up with a mission statement?” Griller asked.
He’d said mission.
Not mission statement.
They weren’t a bank, for fuck’s sake.
Jesus, these guys were lame.
“Throttle, me, Spartan, Eightball, Muzzle on that committee,” Web declared. “Everyone’s got ’til Friday to hand in their ideas.”
Hand in their ideas.
Like it was homework.
Totally lame.
Fuck, if they didn’t know what they were about already, no committee was gonna lay that out for them.
And they didn’t know what they were about.
They had no clue.
With these assholes, this was gonna take a year. They’d bicker about it, end up with some loser name they thought was badass and some statement they thought kicked ass, but didn’t. It’d say nothing, mean less, and they’d all be just as lost as they were when they found the club.
Wind, Ride, Fire, Free.
What did that say?
Everything.
We like to ride.
We like to raise hell.
We are who we are and no one can say dick about it.
We do what we do and no one can stop us.
We stand strong, together, and let no one fuck with us.
Four words.
Back those words up with action, and they said everything.
“We done?” Beck asked.
“Got something to do?” Muzzle asked back.
“Someone,” Pacino snickered.
Beck cut Pacino a look.
Pacino looked away.
Little weasel hadn’t been laid probably in years. Even a shitfaced biker groupie steered clear of that pencil dick.
’Cause the man had a pencil dick and that was known wide (not to mention, he actually looked like a weasel).
He probably laid in bed jacking off to what he made up about Beck getting himself some.
That acid churned deeper in his stomach.
“We’re done, Throttle,” Web said. “Meet on Saturday to discuss the statement?”
Discuss the statement.
He’d wear a suit.
Fuck.
“Yeah,” he grunted.
Web planted his stupid fucking gavel in the table and announced, “Adjourned.”
Beck pushed back, and he was about to get up before his eyes fell on Digger.
Digger was staring at the table like a naked picture of a woman was etched in it.
An ugly one.
Seeing that guy, the way he was and had been for months, Beck’s gut screamed at him.
Something was not right with the man, and it wasn’t about them getting busted doing that transport for Valenzuela. Or getting busted for landing that beatdown on Rosalie. Or half their guys serving time or making deals or court-ordered not to associate with members of Bounty, or whoever the fuck they were.
The guy was a skeeve.
Live and let live. Trying to find his way clear of the expectations of his mother (or her lack of them), that was what Beck had been looking for when he’d searched for what he needed and ended up screwing that pooch and finding Bounty. So that guy, deep into his fifties, drooling over any biker bunny who looked underage, Beck should just let it go.
But underage was underage, man.
You were fifty-five or twenty-five, you waited until that pussy hit majority.
Then you hit it.
Digger had always given him a shiver.
Rosalie had avoided him.
Beck had learned that Rosalie listened to her heart and her head and her gut.
He had no right to take anything from her, not anymore.
But that lesson he was gonna learn.
And Beck had shit he needed to do with these guys. He wouldn’t be anywhere near the fuckers if he didn’t.
Amends needed to be made.
What he’d done, he’d never scrape off The Boy Who Was No Good.
Rosalie didn’t hate him. He made it so he meant so little to her, she’d just moved on from him and didn’t look back.
But if his brother had lived to know what he’d done, he’d never speak to Beck again.
He had to find a way to be able to look at himself in the mirror, and that was not about coming to terms with the scar brother Hound of the Chaos MC had carved into his face after he’d been the man behind laying Rosalie low.
It was about finding a way to live with himself.
Or at least sleep.
He didn’t have time for whatever fucked-up shit that had a perv like Digger acting even weirder.
But his gut was talking.
And he’d learned what it meant when he didn’t listen.
But mostly, he’d learned that even if everyone around him was running one way, if he stopped, fought against the tide and got trampled, that was all right.
Because it would be his choice.
His.
So Beck was going to listen to his gut.
It’d make a nice change.
Beck sat with his back against the headboard, his knees cocked, legs spread, and watched her go down on him.
She wasn’t real good with her mouth.
But she wanted to be, gave it her all, and her mouth had to get tired with all the effort, but she didn’t give up.
All her blonde hair all over his crotch and her pretty face with her eyes closed in concentration, her mouth full of his dick helped.
She eventually got him there and he slid his hand along her cheek and cupped her jaw to share where he was at.
She didn’t like to swallow.
So she slipped him out, jacked him to finish with a tight fist (she was better at that) and he came all over his stomach.
It wasn’t the best orgasm he’d ever had.
But she tried.
When he came down, he saw she was searching his face hopefully.
That hope wasn’t about getting hers.
It was hope she’d given it to him like he liked it.
“C’m’ere, baby,” he murmured.
She crawled up into his lap.
He kissed her as he slid his fingers into the front of her panties and started to finger her clit.
She sighed into his mouth.
It was sweet.
It was also sweet she was shy about getting naked for him.
He could coax her out of her bra but only after he got her in the zone.
Unless he was fucking her, the panties stayed.
It was wild, considering her job was handling costumes, makeup and that kind of shit for Valenzuela’s porn biz. She was around sex and nudity all the time.
Even with that, she had a hint of square in her.
Beck found it cute.
He kissed her, sucked her tits and worked her clit, finger fucking her a little when she got close so he could draw it out, make it more intense.
She went for him and he watched. She was pretty, but she was a lot prettier when he made her come.
She slid her cheek against his, pushed her face in his neck, and against his better judgement and the guard he’d put up to protect her, Beck allowed himself to feel that. Allowed himself to absorb her cuteness. Her lovability. The indication she wanted to be loved. And for once he ignored her aversion to his cum and wrapped his arms around her, held her to him, stroking her back as she came down.