Page 117 of Awry
RECK
Zaya fucking Gagewanders into the fucking clubhouse, sipping from a fucking milkshake, with my little sister in tow.They’re trailed by Rought’s brother DeVille and Doc Z’s little sister, Kris.The teens aren’t old enough to have gotten past the bouncers, yet here they are.
Because no one says no to Zaya fucking Gage.
I feel the moment that Rath, situated across from me with Doc perched in his lap, notices the intruder.He’s been lounging all insolent and half stoned, barely paying attention to the piece of ass who’s been wiggling against his groin for the last fifteen minutes as she chats up Cayley across the table.My brother stiffens, and all his energy zeroes in on Zaya as she saunters over to the bar, barely giving the rest of the biker-crowded room a glance, sucking on that fucking straw.
I must react outwardly as well, though I’m trying not to, because Cay’s hand on my thigh drifts higher, and she slants an intrigued look at me.She sat down maybe ten minutes ago.I’ve barely been paying attention to anything but the trickle of reports coming in on my phone all night.My beer is probably warm, and my suit wrinkled from slouching.
Zaya must have driven right past the Authority agents I’ve got assigned to her, because I hardly have to glance at the live feed on the top corner of my screen to see that they’re still sitting at the edge of the fucking Gage property.
The urge to go on a killing spree floods through my limbs.I keep really, really still.Not ignoring it, but not allowing it to overflow either.
But it’s Zaya who notices, not my brother or Cay.Zaya who turns and looks right in my direction, drilling straight through my nonexistent soul with those fucking purple starlit eyes.
The beast pressing rage and heat and burning fucking desire against the inside of my skin — a beast who’s been so dormant for the last thirteen fucking years that I’ve lost access to most of my secondary gifts — writhes under her gaze.Panting with fucking glee.
I refuse to look away.
Zaya smirks in my direction.
Fucking smirks, like I’m nothing.Like I’m nobody.
And the beast quiets.
Just like fucking that.
Because I remember those fucking lips wrapped around more than just a straw.I remember when it was my fucking come she eagerly worked for, that she swallowed with an actual smile.
Cay nestles her hand right up to my groin.I break my staring contest with Zaya and almost shove Cay away, viciously, before I catch myself.And yeah, I’m rock fucking hard.At the simple sight of Zaya Gage drinking a fucking milkshake.
Under the table, Cay tightens her grip on my stiff cock, which is in the process of threatening to burst through the suddenly chafing zipper of my pants, abandoning her conversation with Doc to lean into me and murmur, “You wanna take a trip to the bathroom?I can take care of —”
“No,” I snarl.The idea of her lips wrapped around me, of pumping into the heat of her mouth instead of the mouth I want, is abhorrent enough that I instantly soften under her grip.
Cay frowns, then shrugs it off.She doesn’t remove her hand from my still-softening cock, though.And the urge to remove it myself itches at me.Yeah, seemingly random erections are unusual for me, sprung forth without pharmaceutical help, or a hell of a lot of effort on Cay’s part.Or an even more generalized biological need to simply get off — usually in a room dark enough that I can’t see who I’m fucking, and any pussy will do.
I’m an asshole.
I’ve always been an asshole.
I’m just more vicious about it now.
And Cayley is the one who consistently comes back for me.So I let her, knowing the entire time that I’ll fuck up any good thing in my life.And I’ll be gleeful about doing so, over and over.
Because I don’t deserve good things.
My gaze strays back to Zaya chatting with the kids all perched in a line at the bar and drawing way too much grinning attention from the fucking bartender, who’s stupid enough to flirt with fucking danger.
Because I can’t take care of good things.
Rath rumbles out something, but before I can piece together the words, Doc and Cay get in on the conversation.
“Better they’re here than at that rave you supposedly aren’t sponsoring tonight,” Doc says, more playful than judgemental.
Rath grunts, unconvinced.He hasn’t taken his eyes off Zaya.Though from this distance, it probably looks like he’s eyeing the teens accompanying our wayward, deceitful bond.We’re slumped around a table on the far side of the small, currently empty area of the club reserved for dancing.Or, let’s be honest— reserved for fucking while removing as little clothing as possible.Bikers, as well as their so-called dates, have to be fucked out of their minds to even plug cash into the jukebox, let alone dance.
A motorcycle club’s main clubhouse, especially one filled with mixed-clan shifters, is not the place for our baby sister, Precious, to hang out.I’m surprised that Doc isn’t more concerned about her own sister.Everyone is pissed out of their minds or high as fuck, and there are at least three blow jobs in progress in the immediate vicinity.I’m also fairly certain a trio is fucking at the table in the far corner.They’re shadowed enough to be discreet, yeah.But the woman is clearly bouncing in one fucking lap while bent over another fucking lap.
