Page 28 of Altered By Lead (Undercover Sinners 2)
Either I've had way too much alcohol already (probably not, considering my tolerance levels) or these last few weeks of isolation in the Oregon countryside are slowly driving me insane. Regardless of why I do it, I find myself storming across the deck. Before I can think better of it, I'm shoving the blond away and registering the pleased expression of shock on Colt's face.
"Whoa there, Tzarina, you jealous or something?" I put my hands on either side of his face and press our lips together in a rush of scorching heat, marking him as mine in front of all the dumbstruck country girls.
Bet they've never seen a kiss quite so full of passion in public, this brazenly sexual act as I press my breasts to Colt's chest and feel his hands settle on the curves of my waist.
"Take your whore home if that's what'll make you feel better," the girl spits, and a bit of the old Natalia flares up inside of me. I've never shied away from confrontation before.
"Say that again," I demand, spinning to face her and hearing West groan from behind me. Oops. We weren't supposed to start any trouble tonight, huh?
"I said whore," the blonde says, flipping some hair over her shoulder. "Did I stutter?"
I open my mouth with the intention of giving this girl verbal whiplash when Weston steps in between us. What he says to the cunt in question, I'm not sure, but she scurries away with her tail tucked between her legs, and I raise an eyebrow.
"What the hell was that all about?" I ask him, but he just turns back to me and shrugs, offering up a small smile as he leans against the railing and Colt drunkenly clutches onto my shoulder. Somebody's either had far more alcohol than I have, or else my tolerance blows his tolerance out of the water.
"Maybe I should be asking you the same question?" Weston retorts, sliding his fingers through his blue-streaked black hair. His coffee-colored eyes watch me with no small amount of curiosity. Crap. I've played my cards too early, haven't I? There's no need for any of these jerk-offs to know that I feel even the smallest tinge of jealousy in regards to them.
That would imply … connection. Feeling, of some sort.
And really, there's nothing between us but sex and violence.
"Did you get jealous, huh, Tzarina-babe?" Colt asks, giving me this huge, sloppy grin that's equal parts charming and infuriating. I shrug him off my shoulder, flip my hair, and head up the steps for another drink.
I'm leaning over the jukebox and trying to figure out how the damn thing even works when I feel a shadow pass over me. Fucking Colt and West, two asshole peas in a pod, I think as I flick my attention toward them only to find out I'm looking at someone else entirely.
There's a man standing next to me in a sleeveless leather vest, and I can't help but notice there's a name stitched into the front with the words Vice President underneath it.
"Can I help you … Axel?" I ask, squinting at the guy's name and then lifting my attention up to his, admittedly, handsome face. Well, handsome in a rugged sort of way, I guess. Axel gives me a once-over from head to toe, focusing for an inordinate amount of time on my tits. In the past, I used to eat up this sort of attention from men. I thought I still did. I mean, when I walked in here, I enjoyed hearing Colt tell me that everyone was looking my way.
But for some reason, this leering sort of attention from Axel over here is bothering me.
"Never used a jukebox before?" he asks with a condescending laugh. No, you asshole, I'm from New York. My daddy's a mob boss. We have parties with hundred thousand dollar stereo systems, not shitty old antiques that only play Dolly Parton and Loretta Lynn.
"Not really," I admit, stepping back and letting him flip a quarter in and choose a song. This awful country song comes blaring out, and I pray to the Russian god of vodka that this guy does not ask me to dance.
No, instead he does the 'lean in', putting his hand on the wall next to my head.
"Hey, I've got a question for you," he starts, and the look in his eyes tells me I'm not going to like what he's about to say. "Is there a reason your asshole friend danced with my old lady without my permission?"
"Your old lady?" I question, trying to piece together what, exactly, is going on here.
"Or a reason your other friend decided it was his place to tell her off?" Is that what Weston did when he whispered in that girl's ear? I can see her from across the bar, smirking at me. The man stands up and glances over his shoulder in the direction of the door, but Colt and Weston are still outside doing god only knows what. As he turns, I catch sight of the back of his jacket, and my throat goes dry. Shady Cove Motorcycle Club.
