Angels and Ashes (Heaven's Rejects MC Book 2) (19 page)

Double fuck.

I catch myself nearly licking my lips along with a creeping blush flaring on my cheeks as he saunters over to me. I don’t know why those V muscles are so hot, but I’m starting to think that V stands for vagina fire starters. Jesus, I just want to run my tongue across them.

Get ahold of yourself, woman. He’s just a man with a nice body. Well, a really nice body. Fuck, the best body you’ve ever seen. Goddamnit. This isn’t helping.

A shit-eating grin forms on his face while he brushes by me and heads into what I can only guess is the bathroom, picking up the puke-filled hat on his way. As soon as the door closes, I rush to the mirror above his dresser and peek at my appearance. I nearly startle myself when I see my reflection. My hair is a fuzzy rat’s nest with flyaways going in every direction and smeared mascara encircling my eyes like a fucking raccoon. I lick the sleeve of the large t-shirt that I have on and desperately try to remove the dark mascara ring of shame, but it only makes it worse.

As soon as the toilet flushes and Raze exits the bathroom, I burst past him and shut the door. As I try to quietly search for some soap to clean off my make-up and a brush to tame this wild beast atop my head, a soft knock comes from the door before it opens. Raze’s large hand is clutching my small make-up kit.
How in the hell did he get that?
Without even taking the chance to ask, I rip it away from him and shut the door again, making sure to lock it this time.

I make quick work of cleaning myself without taking the luxury of a long, hot shower only because my clothes are still in my room, and I will not risk walking out of this room in just a towel. My mental willpower may be strong, but the urge to climb him like a tree is growing by the second. The next time I get some alone time I need to get this shit sorted out with my ovaries because they seem to be in overdrive. Sure, it’s been over a year since I’ve had sex, but the idea of popping my widow’s cherry with Raze doesn’t exactly settle well with me.

“You okay in there?” Raze calls out from the other side of the door. “You didn’t fall in, did you?”

“No,” I quickly reply back. “Give me like two more minutes and I’ll be out of your hair.”

I handle my business, and as I’m washing my hands, a smell wafts from under the door. My stomach groans and churns at the same time to the smell of freshly-cooked bacon and eggs. I crack open the door and find Raze leaning over in front of the couch while he sets something down with a clang.

“You hungry?” he asks without ever looking up. “Best cure for a hangover is food or to drink more, but I figure you might be more of a food kinda woman.”

I walk over the couch and peer over the back. Raze has not only brought a breakfast big enough to feed the entire clubhouse, but he has also thrown together a makeshift table out of a piece of plywood and two blocks. The smell of freshly-fried bacon wafts to my nose, and my stomach grumbles again. Without a word, Raze grabs a plate and piles two huge heaps of bacon and eggs onto it before handing it to me. He reaches back and retrieves a bottle of hot sauce from the table.

“You like hot sauce on your eggs, don’t you?”

My eyes widen at the fact that he knows some of my strange eating habits, and that not only delights but frightens me at the same time.
How closely has he been watching me all these years?
My own husband never remembered the hot sauce on the rare occasions that he cooked me breakfast in bed.

Taking the bottle away from him, I shake it, adding five drops to my eggs before handing it back.

“How did you know about that?” I question.

Raze laughs as he begins to fill his own plate. “Don’t all southern girls like hot sauce? Besides, I saw you pull a bottle out of your purse a couple of times you were here.”

I lift a forkful of eggs to my mouth and moan at their taste. I don’t know why, but food nearly always tastes much better after a night of drinking. Even the shittiest pizza or burrito place tastes like a five-star restaurant after a round with Jose Cuervo. Raze adds what looks like a half of a pound of bacon to his plate before he plops down next to me and shovels the food into his mouth. I stifle a giggle as the vision of the beast from that Disney movie pops into my head. Raze could totally play him in a live-action version with his table manners. I must be smirking at him because he stops mid-bite and just stares at me with a look of confusion on his face.

“What?” he mumbles with a piece of bacon hanging out of his mouth. “I’m hungry.”

“Nothing,” I whisper as I turn my attention back to my own plate.

