Gears & Fears - Hell for Leather (Book Two) Sample

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Gears & Fears is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 by Adell Ryan All Rights Reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher and the copyright owner constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

Published by Upside Down Red Umbrella First Edition: May 2022 Cover Art by Upside Down Red Umbrella Edited by G. Surley

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CHAPTER ONE

*Lace*

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loating high on adrenaline while simultaneously drowning from heartache, I sit Reece in the front passenger seat of my wagon and reconstruct my home on wheels, guided only by the interior dome light and what small amount of moonlight is peeping through the clouds behind me.

For a while, she is perfectly happy, shoving my keys into her mouth and creating rivulets of drool down her onesie. However, as babies tend to do, Reece goes from content to incredibly unsettled in an instant. My singsonged litanies of reassurance no longer suffice to keep her calm. Her coos turn to cries, and she attempts to climb on everything, seeking a misunderstood escape.

With every passing second, those cries get louder. Each piercing wail makes my heartbeat ratchet and vision blur until the noise, the situation — everything — peaks. In the back parking lot of a strip club with an inconsolable baby, I go from problem solving to screaming and crying right along 5

with her, hands clutching my hair, body curled into a ball on my makeshift bed.

Both of us are the worse for wear. Reece is clueless and, regardless of my age and street smarts, I am too.

All I can think to do is pull her out from the front and give her a tour of my home for the first time. But she is scared. Just as much — if not more — than I am. Despite my efforts, Reece continues to cry, her arms reaching and hands grabbing for anything at all that might give her even a tease of security.

The mixed scent of chemical diaper and acidic urine fills my nose, and my watery gaze darts to her bottom. Wetness lines her onesie around her waist and thighs. Having left in such a rush, I failed to even consider collecting any of her things. I palm my head and squeeze my eyes shut tight.

Reece, cries now turning hiccupy, crawls to the far back of the wagon, uses the plastic paneling under the rear window to pull herself up, then starts slapping at the attached shades that block the outside world from seeing inside.

Fumbling through my stuff for any sort of lifeline, I quickly realize my cell phone has gone missing too. Scenes from the past couple of hours flick through my thoughts. I remember checking the 6

time while hiding outside of my parents' house.

While Vee and Brodi plotted to kill your father, the devil on my shoulder reminds.

The only possibility that comes to mind is that my phone must have fallen out of my bra and cocktail dress during the scuffle with Coty.

Bitter disappointment coats my tongue. I often pride myself on not being naive. But, oh boy, was I ever. I let myself believe that the men who make up Hell for Leather were different. Special.

Worth loving and supporting. I should have known better. Rotten produce only ever gets worse.

I slam my palm against the window and growl-screech before running that same palm down my face and taking a deep breath. First things first, Reece needs to stop crying. The noise in the wagon mixed with the static in my head makes coping nearly impossible.

Scanning the interior of my vehicle, my focus lands on a bundle of string lights stored in the mesh netting behind my passenger seat. Pretty lights make just about everyone in the Universe happy, and it has been a while since I strung them up. I crawl forward, knees depressing the full-sized mattress, and pull out the bundle. A small black device tangled in the twisted wiring — the prepaid phone Coty gave me a while back in case of emergencies — snags on the 7

mesh as I yank the lights free. I remember deciding way back then to stash it at the bottom of this pocket due to its accessibility near my head while sleeping.

Never touched it since.

As quickly as possible, I plug the lights into the portable power station between my driver and passenger seats and set them to twinkle. The little bulbs shine to life, flashing rhythmically. Reece immediately hushes, sniffles, and hiccups, eyes drawn to the brightness.

"You like that, hm?" I chuckle lightly.

Reece plops to her butt, races toward the distraction on hands and knees, grabs a handful, and immediately brings them to her mouth. This time, I stop her. "Nuh uh." Eyebrow raised, I wag my finger. She obeys, pulling the lights away from her bubbly mouth and shaking them with an excited squeal instead. Putting my keys in her mouth earlier was nasty enough. Reece needs to get hurt chomping on a bulb about as much as I need to forgive the men of Hell for Leather.

I reach out and pinch one of the lights, testing the heat before finally releasing a pent-up breath and relishing my win.

My mind circles around to all my available options. Manifest and you shall receive. I return my attention back to the prepaid phone and press the 8

power button. Having gone unused, over time the juice must have drained completely; it stays off.

