Home > Bayonet Scars #2 - Thrash(8)

Bayonet Scars #2 - Thrash(8)
Author: J.C. Emery


“Look who decided to grace us with her presence,” Duke says with a smile on his face. It doesn’t reach his eyes, and sarcasm coats every word.

“Quit being an asshole,” I snap, temporarily forgetting who all’s in the room. Low chuckles sound from around me, egging me on. I place a hand on my hip and jut my chin out. The boys live for this kind of drama in a way the chicks never have. And they have the nerve to say we’re the nosy ones.

“You wanted me here, I’m here.”

“It’s about fucking time you do as you’re told,” he says, standing from his seat. My muscles tense immediately as my temper snaps.

“You’re kidding, right? You disappear for almost two months and now you’re giving me shit when I did nothing wrong?”

“I’ve been here, Nicole,” he says in a deep rumble as he takes several large steps toward me. He stops a few feet in front of me. “I was gone for barely a week, that’s it.” Such bullshit. Just because I haven’t stepped foot on Forsaken property doesn’t mean I don’t know what’s going on with the club. Chel’s kept me updated. Despite the few overnight runs he’s made to Nevada, Duke’s been here, and I’ve been sitting at home like a moron waiting for his ass. No more.

“And when you got back, where the hell have you been since? You sure as hell haven’t been looking for me. How dare you come to my job and start throwing your dick around like I owe you something after you ignored me for almost two months!” My voice raises with every word, to the point that I’m screaming. I can feel myself unraveling at the seams. Every breath comes out more ragged than the last, and the heat from his body, so close and muscular, isn’t helping any. His nearness is sending my hysteria in a whole new direction.

We’re putting on a real show, entertaining most of our audience members, who respond with smiles and laughs. If I were anybody else, or even if I was screaming at anybody else, they wouldn’t be laughing. Lost Girls are the bottom of the totem pole around here and are not to be smarting off to the club. I almost wish they’d punish me for this—maybe even ban me—but they won’t. If they were going to do that, they wouldn’t be finding so much amusement in my freak-out. I’m not that lucky. I’m just glad they’re getting a kick out of this, because I’m sure not. The guys disappear all of the time, and it’s never pissed me off before. I was always just a Lost Girl, and they were the club, and that was cool. We had fun, but Duke claimed me. I played my part, and he hasn’t played his.

“You don’t know shit about shit, woman. You ain’t been around,” he says, closing the distance between us. I hold firm, refusing to cave under the intimidation of his size. Craning my neck, I stare up at him and try not to be distracted by his distinct smell. It’s not his leather or his soap. It’s in his skin and bones and everything that makes Duke who he is. Leaning down, he says coldly, “You got something else to say?”

“Yeah, actually I do,” I say in a huff. “We got rules for a reason. You had your finger in my pussy, and you claimed me. You know the rules because your club makes the rules, so how dare you get on my ass for not being around the club when I was staying away like I’m supposed to!”

“Anything else?” he snaps, his eyes all kinds of wild. I fight the urge to reach up and slap him. Slapping Duke might not get me banned, but it will get me in the kind of trouble I don’t want.

“Oh yeah—who the hell is Princess, huh?” The words fly out of my mouth before I have a chance to think it over and stop them. But it’s too late. Now that I’ve said it, I realize how big of a mistake it was. The entire room goes silent, and Duke’s jaw ticks as his eyes turn very hard, narrowing in the corners.

“My room. Now!” he snaps, taking me by surprise. Despite the sinking feeling in my stomach, I refuse to move. I’m so sick of this shit and playing by his rules—rules he can’t even be bothered to remember exist. I know the rules—I grew up knowing the rules—once you’re claimed you’re not supposed to be partying at the clubhouse unless you came with your man. That way the club avoids any unnecessary drama for the brothers—like Chief—who hook up with Lost Girls on the regular.

“No,” I say. Obviously, this ‘Princess’ chick means something to him if it touches a nerve like this. Why else would the entire room get so quiet? It’s not like it matters. He’ll get bored of her eventually. “Go bother that bitch and leave me the hell alone!”

I turn to leave, but I’m not fast or strong enough to get very far. There’s a scuffle behind me, and some cursing, but I can’t see what’s going on. Duke wraps his muscular arm around my waist and pulls me up against him roughly. Leaning in, he whispers in my ear, “We’re going to get over this privately, or we’re going to do it out here while I make you come. Your choice.”

There’s nothing I can say or do to change his mind or stop this from happening, so instead of fighting it, I just give in. And I feel like the biggest loser for being so angry one minute only to give in like a coward the next. Turning us around, Duke leads us through the crowd of men and the occasional woman and down the hall. On our way out, I see that everybody’s gone back to their previous conversations with the exception of two people: Ryan and Jim. So much alike, courtesy of their genes, the father and son look equally pissed off, and neither moves a muscle. Much too late, I’m starting to get the hint that something I’m unaware of is going on with the club.

It’s a familiar walk down the hall and into Duke’s room. The gray paint on the walls doesn’t look any different now than it did that night, a few months ago, that he led me here for a very different purpose. The lock sounds the same as the door closes behind me. The same stale smell of beer and leather fills my nose, only this time it doesn’t excite me. This time it makes me feel strangely nauseated. The fact that I’m even in this situation is just stupid as fuck—no other way to describe it. I face the outside wall of the room with Duke at my back, refusing to turn around.

I close my eyes for just a moment and picture my dad in his leather cut, his long, dark reddish brown hair hanging over his shoulders. He crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his head just slightly to the side. He says, “Buckle up, Girl.” He was always my rock—the one person who made everything else better and a little less fucked up. He was strong willed and damn mean to those who crossed him. Saying I miss him wouldn’t do it justice.

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