We both go back to eating in silence, but I find myself merely moving the food around on my plate as a lingering question takes hold of my mind. I can’t shake the feeling of eating breakfast together in such an intimate setting. My ease and comfort around him taking me off-guard. As badly as I’ve acted toward him and the club, and especially after what all spewed out last night in my tequila rage, I feel my body is gravitating toward his. Maybe it’s the pull of two people who are both mourning and seeking out the truth.

“Raze, why am I in your room and not my own?” I whisper.

Raze’s body tenses instantly at my words. He lays his empty plate down on the table before turning to face me. His blue eyes sparkle with intensity when he takes my plate from my hand and lays it on top of his. My heart immediately clenches and moves toward my throat while sweat begins to pulsate out of my pores. Trying to keep calm, I rub my hands on my thighs in a nervous yet calming motion.

“How long has it been since you’ve been on a ride?”

“A ride?” I stammer at his deflection of my question.

“Yeah, a ride,” he replies. “You know what? Never mind. I know the answer.”

Raze rises from the couch and gathers the dirty plates in front of us in his large hands. “How about you go get cleaned up and we’ll go out on a ride? I think the fresh air will do us both good and we can talk in private.”

“Um, sure. Give me about twenty minutes and I’ll be ready.”

Raze hustles out the door with the plates, leaving me dumbfounded in silence on the couch. Nothing about today makes any sense to me. His softness or my unrelenting need to be near him or touch him. My mind swirls with so many possibilities about his request, but even I can’t turn down a chance to be on the back of a bike again. The ride is what is truly making me agree to his oddly-placed demand, but a bonus will be getting him alone to talk about my husband. Maybe I’ll be able to weasel him out of something that confirms or denies Trax’s intel since I can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t right about those photos. I may not feel as if I knew my husband as well as I thought I did, but a man wrapped up in drugs and whores wouldn’t have come home every single night to his family with a smile on his face. That type of man wouldn’t have come home at all.

Slipping back into the bathroom, I quickly shower and throw my hair up in a loose, wet bun. I step from the shower only to find a fresh set of clothes laid out neatly on Raze’s bed. I don’t know what bothers me more, that Raze rifled through my clothes and he picked out something that I would have chosen for myself to wear on a ride or the fact he made his bed. Shaking off the confusion, I fasten on my black bra and slip the Harley tank top over my head. I grab the jeans and yank them up my thighs before slipping on a pair of thick, black-leather, riding boots that I find at the foot of the bed. They aren’t mine, but damn if they aren’t the right size for me. The tank top will keep me cool enough, but the thick jeans and boots will shield my legs from being burned by the pipes.

A sigh escapes my lips when I realize that something is missing from my ensemble—my cut with Brent’s property patch that is safely tucked away at home. The feel and smell of the leather was as soothing to me as the fact that his road name was branded on my back. Call it being anti-feministic, but I liked knowing that I belonged to someone and that I was cherished and protected. Now, I am nothing more than a faceless nomad playing biker girl dress-up thinking about how life used to be. I may not have fit in here like the other hard-as-nails women, but I do miss pieces of club life.

I hear a bike rev from outside, and I know my trip down memory lane has to come to an end. Grabbing my sunglasses from their spot on the bed, I pop them on the top of my head before leaving the room. The clubhouse is quiet today, which is surprising for a weekend, but I am thankful for not having to face the eyes of everyone knowing what transpired last night and the rumors of me warming the president’s bed.

As I break through the threshold of the door, I see Raze sitting astride his bike while talking to Slider. A pang of guilt hits me hard in the gut when Slider’s angry eyes lock onto mine before walking away from Raze and to his own bike. From what I can remember, the things I said to him were unwarranted in my drunken anger, but it’s too late to apologize for something I believe. The club has a lot of black marks against its name in my book of sins, but even I can’t deny that sometimes you have to live the way you know. Everyone has sins staining their souls, but it’s what you do to redeem and wash them away that means more in the end.

I approach the bike, and Raze scoots up on the tank, extending a plain, black helmet to me. I loosen the damp bun and pull out the extra elastic band from my pocket, weaving two braids on either side of my head before putting the helmet onto my head and safely securing the strap.

