Page 2 of Fame
And all that renders any of my dreams and plans for my future as null as the lives of the turncoats who thought they could make a power grab against my father by selling me into the trafficking ring Shaw’s club has been busy dismantling for months now.
When I first came here, I wanted to believe part of Shaw’s commitment to putting an end to everyone involved in the human trafficking organization that set up shop in his hometown had something to do with keeping me safe. He certainly dove in zealously to go after them. My foolish, naïve heart put him on a pedestal. I told myself he must feel the same chemistry arcing between us, the need to orbit as close to one another as possible that only comes from meeting one’s soul mate.
Foolish heart, believing chemistry exists for men like Shaw. For men like my father, who lead criminal organizations and suck up power the way a vacuum inhales dust. Months have passed, and Shaw’s made it clear I’m nothing but a pain-in-his-ass obligation, and he’s counting the days ’til he can be well rid of me.
“Give me the machine, LeeLee. You know better. The pakhan will shit kittens if he finds out I allowed you to play with a tattoo rig.” He softens his voice and calls me by the childish nickname he only uses when he’s sweet talking me to get his way. With effort, I harden my heart and lock the lid on my aching obsession for this man, who sees me as an annoying child.
“No, Shaw. I’ll be keeping this. I used my very own money to buy it, so you can’t take it away from me.” I sweep a hand over the table, pulling the fake skin, pots of ink and stencils close. Ink splashes onto the wooden tabletop, but I ignore it. If Shaw cares so much about it, he’s free to wipe it up later.
Without relaxing my hold on the tattoo machine, I nudge everything into the plastic bin the stencil starter kit came in. I tuck the box under my arm and cross my arms with the machine blocked by my other bicep. Nearly everything I have in this compound has been given to me by the generosity of the Ghost Born MC, though I know my father’s rewarding them richly for their care. This stuff, though… This stuff I bought using money Frankie gave me to thank me for all the help I’ve been giving her with Baby Teeny.
It’s mine, and not even Shaw can make me give it up. He and my father think I’ll obediently slide into the future they expect for me. I think they’ve both got another thing coming. I’m Amaliya Balakin, and I’m no man’s chattel.
CHAPTER 3
FAME
“Maybe I don’t know a lot about women, but I know you just fucked up.” There’s gruff censure in Arlo’s voice, and I can’t help the way it gets my back up.
If any swinging dick in this compound has less experience dealing with problematic females than me, it’s Arlo the fucking near virgin. The dude was so anti-woman until the instant he laid eyes on Frankie he never even got his dick wet before her. Suddenly, he thinks he’s a relationship expert because he’s got a woman and she’s happy.
Arlo saved her from a piece of shit who tried to sell her and her baby, and now, she lives in a veritable Fort Knox being worshipped by a man who only just discovered the pleasures of the flesh. Of course, she’s happy. Big deal. He’s not the guru of pussy.
“Way to state the obvious, asshole.” I glare at the back of his head, because the fucker’s digging around the fridge as if he thinks he might find a portal to another dimension in there.
“You think you’ll get tired of constantly fucking up shit at some point? I mean, not that it isn’t a good time watching the fireworks between you two, but at some point…” Arlo trails off, his attention already ensnared by whatever leftovers he’s noticed in the back of the refrigerator.
“There’s no fireworks. None. There’s me trying to keep the daughter of our very powerful, very criminal, very unpredictable ally’s daughter safe while you chuckle fucks do… Shit, I don’t even know what it is you all do to help.”
“Fuck off, Shaw. No need to be a jerk to me because you can’t manage to go a whole day without pissing off people.”
“I wouldn’t have to be a jerk if you idiots would listen once in a while. Chain of command means fuck all to you people.”
I’m being an asshole, but there’s no help for it. This is absolutely not what Konrad and I signed on for when we separated from the military and rushed home. I figured we’d be here for a year or two, maximum, until Ace turned eighteen and got his feet under him. Instead, there’s a whole motorcycle club family that was built around the idea of pulling us all together to protect the kid.
A kid who stomps and pouts around the compound as if he hates all of us most of the time. But he’s not a minor anymore. He’s nineteen, and judging by the way his man, Gunner, sticks to him like glue, he no longer needs Kon or me. Of course, Konrad’s got Blue and Grey now. They’re a young guy and girl he pulled from a cage during one of the black hat jobs he got stuck doing for the government, a quid pro quo for us to get guardianship of Ace all those years ago.
There’s no way he’ll go back to a soldier’s life now, not that I blame him. I hate the idea of going back without him, but more and more, I feel as if there’s no reason for me to be here. This business with the trafficking ring is nearly wrapped up, and when it does, Anatoly should be ready to bring Amaliya home safely. Once that happens, the last thing tying me to this place will be gone.
Arlo finishes loading up his arms with plastic containers of leftovers from the last few nights of Blakely’s cooking. He passes me on his way out of the kitchen without bothering to look at me a single time. No respect whatsoever.
This is the stuff I’ll never adjust to. In the service, there are rules. Protocols. Everybody knows who’s in charge, and they know how to follow commands. For the bulk of my adult life, that’s what I’ve known. Listening to the higher ups above me and passing directives down to those below me with the expectation they’ll be followed.
Is it a perfect system? Of fucking course not. But it’s the one I fit into. These days Ghost Born runs more like a roomful of kindergartners on a sugar high than an MC with a set hierarchy.
Following Arlo from the kitchen, I turn right to go to my office. He continues to the stairs up to his room where Frankie and the baby likely wait. I don’t begrudge any of my brothers the happiness they’ve found. We’ve all been through enough trauma and shit to deserve any bit of peace findable on this earth. That doesn’t mean I want to stick around and have my face rubbed in all the ways I haven’t found any happiness of my own.
If there’s a pull of regret in my chest thinking about LeeLee and how battling with her bratty self energizes me, I ignore it. Amaliya Balakin is not for me. No matter how I might wish forit, there’s no way I could survive the violence Anatoly would happily rain down on me if I put my worthless hands on his princess.
The only reasonable thing for me to do is wrap up this bullshit with the trafficking ring then return Amaliya to her father. I know my old commanding officer will find a place for me on the teams. It’s where I belong. Where I fit.
CHAPTER 4
LEELEE
If Shaw had any idea the way sound conducts from the room he uses as an office into the guest bedroom above it, he’d blow a gasket. I’ve overheard so much stuff he doesn’t want me to be aware of. And yeah, maybe, I listen at the grate over the floor vent a little closer than I ought to. Any girl in my position would.
Being the daughter of a man like Anatoly Balakin, I learned early on that information is currency. And currency is power.
