CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
*Lace*
“Have you ever been sexually involved with someone?” I ask Zane, twisting my fingers into his locks again. His hair, all curly at the top and buzzed on the sides, rivals Chaz’s long tresses though I would never dare outwardly admit that to Chaz.
Right now, in this precarious state, I could play with these ringlets all night. Maybe it will be enough to distract me from thinking about fucking so much.
A mental image of his head between my thighs flashes to life, and I squeeze my eyes shut tight, trying to keep my thoughts under control.
This is all wrong.
In order to think clearly while servicing a new initiate, I used to plan my substance use around their arrival. Only when everyone was happy and taken care of would I lose myself in the haze of a high. This time, everything is backward; I am trying to help a very skittish initiate while floating with the stars.
Nevertheless, I think Zane is plenty distracted enough now with the scene alone. The overwhelming newness of everything going on combined with the anxiety med is enough to keep his mind off whatever was bothering him when they stepped through the door.
He never answered my question, and for that reason my thoughts got carried away. But not the throb between my legs, so I nudge again because his answer is incredibly important moving forward: “Zane?”
Here in a second, I might have to take advantage of my new position in this club and seek out a little assistance with my own needs if he continues to ignore me. “I need you to answer me,” I whisper, dipping my head into his sightline.
His sweaty hand opens and closes against my ass. “N-no.”
“None at all, hm? What in the world are ya doing with Hell for Leather?” Chuckling and shaking my head, after a short pause, I wave my hand in the air. “You don’t have to answer that.” Though, come to think of it, maybe Zane will be the one to let slip what they do, exactly.
I have my assumptions as to which way their extracurricular activities lean. Blood is almost always involved, and a psychosis-lust usually piggybacks all that blood. The slip from Kio earlier added weight to my assumptions. I have no clue whose blood they draw, though, and whether or not there are any common denominators with each assignment.
These guys are incredibly smart. There is no doubt in my mind that they realize I’ve pieced a few things together over the years. One romp at a time.
Even still, I know they won’t straight out tell me. Revealing such information to anyone outside of the club is much too big of a risk, regardless of trust. Risky for them and for me. If word gets out that I know too many things, it makes me a target. Should the people HFL piss off decide to retaliate, they could use me against them.
The situation is a tricky one, because call me crazy, but I am 100 percent done with intentional ignorance. As much as I adore these men, I have to protect myself, and knowledge is power.
Kal’s words ring through my mind. “Did you honestly think that you would just coast through life growing up in a whore house without ever becoming a contracted whore?” Well did he honestly think that I serviced them so easily, so openly, in the beginning because I wanted to? No. Hell no. I did it to protect myself. They are a motorcycle gang! They do shady shit! And do not get me started on the Rolling Stones: Sex trafficking. Rape. Drugs.
Come on.
Yes, I caught feelings, but that came later. Even so, that never changed my self-preservation instinct, and today, what little bit of leverage I had was reduced significantly.
The time has come for me to find out what they do — past, present, and future — and tuck that knowledge away for a rainy day.
I palm my forehead and let out an aggravated “Ugh!”
Zane jerks.
Damn, what a pair the two of us are right now, both zoned out.
“Okay, time for us to snap out of this floatiness, hm? Let’s see here. Which is worse: us providing each other mutual pleasure tonight, or you doing whatever it was that you did today to officially earn your patches?”
His gaze sharpens. I probably shouldn’t have brought his mind back to what happened, but if he doesn’t work through it at least a little — something to normalize this new lifestyle — he will spiral. “Both are wrong, I guess.” Coming from him, the response is unsurprising.
I move to get off his lap so we can go somewhere where there aren’t so many distractions — like Coty being a creeper in the shadows, for instance. But when I start to sling my leg off, the hand on my ass tightens.
My focus pops to his, and I grin. “I’m not leaving you, Fawn. I was thinking we could go back into the other room. The ambient lighting and intimacy helps combat the noise.” I tap on my head. Not sound noise, but thought noise.
Trying again, I move my leg away from him a little slower. This time he lets me get up. I cup our hands together, lead him into the private dance area, pick a chair, and guide him down into it. The lights are dimmer in here, but the music volume is the same. At least the din from the club conversations going on throughout the main portion of the saloon has lessened. That, along with the number of eyes on us.
Deciding to start dancing without his permission, I ease into it along with the conversation, watchful for any cues that might lead me to believe he wants me to stop. I stand behind him, place my hands on his shoulders, and push my palms down over his chest and back up again nice and slow, bending down to whisper in his ear. “You know what I think?” I ask, dragging one of my hands across his broad shoulders until I’m facing him and can drop it down his front, past his stomach, over his thigh, and to his knee.
“Hm?” he responds, breath coming in shallow chuffs.