Raze chuckles as he straps on his own helmet. “Nice braids, Pocahontas.”

I swing my leg over the back of the tank and haul my body over the warmed metal. I place my feet on the pegs he has popped out for me and settle against the soft back of the bitch seat. The comfort of his bike indicates that he had bought this with having someone riding with him in mind. It took me three years to convince Brent to get a bike that was more comfortable for me than shiny and chrome covered for him.

Raze pops the kickstand and balances the both of us on the bike. Once balanced, he reaches around and pulls my arms that are plastered to my chest free and wraps them around his hard stomach. I jerk my hand away at first as he laughs and tugs me harder against him.

Being this close is just for riding safety. It doesn’t mean shit.

Settling against his wide and muscled back, Raze pats my leg before pulling back on the throttle and setting the bike into motion. We cruise down the Pacific Coast Highway for several hours before stopping at a mom and pop café near Pismo Beach. He parks his bike near the building before helping me and my stiff legs off the bike. I stretch and try to make my groaning muscles relax as he slides off the bike with ease. He leans against the seat and he watches me fidget and shake trying to wake up my muscles.

“Shut up and quit laughing at me,” I snap at him. “It’s been awhile, okay?”

He raises his hands dismissively as he continues to chuckle at me. “I didn’t say shit, darlin’, but even a seasoned rider like you should know you need to move your legs more on a long ride. We wouldn’t want you throwing a blood clot, now would we?”

I reach up and unfasten my helmet and toss it at his smirking face. He catches it just before it smacks him square in the face and his smirk suddenly morphs into a frown.

“What the hell was that for?”

“That’s for laughing at my misery and pain, jackass.” I smirk back and turn away from him to stalk toward the door. A sudden flask of heat hits hard while I swear I can feel his eyes trained on my backside when I walk away. Not that it bothers me that he’s possibly checking me out, but the fact I can feel his eyes on me without even looking back to confirm. When I reach for the door, his large hand pushes mine aside as he sidesteps in front of me and holds open the door like a gentleman. Well, in his case, a tattooed, rough-looking gentlemen that is capable of sweet-talking his way into any woman’s panties with just a few words. Heat coils inside of me while I try to put my raging hormones on ice.

Raze and me? Yeah, that’s not going to happen. Take a chill pill, hormones.

Raze’s hand falls to the small of my back, and the feel of his hands on me sends a sensation of warmth prickling all along my skin. He falls in line behind me before we slide into an open booth facing the beach. His large frame struggles to fit into the tiny booth, but he forces himself in with his hard knees pressed snugly against mine. The grimace on his face from his discomfort makes me chuckle until his eyes make my lips snap shut.

The waitress comes and places two worn, plastic-covered menus in front of us absent-mindedly as her eyes never leave Raze. I roll my eyes as she fumbles over her words while trying to recite the specials.

“Today, we have … the um … spicy fish tacos, and the um … steamed crab panties. I mean, shit, the steamed crab platter,” she stammers and tries to recover.

“Well, Mary, while I do like my panties steamed, I think I’ll have an order of the fish tacos with an ice-cold beer, and the lady will have whatever she wants,” Raze orders without even stumbling over the fact he just made fun of her bumbling mess.

“The same, except I’d like an extra sweet tea, please,” I say, taking the menu from Raze and handing them both back to her.

Mary stands in frozen silence before the man in the kitchen yells her name three times and snaps her out of her daze.

“That happen often?” I tease.

“Only with the women who I don’t find attractive. It’s the ones I’m actually interested in that seem to get away unscathed from my charm and wit.”

I stifle a laugh as Mary and her steamed panties sashay over to our table with our drink order. She lingers just a little bit too long leaning over Raze to slide his drink on the table and shoves her tiny boobs in his face. A streak of jealousy festers inside of me when I see Raze smirking at her as she pulls away from his body.

Why the fuck am I jealous of the little waitress tart flaunting her tits in his face?

I unwrap my straw from the paper and sip on my tea as I watch little miss steamed panties nearly floating back to the kitchen.

“Charm and wit, huh? Looks like your little friend there is far more interested in the D than the charm and wit part of you.”