My power station has saved my ass many times over the years. Now is no different. I pull out the universal charger set stored in the glove compartment with several of my other tools and plug in the old device. While waiting to get enough charge, Reece and I string the lights around the upper interior of my trunk and backseat sections.

Having the faux stars lining our sleeping area provides a calm ambience amid the chaos.

Reece lies backward, little body forming a depression in the mattress, and her eyes rivet on the sparkly distraction. I reach over, pull the phone cord as far as it will reach, lie beside her, and try to power it on again.

This time it does work; the cheap flip phone screen flashes to life, and after about a minute, it cycles on completely. A string of incessant chimes goes off. Reece darts her hand out, instantly intrigued by the new toy. I reach above us and flick our fancy lights to make them sway. Her focus returns to the mesmerizing twinkling. My focus returns to the phone to determine the cause of so many notification dings.

Text messages. Dozens of them. Each one with a timestamp — once a month for the past three 9

years.

The sender is nameless because when Coty gave me the phone, he instructed me not to store any contact information. No big deal. I never bothered to even turn it on. Until now. :Unknown: I will tell the secret to you Scrolling further back in time, I skip several and read another. :Unknown: I don't enjoy it here And another. :Unknown: Shall I tell you the secret And another. :Unknown: the song nobody knows Every month for over two years, Coty sent me a line from the infamous poem "Siren Song" by Margaret Atwood. My heart contracts painfully, and the air seizes in my lungs. I drop the phone against my chest.

With a stubborn grunt, I lift the phone again, 10

open the most recent message, and select reply. :Me: I need my phone, her diaper bag, and the baby monitor. The video one. Drop them next to my car. Then leave.

My thumbs twitch with the need to send more. To ask about my dad. To type every curse word in the dictionary. To say, "How dare you. I cared for and trusted you." Instead, I keep it short and to the point. I hate even having to send that much, but getting help from Coty is the best idea. I might be proud but not too proud where my sister is concerned. Leaving Reece here alone is out of the question; my wagon is not exactly baby proof. Plus, the last thing I need is for someone to tip off Social Services about a car with an abandoned baby inside.

Seeing as Bike Week is in full effect and the two most dangerous local motorcycle clubs just went head-to-head, it would be best to avoid strolling down the street in the wee hours of the night and early morning with her at all costs, too. Walking with a baby on my hip from my parents' house to the club in the dark was risky enough.

The only silver lining so far was arriving at this lot and finding it empty. Closing the saloon on the opening night of Gulf Coast Bike Week is 11

unheard of but unsurprising due to the fight that broke out at the Kick-Start Party. Thank the Universe someone was smart enough to get the girls on shift out of here before any bikers, high on brawlinduced adrenaline, sought out an easy way to blow off that aggressive energy.

My money is on DJ Kris; no doubt she made a couple phone calls after all hell broke loose at the event. As for the girls who thrive off those keyed-up patrons, they will find them on the clock or off.

The phone vibrates and chimes in my hand, and I fumble the device, hurrying to open the message. :Unknown: Done With a long, shallow exhale, I snap the phone shut and turn to my hazel-eyed girl. Reece is still fully awake, the twinkle of lights reflecting in her wide, watery gaze.

"Sorry, hun, but we have to sneak inside — the big bad boys need never unravel my deepest secrets — but I promise, the lights in there are way better."

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CHAPTER TWO

*Brodi “Bro” - Tail Gunner*

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hell-shocked, Vee and I stare down at our assignment. Vee has that far-off, lost look in his eyes — the same look he had when Kal, Zane, Coty, and I took over after Bay got wounded on the job. Vee 100 percent cannot be trusted right now. He is a fucking liability. But I am nowhere near high enough on the food chain to do a damn thing about it.

As our VP, Coty could set him straight, but right now he is about as useless as Vee — another ticking time bomb. His weaknesses where Lace is concerned are practically bleeding out of every pore.

Coty begins pacing the darkened room, furiously typing on his work phone. "Do something helpful! At least ensure he stays unconscious," he roars, flashing a deadly glare in our direction.

I kick aside the discarded wooden beam Lace used to knock the man out, then scramble to the ground, plop onto my ass, and scoot toward the guy.

Once settled with my legs spread behind him, I then 13

lift his upper body, drag him against me, and wrap my arm around his neck, readying myself to put him in a sleeper hold at the first sign of returning consciousness.

