Page 2 of Vengeance (Ruthless MC 4)
He looks particularly mountain man-y this morning with his huge broad shoulders covered in flannel and the Ruthless Reapers leather vest—or "cut," as I often hear them calling it. I've noticed a lot of his MC brothers switch to full jackets in the winter. But not Des-E. His tanned skin hints at south-of-the-border ancestry, as does the dusky black of his long biker beard. But I guess he doesn’t mind the cold.
“Good to see you this morning,” I say, pulling down the Keurig I bought for this extra income stream, along with the dark roast Colombian pods I know he prefers. “I’m a little behind. Just give me a moment to get everything fired up. Sorry…”
He doesn’t respond verbally to my apology. But his eyes burn into me like two pieces of coal as I fill the Keurig’s water reservoir with the water gun.
So, you know, the usual.
The rest of the Reapers call him Des-E—short for Desert Eagle—something to do with the kinds of guns he prefers to carry, I think. You know, stupid guy stuff. But I think Silent Death would have been a better road name. He almost never talks, and he’s a killer. You can tell just by looking at him.
But he doesn’t look at me like he wants to kill me. At least not in the literal way. I think about those trashy biker romance novels some of the other roadhouse girls pass around. I picked one up once during a slow shift, and it was so ridiculous.
The heroine was kidnapped as part of some kind of turf war. And not only was she stupid enough to fall in love with the criminal biker who was holding her hostage, but she also claimed the sex made her feel like she was dying. As if that’s a good thing—which I’m sure it isn’t.
I mean, pretty sure anyway.
When Des-E stares at me like this, it makes me feel…I don’t know. Kind of squirmy below my belly button.
And sometimes, before I can stop myself, I wonder what it would be like with him, so big and heavy on top of me. If he made me come—highly doubtful with vaginal penetration alone—but if he did, would it feel like I was dying? Would he kill me in a good figurative way?
Stop. You’re off plan, Allie.
I make myself refocus on keeping my hands steady as I shove a paper cup underneath the Keurig’s funnel.
“Where are your boys?” I ask, glancing toward the stairs instead of looking at him. I always keep myself from staring at him for fear he might see how much he intrigues me. He, however, never bothers to do the same.
Technically, Des-E is his own biker. But he’s part of a three-person enforcement crew for the Ruthless Reapers made up of him, Hyena, and Vampire. And everyone—even the roadhouse waitstaff—calls them Vengeance, as if they’re a three-headed hydra, not three separate men.
And they don’t do much to dispel the one entity notion. They’re always together.
They come into the roadhouse together. Consult with the Reaper co-presidents together. And, apparently, kill together.
They’ve got a reputation for ending Reaper enemies in horrible, gruesome ways that make other bikers whisper about them like campers telling horror stories. I’ve seen entire gangs back down with just one collective look: a lethal head tilt from Des-E, a slit-eyed glare from Vampire, and a cold smile from Hyena.
They also take girls upstairs together.
Only new girls ever try with them individually, and they get shot down every time. Those newbies quickly find out what everyone else working at the roadhouse for longer already knows. You can’t just have one member of Vengeance for the night. You have to agree to take on all three.
This is why there’s absolutely no reason for me to feel nervous underneath Des-E’s intense stare. It’s been years since I turned them down the first time. But my answer to sleeping with not one but three criminal bikers remains the same.
Hard pass. Nothing in my current five-year plan involves letting myself get derailed by having relations with one outlaw biker—much less three.
So why does my body light up with ideas it shouldn’t be having whenever any of them look at me? Why does my core squeeze like its searching for something? Something only they can give me.
I try to break the silence again—more to raise my thoughts from below my waist to above my neck, where they belong. “Should I make Hyena and Vampire their usual too?”
Des-E nods. One down and up of his chin, as if that’s all the communication he can possibly spare.
So, I guess I’m truly on my own for conversation.
I decide to concentrate on my massive where to sleep problem. I’m using all four weeks of my vacation from the hospital to study for my upcoming boards to become a certified ob-gyn and work at the roadhouse. My hope is that I’ll get the bulk of my flashcards memorized and earn enough in tips to finish paying off my massive student loan debt, just like my current five-year-plan states.
