CHAPTER TWELVE
*Lace*
Warmth makes me fuzzy from head to toe. The drug comes in waves. A giddy tenderness fills my body one teasing crash at a time. Yet still, I can look at Stoney and hate him. Knee bouncing, I control the urge to get chatty about any and everything. My throat practically squeaks from the need to talk about the marks on the desk, the picture on the wall, the color of the cum-stained pillows, the motorcycle rally, the weather. I will talk about anything to anyone except him. Give me an ear, and my chin will wag.
Stoney laughs, and my wide-eyed focus darts to his face from the entertaining bright, vivid light blinking on the digital clock. Words I had done so well to keep, spill. “Kal looks just like you. Younger though. Of course. Kal is pretty. You know? Like ruggedly handsome. But in a pretty way.” The main difference is that Stoney wears a Rolling Stones cut, and Kal wears a Hell for Leather jacket. “You even have the same green eyes. Similar bronze hair. How is your hair not gray yet?”
Oh my stars. Make it stop.
The ecstasy Stoney gave me takes on its full purpose, and my hands inadvertently rub along my thighs slowly, reactive to the mental imagery of just how damn sexy Kal is. Sensitive palms slipping over my seductive leather and lace leggings, that mental fantasy morphs to include Coty. Gritting my teeth, I clench my thighs together.
“Good genes, I suppose.” Stoney leans forward, snapping my attention back to reality. Propping his elbows on the desk, he flashes me a very Kaldon-like grin and says, “Tell me all about it, sugar. While you’re at it, go ahead and explain why the fuck they’re coming in early.”
So that’s why he called me in here. Stoney is using me to antagonize his son. Stupid, stupid Lace. Jess was right. The outlaws are whispering. Why now, though? Kal and the guys have kept their distance, only coming in during Bike Week as agreed. Pretty sure allowing Hell for Leather that one extension is the nicest thing Stoney has ever done for his son.
Apparently there’s a timer attached to said visits, though, and this season, the clock is still on zero.
“Spit it out! I know that pretty little head of yours is fucking chatting up a storm. Shit happens every time they come down here. They’re fucking earning their wages in my territory, I know it!” he hollers.
The Rolling Stones sell drugs and women. Everyone who’s anyone knows that. Meanwhile, Hell for Leather is making their own mark in the dark web of the motorcycle scene. Neither Stoney nor anyone else can figure out where or in what way, though. Myself included.
“I have no clue.” My eyes spring open wide, and I lean forward and whisper conspiratorially, “Maybe they just really like Bike Week.”
I do know one thing: what Stoney said is true. Shit happens every time they come down here.
Stoney spears upward and bounds toward me so fast I have no time to react in defense. His hand comes to my face, and he pushes my body against the length of the couch. Before, if I had known what was coming, perhaps I could have prevented it. This time, I am already too messed up to fight back. Stoney performs a replay, forcing a second pill down my throat, holding me still until I can do nothing else but swallow or have it disintegrate in my esophagus. “Now get the fuck out of my office,” he unceremoniously states afterward.
The fact that Stoney is still taking things easy on me is incredibly interesting. Considering. Looks an awful lot like he is trying to avoid playing hardball with his son. He knows I serve Kal and his club every time they travel here. Pay the most, and you get top choice. Hell for Leather makes it rain, and they choose me. Every time. Since I work at Tit for Tat Saloon, Stoney obviously gets a cut. Stoney must not be ready to give up that bonus yet. Hurt me too much, he hurts his wallet. Plus, he is only part owner. Far as I am aware, Kal is still a joint owner of this establishment. Begrudgingly.
Itching to move and unwilling to test my uneducated assumptions where the ever-growing Rolling Stones and Hell for Leather rivalry is concerned, I shoot to my feet and hustle out of his office, only to come to a screeching halt at the end of the hallway, momentarily forgetting where I am and what I’m supposed to be doing.
Slinking along the walls, I head toward the back to gather my wits, freshen up a bit, and change into my stage outfit.
The dressing room is quiet; all the dancers are on the floor making temporary friends. I plop down in front of my favorite Hollywood-lights vanity and lean in close to my reflection. High as the Universe. This shift is going to fly. I pull back a little and tilt my head forward, fingering the line of contrasting dark brown at my part that is long overdue for a blonde-bombshell touch up. Super classy.
My eyes focus on the reflection over my shoulder into the dark room. The outline of a person nearly shocks me senseless. Jess stands there, eyes dazed and body lethargic. I jump up, rush over to her, wrap one hand around her head to nestle her against the crook of my neck, and slip my opposite fingers around the pill bottle that’s dangling from her limp fingers.
“Oh, hun,” I whisper into her hair. Jess has been one blowjob away from going mad for a long time. My hand slowly lifts the bottle into my peripheral so I can figure out just how much I need to worry. Oxy. I tip the bottle to look through the opaque orange container and verify the size and shape. Two different pill types are in there. Both opiate variants.
Her arms slowly wrap around my waist, but there isn’t much strength in the squeeze. “Thanks for helpin’,” she whispers.
I step back and toss the pill bottle into my weekend bag. Her hands drop to her sides again. “You look hot with cock shoved in your mouth.” I try dark humor on for size, waggling my brows at her.
She gives me a lazy smile, but then scrunches up her nose. “I’m tired, Lace.”
“I imagine. You just popped one too many pills.”
Her scrunched face loosens and lips curve downward.
I step forward again, curl the hair around her ear, and drop the false comedy. “I know, hun. I know what you mean.”
Me too.