Protocol dictates that one partner kills and one makes sure that any victims present have somewhere to go. The baby was my responsibility. Technically, it is an "in the event of" sort of deal, though. The victims are supposed to be elsewhere. She was not supposed to be here. Our employer usually takes care of that shit beforehand — gets them out and in some sort of protective custody so we can do our job.

Usually, the only time we see the victim is during the precursory assignment, the one where we are set up to witness the abuse firsthand. Doing that and not making the hit right then and there is always hard. But the rules are in place for a reason. Our jobs are clean. Easy. Aside from the fact that we act as judge, jury, and executioner.

Earlier today, Vee and I witnessed Mr. Kensington backhand his wife. Knock her out. Kick her while she was down. Now, here we are.

Lace's fucking dad. Jesus. This entire night, beginning with the rally Kick-Start event, has been a disaster. Chaz and I should have never even gone through with entering Lace into the beauty pageant.

Of course that had to go fucking sour too.

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Coty brings the phone to his ear, shifting from foot to foot while he waits for whomever he called to pick up. As soon as the person does, his back straightens and jaw ticks. "Father. I have a new assignment for you." He rolls his eyes to whatever the good ol' chaplain whines about in response. "A different type of assignment. Some shit went down with Lace. I need you to go to Tit for Tat and keep an eye on her. If she tries to leave, follow her car.

But try to do it all without her realizing; you act like a mouse but have the damn presence of an elephant sometimes."

After a short pause, he wraps it up, a rare weariness present in his tone. "There's an extra key to the saloon in my saddlebag. Check in every hour."

Before he hangs up, though, Zane clearly opens his mouth again because the weariness turns to impatience. "Don't give me that concerned bullshit.

Just stay close to her. No fucking questions. Since you still can't follow instructions without blabbering like an idiot, make that check-in every thirty. With pictures. Oh, and if she is actually foolish enough to attempt leaving the county, call in backup. She has no choice but to stay now."

Just as Coty flips the phone closed, Mr. Kensington twitches and so does Vee, aiming his

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gun at the target, his sightline a little too close to my own head for comfort.

With the center of his throat lined up in the crook of my arm, I squeeze and hold as his hands come up to grip my forearm and his feet scrabble against the carpet. In a matter of seconds, Mr. Kensington is completely lax again. The tension in my own body uncoils once I hear the reassuring click of Vee flicking his safety back on.

A brief flash of green lights up the dim room.

Coty checks his phone and steps outside, the vertical plastic blinds rattling behind him. Vee flicks the safety off again and aims it toward the blinds. Being witness to him controlling the safety calms my nerves a bit but also proves that he has lost all trust in himself.

The blinds rattle again, and Vee curls his finger over the trigger. Both Coty and Kal step inside, and Vee concurrently turns on the safety and lowers the gun, his opposite hand lifting to rub down his face.

Coty lumbers off into a different part of the house, on a new mission. Kal takes out his own gun and silencer, twists the two together, and aims at the target and me.

Jerking the barrel, indicating for me to get out of the way, Kal orders in a monotone voice, "Regardless of who he is, we have an assignment to 16

complete. Our hands are tied. He has to go. You two clock out early."

Vee holsters his gun and storms out, and I haul ass away from there right behind him after separating myself from the target. Not even a count of five later, we hear the soft click and pop of the gun firing.

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CHAPTER THREE

*Lace*

hen Reece was born, I made it a goal to never bring her inside Tit for Tat. Once you cross the threshold of these doors, the lifestyle takes hold of you — consumes and never lets go. Seems everything that happens in life is a product of fate, though, no matter how often I try to convince myself otherwise. So here I am, doing exactly what I tried so hard to avoid.

A sense of déjà vu hits me hard as Reece reaches forward and slaps at one of the many buttons on the DJ controller. Same thing, different timeline.

More advanced tech. I was once the baby on the hip of a stripper. Mom was the desperate dancer who had no other choice but to tote me along.

My knees have swept these floors for more years than I care to admit, and even though I managed to finally find a way out for a short time during my high school years, I still came crawling back. No matter what I do or where I go, the stage

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and pole beckon. Dancing for others feeds my belly, but dancing for myself feeds my soul.

While I attempt setting up the special software laptop one-handed, Reece continues writhing in my opposite arm, trying to play whack-a-mole with as many knobs and buttons as possible. "Damn, sis.

You need to take a chill pill."

Nerves frayed and pulse pounding, a 'chill pill' sounds pretty tempting right now. "Let there be light," I announce dramatically, flicking and pressing all the appropriate thingamajigs.

