Freya was not like those other bitches. Because she didn’t fucking come. And it drove me crazy. I was close to crushing the glass of whisky in my hand, sitting in the corner, the music thumping, women dancing, people fucking. None of it even penetrated.
I didn’t go to her again, though. My resolve stayed.
For now.
Chapter Three
Three Weeks Later
FREYA
I was making a mistake.
That much was clear as I parked my car in the lot of the Sons of Templar clubhouse. I’d almost turned around when I’d stopped at the gates and a young badass wearing a prospect cut had stopped me to ask me my business. I’d almost put on a confused face and asked him for directions, told him that I was an Uber driver… anything to get me out of here and safely back home.
But the problem was, I didn’t feel safe at home. Not anymore. Not after what had just happened at the grocery store. Or, more aptly, in the grocery store parking lot.
Going to the police wasn’t an option. It wasn’t smart, getting the law involved in the Sons of Templar’s business. Plus, I was pretty sure that the Sons owned the cops here, so even if I had gone to them, it wouldn’t have done any good. And I sensed things would’ve gotten even worse for me then. My knowledge of the Sons of Templar had been pretty sparse before I’d inadvertently gotten tangled up with them.
These past months, I’d subtly—or not at all subtly—pumped the girls at work for all kinds of information about the infamous Sons of Templar.
What I’d learned didn’t exactly make me feel better about somehow being attached to them, even though it was against my will.
“You can do this, Freya,” I whispered, gripping the steering wheel and looking over to the clubhouse.
The parking lot was relatively empty, which I assumed was normal considering it was four in the afternoon on a Thursday. There was a garage to my left which was apparently the best in town, a garage I hadn’t used to get my car serviced because I’d heard about all of the mechanics and how they were members of the club. How they were sex on a stick and that most of them were single. And I also had it on good authority that they were life-changing in bed.
Trouble for me.
I had a weakness for attractive men who knew how to fuck. My past meant I had a very complicated relationship with sex. Through a lot of therapy, I’d become as right with it as I ever would be. I was a sexual being. An extremely sexual being. I loved sex, and in almost every relationship I’d been in, I’d wanted it more than the man. It had played havoc on my self-esteem for a while, thinking there was something wrong with me, that I was bad in bed or that men could sense that there was something wrong with me, deep in my bones.
Until Carlos, a short-lived fling when I’d gone on vacation on my own to Puerto Rico. He’d shown me there was nothing at all wrong with my appetite for sex and showed me how much he appreciated it.
It seemed that the majority of men—or the majority of the men I’d dated—loved to pretend they were these testosterone-filled sex maniacs, but most were too lazy, too insecure or too ... whatever to do the legwork. So to speak.
I hadn’t found another man like Carlos. Not as attractive, sexual, selfless and gorgeous as that man. I’d seen the Sons around, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to control myself around them—especially since I’d gone without sex for the longest time in recorded history these past few months—and the Sons of Templar would lead me down a dark path.
But despite going to a mechanic in the next town over, I’d found myself here anyway.
Before I could lose my nerve, I got out of the car, my heels clicking on the concrete. There was a low hum of music filtering across the parking lot, coming from the garage bays. I didn’t look over there, though I felt the eyes of whoever was working there on me as I walked.
The Sons’ clubhouse wasn’t exactly imposing, but I felt myself being swallowed in its shadow as my shaking hand fastened around the door handle.
The first thing I noticed was the smell. Large parts of me figured it would smell like leather, sex, body odor and cheap whisky. Maybe gunpowder too and the blood from whoever they’d been torturing that day. My imagination had run wild, turning them into violent villains.
But it smelled faintly of disinfectant, lemon scented. The good kind, I knew because I was definitely a Monica when it came to cleaning; I’d tried all of the different cleaners on the market, searching for one that did the job, didn’t burn my lungs as I used it, that wasn’t terrible for the environment, and gave off that beautiful ‘clean smell’ that didn’t clash with my scented candles.