Page 51 of To the Grave

We passed into a shrunken version of the main room, minus the bar. Partygoers stood in groups, almost all the costumes featuring some version of the leather cuts worn by bikers everywhere. The women wore plenty of leather of their own: leather skirts even smaller than my own, leather bikini tops, thigh-high leather boots.

Almost every inch of visible skin was tattooed, some with the Barbarians logo and others with roses and thorns, skulls, the names of mothers and lovers, animals, and pretty much anything else I’d ever seen inked on skin.

At one end of the room, two pool tables were surrounded by several people, all in costume, all drinking. They were filled with raucous laughter, but I wasn’t under the illusion that it would be shared with us.

We were outsiders here. The greeting we’d been given on arrival made that clear.

We took up residence at one of the tall tables stained with water rings from countless bottles of beer and a few seconds later, Wolf and Otis peeled off, leaving me with Jace.

I didn’t ask questions. The music was too loud, plus I’d learned that one of the Beast’s secret powers was coordination. Sometimes it was planned. Other times it was on the fly. But they had a sixth sense for how to move, how to split up, to achieve whatever they were looking to accomplish, and that was true whether they were trying to get information or trying to get me — and themselves — off.

Dammit. My underwear was wet again, the thought of getting fucked by all three Beasts, Jace back in the fold, enough to get my blood simmering.

I tried thinking about Blake’s second phone, the one I’d found in his room when I’d found the letter from Mac to my mom. Wolf and Otis had given it to Aloha, but it had only been a few days and we hadn’t heard anything yet so that topic didn’t do much to distract me from my raging libido.

I shifted and took a drink of the cold beer, trying to distract myself. But Jace was right there, his arm brushing against mine on the table, his warm skin sending a zing of lust through my body. I could smell him, that same scent that had haunted my memories while he’d been gone, the one that had lingered in the air like smoke from a bonfire when it clung to my clothes and hair.

And that fucking mask. It was scary as fuck. So why was I having a hard time blocking out the fantasy of fucking Jace while he wore it?

In less than a year I’d gone from prissy virgin to total whore, fantasizing about getting fucked by the masked man standing next to me.

The fact that he’d broken my heart only proved how fucked up I’d really become.

Chapter 37

Otis

The bar reeked. Of cigars, cigarettes, pot, and probably anything else it was possible to smoke. It made me uncomfortable, both because it stunk like hell and because it sent a signal that this was a place with no rules.

Rules were comforting. They told me what was expected.

Even prison had had rules, spoken and unspoken.

But this was a “no rules” kind of place, and it set me on edge. Wolf, Jace, and I could handle ourselves in almost any situation, but there were a lot of big dudes at the Strike. Plus we had Daisy with us, something we’d argued about until Daisy had made it clear she wasn’t staying home like some kind of princess in an ivory tower.

Daisy upped the ante for us all. We didn't mind getting our asses kicked from time to time but protecting Daisy had become our prime directive, and that was a lot more complicated when we were outnumbered two hundred to three and half the guys in the bar were eying Daisy like she was fresh chum in a sea full of sharks.

She didn’t notice it — she never did — but I was on edge as Wolf and I moved deeper into the bar even though I knew Jace would cut off his arm before he’d leave Daisy alone at the Strike.

I scanned the crowd, looking for a friendly face, and spotted it in the screened-in porch at the back of the building.

Wolf met my gaze and tipped his head, and I knew he’d spotted the giant bearded guy sitting in a crowd of other giant bearded guys too. There were a couple of women among them, a curvaceous brunette dressed as an old-time bar wench and a redhead wearing head-to-toe leather, a riding crop propped against her plastic chair, but it was mostly guys, some in costume, others wearing their Barbarians cuts like it was any other night at the Strike.

We headed toward them and I relaxed a little when Bruce spotted us and a grin broke out across his weather-beaten face.

“What the actual fuck?” he said, standing. He was well over six feet tall, with a graying beard and brown eyes.

Beyond the screened-in porch, a bonfire blazed, surrounded by a ring of chairs occupied by shadowy figures who didn’t mind the cold.

Wolf extended his hand. “How’s it going?”

The rest of the group was sizing us up, but we were in relatively safe territory thanks to the warm greeting from one of their own.

“Probably a lot more relaxing than it’s going for you,” Bruce said, shaking Wolf’s hand. He turned to me. “Cole.”

I nodded but didn’t say anything. Wolf was better at the bro thing.

“How’s your mom?” Bruce asked Wolf.

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