Reece turns still as a board, instantly hypnotized, giving me the small window of peace I need to select and rearrange my playlist, collect the remote, and leave the booth. If she is absolutely anything like her big sister, as soon as the dancing starts, Reece will be enamored. Just in case, though, on the way to the couch, I collect a few treasures for her to play with: a pair of wireless headphones, a coaster, and a clean plastic ashtray.

Of course, in classic toddler fashion, she wants the one thing I keep in my hand — the remote. "Nice try. I need something to play with too, ya know."

Lips curled to the side, I swipe up the bulky headphones, place them over her head, and chuckle when the cups completely engulf her chubby face.

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"Think you can stay put?" I coo, running my finger over her plump cheek.

Reece ignores me, one of the headphone cups now in her mouth. Her eyes blink slowly at the flashing and rotating lights, little body bouncing lightly to the low background music. I turn around, ascend the steps to the main stage, and grab the cleaning supplies at the top. Puffing out a breath to blow away the messy strands falling loose from my unkempt bun, my gaze catches on my image in the wavy mirror as I shine the seasoned chrome, first the secondary one at the back of the main stage, then the primary one. Scratches and dull spots from years of use manipulate the visual on each; looking back at me is this hideously tattered and scarred version of myself — a reflection that perfectly represents how I feel deep inside right now.

Teeth clenched, I toss the spray bottle and rag toward the edge of the stage, close my mascarastained eyes, and start rolling my neck in slow, rhythmic circles. By the time I switch directions, my tense jaw is looser, my pulse has slowed considerably, and I am ready to open my eyes to the reality surrounding me again.

Reece is no longer upright; her body now rests against the back of the couch. She has switched from gumming the cushiony ear cup to playing with the 20

plastic ashtray, tiny fingers exploring each little groove. Her big blinks slow even more than before.

With each one, I breathe a little easier, knowing she is moments away from dreamland.

The first song ends, and a new one fades in, changing the mood from upbeat to seductive. Perfect for warming up. I shake out the remaining tremble in my hands, bring my cool fingers to the clasp of the dangling necklace around my neck, and begin the process of getting comfortable.

After the jewelry comes off, so do the borrowed leather belt and blouse. Though the makeshift dress is classy and sexy, its smooth silk will hinder my grip points. While dancing away my reality, I want nothing in the way.

I want to feel: The burn and bruise of metal against my skin. The layer of grime that will coat the bottom of my bare feet from every walk and pivot.

The music. The emotion. The pain — inside and out.

Satisfied with dancing in my black, lace crop top and matching cheeky, tanga-style thong, I turn up the volume and place the remote along with everything else in a small bundle near the cleaning stuff before returning to the pole closest to Reece and beginning my traditional warm-up. By the time I get to my wrists and fingers, spiraling my hands in a fan motion, Reece notices something is up, and her 21

focus rivets on me. No stranger to being watched, I toss her a wink, ease onto my knees, and start isolating my torso, arching and curving my back in waves with the sensual rhythm.

The song, my movements, and each breath become one. Knowing how much I tend to lose myself while dancing alone, I take care to make sure every joint and muscle gets attention.

This time when Reece blinks, her lashes give one final flutter, and her heavy eyes stay closed. The environmental stimulation overwhelmed her straight to sleep as I hoped it would. Just in time, the song I picked for my purge starts, cueing me with the brief piano instrumental.

Keeping low on the pole, I start with some basic floor work, moving fluidly into a few poses for the intro before thrusting up and wedging the cool metal between my hip and thigh to support me while hanging upside down, fingertips grazing the stage.

In the next breath, I clench my stomach tightly, draw myself back upright, and ascend the pole.

The first lyrics hit and crush my soul a lot harder than expected; the artist croons out, "You don't own me," parroting the desperate plea in my soul. I release my hand to let my upper body fall, putting all trust into my lower body grip, before rolling to sit at the base with my leg extended.

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Hitting with the beat, I bound up, swirl around, arch my back against the pole, and slide down slowly, shoulder dragging against the cool metal.

A male solo part begins and the energy shifts. I crawl from the secondary pole to the main one and do a complex series of back-to-back trick variations, ending with my body in a ball once more. This time, I linger there for a moment, hugging myself, before letting go and using my stomach and thighs as grip points for another slow, hands-free spin to the ground just in time for the female part again. "I'm free, and I love to be free."

