Deeds bites down on my earlobe.“Nope.Not happening,” he mutters against my skin.
I pull back, scowling.“Why not?”
“Because.”
“Because?”
He gives me a pointed look.“Because I said so.”
I roll my eyes in irritation.Technically, I’m what the Greenbacks consider a clubpiece—meant to be shared.I open my mouth to say this, but it will instigate a fight, and the fallout isn’t worth it.Deeds temper, once triggered, is unpredictable.
On the flip side, he is a potent drug when relaxed or happy, one I love to indulge in from time to time.If we get into it over this petty shit, then I can kiss tonight’s fun goodbye.
Deeds—Deckerto his mama,Sonny Boyto a few of the old-timer Greenbacks he grew up both fearing and idolizing—is more than just nice to look at.He has a wealth of muscle, tight abs, freckled shoulders, and porn-worthy biceps, riddled with colorful tattoos.He doesn’t share the full lilt of his father’s Irish accent, but speaks Gaelic on occasion.He uses it to seduce me, which is like wildfire to my pussy.
A definite perk to our friends-with-benefits situation.
He’s like an Irish James Dean, if James Dean were taller, more built, and had long, dark-auburn hair.
“You gonna take me out, Gypsy Girl, and wrap those sweet lips around me, or let me fuck you?”
I let an evil grin slip onto my lips.Because fuck him if he thinks I’ll go down that easily tonight.Instead, I run my fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp, using his weakness against him.He groans, and his body goes boneless under my ministrations.He melts back into the couch, his head kicking back in pleasure.
He pierces me with a smoldering stare as he murmurs, “I swear to God, you’re a witch.”
I close the distance between our mouths.The scent of Jameson on his lips amps up my need to taste him.“You love it, so don’t play like you don’t.You want a villain at night and an angel in the morning.”
His cock jumps beneath me at my taunt, and in the next instant, he grips my jaw and pulls me into a kiss that’s damn near abusive, stealing all thoughts from my head.
A chorus of shouts pulls me out of the force of nature that is Decker Pierce.The noise comes from a dozen or so bikers funneling in from the lobby.
The newcomers are a mixed bag—men of all shapes and sizes.They blend in with the Greenbacks easily, but their jackets, their “colors,” tell me they’re not another chapter—they’re another club entirely.
A few head toward the Greenbacks at the bar.Half a dozen break off to join the party in the main lounge area.Hugs are exchanged, backs slapped, and some kisses given by the old-timers.
Something about the man-on-man action sends small tingles through my body, making me question if I’m a big voyeur or just turned on by anything taboo.Maybe a little of both.
Pappy, aka Dean Pierce, leader and President of the Greenbacks and Deeds’s father, is one of them.He grabs an older blond man, smushes his cheeks, and plants a big kiss straight on his lips.The other man sputters, laughs, and pushes him off, before they throw their arms around each other and sidle up to the bar.
Honestly, it’s the most I’ve ever seen Pappy smile.Usually, he’s all doom and gloom and murderous deadpan stares.
A guy breaks off from the group, one with bright-red hair speckled with grays, and a long, wiry beard.He heads straight for us.When he arrives, he addresses Deeds with no fanfare.“You gonna kindly remove the scorchin’ hot bunny from your lap and greet your uncle properly?”He flashes me a sexy smile.“Sorry, darlin’, but I need a hug from this here little shit.”
Deeds laughs heartily.He quickly removes me from his lap and gets to his feet.“Who you callin’ a little shit, old man?I’m twenty-nine, or is that old brain of yours already losin’ time?”
“Hardy-har-har, little fucker.I see your old man hasn’t beatin’ that smart mouth outta ya.”
Deeds hugs him and slaps his uncle’s shoulder as he draws back.“Lord knows he tried.But no.Got plenty of it for when your old ass finally shows up and when Mom tries to set me up with a”—he uses air quotes as he says—“nice girl.”This has me sharing a conspirator’s grin with Deeds because his mother’s matchmaking schemes are legendary.
When the man turns, I get a good look at the club’s insignia on the back of his jacket.It reads, “Harbingers of Chaos” across the top rocker and “New Mexico” across the bottom.
I vaguely recall Deeds mentioning the HOCs, but in my mind, it had beenHawks,not anabbreviated name for the club.And, if I’m remembering correctly, Deeds’s uncle was a founding member of the Greenbacks.Due to some kind of rift, he and another founder split, and they started their own club.
It’s surprising because most MCs don’t have an exit door.Not unless you count the one that leads six feet under.Men like these don’t fuck around when it comes to protecting their secrets.
The insignia, the larger patch on the back of his leather cut, depicts a demented skull sitting between ragged wings, with arrows shooting out in all directions.
Wings and arrows.
