Page 18 of Smoke

When I step outside, the air is warm and stifling, not the slightest breeze to break up the heaviness. I pull out a pack of cigarettes, tap it and bring the whole thing to my mouth, catching the tab that’s standing proudly from the pack with my teeth and light it up with the zippo in my other hand.

There’s a subtle burn at the back of my throat when I take a deep drag in. The smoke soaring into my lungs, the nicotine courses through my bloodstream and enters my brain, giving me instant relief. The second deep intake does the same, and I take my first steps down towards the main clubhouse. By the time I get to the front door, the tab is down to the filter and the heat is licking at my fingers. I drop it to the floor and stomp it out with my booted foot. I take out another tab, ready to ignite it, but a sudden sensation in the back of my throat has me coughing so hard that I struggle to catch my breath.

“Shit,” I curse to myself when I eventually get enough air in my lungs to stand up straight. I take the hint that my lungs are giving me, and put the tab back into the packet, store my zippo back into the breast pocket of my cut and push open the door, stepping into the clubhouse.

It’s quiet in here. A couple of the guys are sitting watching the flatscreen on the wall, some motorcycle show, where they pimp up rides for some asshole that has more money than they know what to do with.

When I get nearer the bar, Ginger calls out to me from where she’s stood, wiping over the top.

“You after company tonight?” I have little time for the club whores, they’re aware of that, but I’m not averse to having my cock sucked now and again. If I’m in the mood for it, some feminine flesh in my bed at night. But I don’t fuck them. The only woman I ever wanted to have riding my cock is dead and gone, and I’ve never got past that.

“Not tonight sugar, in fact, tell the guys not to disturb me, not unless someone’s dead or arrested.”

“You got it, Smoke,” she salutes me before flicking the tops of a couple of beer bottles that must be for the guys.

I drag my tired ass up the stairs to my room, closing the door firmly behind me. It doesn’t take me more than a few minutes before I’m naked and in the shower, letting the warm water cascade over my head and down my back. When I close my eyes, the first image that appears is one of Tenley with her bright lips, long blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. I’m tempted to jack one off using the image of her to get me there. My hand hovers loosely around my cock, but I smile to myself and use my hand for other things, like shutting off the water, to grab a towel from the rail. With a towel wrapped around my waist, I use another to dry off my hair. The long-wet ends slap against my back and shoulders, the towel doing very little to absorb the wetness.

I lay flat on my back on top of the bed, looking up at the ceiling, going over the events of the day. What started with Oriana bursting in with the picture that wehave no option but to acknowledge as a credible threat to Stone, Oriana, or even the whole club then veered off in a different direction when Tenley, who insists has nothing to do with the photo, threw her own bombshell into the mix.

Are the two situations connected? Or are they unrelated?

If it is the Irish that’s stalking Stone and Oriana, why alert them to it by leaving the picture? Or was it simply a warning of how easy it was to get to them, to target the club by breaching our security and property? Who knows, but that in mind only made it easier to come to a decision over taking a risk with Tenley.

I’m not sure if I can trust her. When it comes down to it, she’s a fucking reporter, and they don’t have the best reputations for being truthful. Still, somewhere, deep in my gut, I sense that despite their differences, she cares for her step-sister. So, I’m banking on that she’d think twice about fucking off what is now Oriana’s family.

Fucking Tenley.

She smells so fucking good, but also stinks of trouble.

A thought hits me. Out of the blue like an unpredicted thunderstorm.

Paddy Dunne is no fucking shmuck. He could already be suspicious of Tenley, have a tail on her, and if he does, she’s spent a good few hours on Young Outlaws property. Even though we were unaware of her connection to Oriana and, therefore, our VP, he could have stumbled on that juicy bit of information.

An overwhelming need to check on Tenley comes over me, so I lean over to grab hold of my jeans I’dthrown over the end of the bed, and pull out the burner phone I have that I intend to use when contacting her.

I push back into the pillow while punching at the button that will connect me to her. When I don’t get an answer after the fifth ring, I cut the call and slam the phone onto the mattress at my side. I curse under my breath while rummaging through my pockets for my packet of smokes and lighter. Once I’ve lit up and have had a nicotine blast, I pick the cell back up, but this time, instead of calling, I decide on a text instead.

I bang out a one-word message.

ANSWER!!

It shows that it’s been delivered. Then it pops up as read.

I watch the screen, my frustration building when it stays blank.

“What the fuck?” I talk to myself. “I’m gonna…”

Three dots bounce at the bottom of the screen, telling me she’s working on a response. Then it stops. I tighten my grip around the cell, ready to launch the fucker across the room, when it pings from the incoming message.

THE QUESTION?

This chick is so fucking irritating, yet I can’t help but smile at her cocky response.

YOU DIDN’T ANSWER YOUR PHONE WHEN I CALLED.

SORRY, I WAS DRIVING, AND THE PHONE WAS IN MY PURSE. I DIDN’T HEAR IT RING. DID YOU NEED SOMETHING?

WHERE ARE YOU?

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