By the time my side hits the gritty floor, tears are streaming down my cheeks. Even though the multi-colored lights have turned into a watercolor through my blurry vision, in that short moment of recovery, faint movement in the farthest, darkest corner of the room still captures my attention.

My tears morph from a soothing balm to a fiery burn. Aflame on the inside, I fan kick out of the weak pose and roll across the floor. In a low and wide squat, I move my body side to side, mimicking my mental game of tug of war, one arm extending elegantly to the side before switching and doing the same with the opposite arm. Whoever is here, encroaching on my privacy, will pay. Fuck the contract; I have had enough.

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With a forward split roll, I return to the secondary pole, fold over into myself, grip the pole on the forward motion, and roll my body back to standing. As soon as the crescendo approaches, I twist myself around the pole and aggressively break into a series of rapid-fire spins.

Pirouette.

Knee hook.

Inversion into a Reiko that I cling to before slowing down to pose in several different holds every time she says, "You don't own me," making sure I transition seamlessly between each one.

Hip hold tuck.

Meathook split.

Meridian.

Russian layback.

The harder, the more painful, the better.

When the last, "You don't own me," strikes, I ease down the pole in a back arch, shoulder and wet cheek pressed to the chrome as the music dies.

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CHAPTER FOUR

*Zane “Father” - Chaplain*

oes she stop? No. Another song starts, and Lace does it all over again. Each track is more self-destructive than the last. Every song and dance combination translates as an eerie hymn that tells her story louder and more clearly than words ever could.

Lace is branded from the hickey of ownership Coty left on her neck to the marks of ownership dancing has left on the top of her lacy, tattooed feet and everywhere in between. A red imprint from the pole stands out strikingly across her stomach, and bruises are forming on her knees, inner thighs, and down her shins, pink for now but promising to turn an ugly shade of black before sunrise. As ugly as anything can get when it comes to Lace.

I swear all the blood trickling out of the cut in my bottom lip from the hit I took at the brawl seemed to suck back inside my body and down to my toes when Coty said I had another job to do. One was enough. Finding out the job was to watch Lace was

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neither worse nor better. Discovering her in here, dancing, filled me with a moral struggle so deep I nearly threw up. This moment is raw and deeply private. Meant only for her, not for me or anyone else. But can I stop watching from my hiding spot?

Of course not. No matter how much I want to.

I never knew dancing on a stripper pole could be like this. What Lace is doing right now is legit talent. She is so good. Every movement bleeds sincerity.

Mouth parched, I lick my lip, only to collect a line of dried blood on my tongue. Eating the memories and hating the taste, my mouth fills with saliva, body impulsively trying to get rid of the flavor. Holding it in to help prevent possibly giving myself away by spitting it out only makes the sensation worse. A sour tang creeps up my throat.

Scrambling out of my dark corner, I crawl toward the closest trash can, trying hard to keep quietly to the shadows. Surprise, surprise, my attempt at going unnoticed fails. A thunk comes from the stage, and the music lowers just as my clammy hands grip the plastic rim.

Caught red-handed, no sense in hiding anymore, I spit and practice the breathing technique Kio taught me, inhaling slowly through my nose, concentrating hard on how my ribcage expands with 26

the intake of air before releasing the breath just as slowly while focusing on how my abdomen relaxes during the controlled effort.

Lace is on the move. Her light steps patter over the hardwood floor. Still battling against my weak stomach, I mentally visualize her location as she heads toward the bar. There are a few moments of silence, some rustling, the tink of ice cubes, then the thump of a glass being set down. "Come here," she says over the softened music.

The acidic stomach contents singeing my throat go away only to be replaced with bitter disappointment; Coty should have chosen someone else for this task. With as much feigned pride as is possible in a moment of utter failure, I stand and turn around.

The reflective catchlights in her brown eyes change a rainbow of colors as Lace nudges the drink suggestively. "Whiskey Ginger. This should help your stomach. Top shelf." She bounces her eyebrows, squeezes some lime into the glass, plucks up a stirrer, and gives the drink a few swirls. "I know you still have just about twenty-four hours before reaching that much coveted legal drinking age, but no harm in a little early birthday drink, right?"

Instead of putting the stirrer aside or into the sink,

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Lace puts it in her mouth and twirls it between her lips.

Throat burning and mouth still achingly dry, I only just barely manage a response while approaching the counter directly across from her.

"My age has nothing to do with why I avoid alcohol."

"Let me guess. One of your parents is an alcoholic. Cry me a river. Think of this as a medicinal excuse then."

A little off-put by her brashness, I toss the attitude right back at her. "Let me guess. You think the ginger will settle my stomach. The only ginger in bar ginger ale is in the name. The sugar will make my nausea worse."

Lace raises a single dark eyebrow and her chin tucks a little. I have to bite down on my tongue to stop a knee jerk apology from escaping.

She clears her throat and slowly removes the stirrer from between her lips. "Yes, I am well aware.

Whiskey is what settles stomachs, hun, not ginger ale. Not the commercial type, at least."

In my peripheral vision, the shape of her breasts still rises and falls from the recovery efforts of her dancing, and it takes every bit of discipline not to look down as she leans forward, props her elbows on the counter, dips the stirrer back into the 28

golden liquid, wraps her fingers around the tumbler, and slides it closer to me along with the napkin adhered beneath. "The two just so happen to taste good together."

Now that the stirrer has transferred her flavor to the drink, I can only imagine how much better it will taste. My mouth salivates at the thought. In the next heartbeat, my hand is completely wrapped around hers. I drag my thumb over her knuckles to add a little warmth to the chill in her fingers from the icy glass.

Her long, dark lashes move in slow motion as she blinks down at our point of contact and back up again. "Atta boy." Lace sucks in a quiet breath.

"Promise not to tattle? I would really hate to be put in the slammer for serving alcohol to someone underage. Can you imagine? Of all the things." She chuckles weakly and gently eases her hand out from under mine.

That weary, pretend happiness does me in. I would kill to see her smile for real again. Since killing is out of the question for now, I try humor instead. "The bouncer forgot to check my ID on the way in. No harm, no foul."

I do get a smile, a more authentic one this time, yet it mixes with a cocktail of conflict much like the cocktail of conflict meeting my lips at this very 29

moment; the ever so slight inward curve of her eyebrows gives her away.

While the perfect spicy, sweet, carbonated blend gives my scratchy throat exactly what it needs, I watch over the rim of my glass as she fights to mask her telltale expression by turning away from the counter and walking around to join me on the customer side.

With the bartop separating us, I was doing just fine. For the most part. But when Lace hoists herself onto the counter, crosses her legs, looks down at me, and twists a finger into one of my curls, my heart starts hammering. She then removes the drained tumbler from my hand, runs her thumb along the shape of my jaw, and I flinch.

"Gabe clocked you good," she whispers.

"Gabe?"

"Yeah. The guy who hit you."

"Oh, him. Yeah. Then K.O. just had to step in and steal my retribution," I huff out.

The topic brings her back to life, and a spark alights in her eyes. "K.O. has been gunning for that man since he first heard rumor of him. You held no chance."

"They know each other?" I move my jaw gingerly side to side, testing just how deep the tenderness goes.

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Lace shakes her head. Bleached strands of hair fall from her disheveled bun and stick under her chin, clinging to her golden, sweat-glossed skin. "He only knew of him. Jess and Gabe are shackin' up. Kio made the connection at the event. Apparently, Gabe is a new prospect for the Rolling Stones, too. He was wearing a cut at the event. Know anything about that?"

"I know he was at the polic—" Lace freezes and her eyes widen.

Shit. Why the hell would I even let that slip?!

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Her gaze tracks over my face, no doubt searching for the rest of the answer, but she surprisingly refrains from pressing any further.

Instead, Lace reveals, "I know what you guys do.

Ironically, I happen to know about a recent incident that occurred at the department, too. Not from a Hell for Leather member, though. Rest assured."

Her attention moves to the bartop. She lifts the tumbler, peels away the napkin from the bottom, places the glass down again, and brings the damp paper to my bottom lip. She parts her mouth to say something but changes her mind and starts dabbing gently at the wound.

Thankful for the change of subject, taking a stab in the dark that she might want details about 31

why I was hiding in the corner watching her like a creepy stalker, I mumble out, "Coty really cares about you. You know that."

The rotating light show turns red at the most ironic time, right as a flame of anger flashes in her eyes. There is a brief, almost miniscule flattening of her lips and flare of her nose, but instead of voicing any frustration, she simply nods and says, "Yeah, I do."

I try hard to continue the conversation without moving my mouth much as she uses her nail with the napkin as a buffer to carefully scrape off more crusted blood. "He would probably be here himself, if he could."

Her lips quirk to the side, and a quiet huff puffs from her nose. "You have no idea why he had to send you, do you?" I shake my head a little. "How does that make you feel? Being left in the dark by your brothers like that?"

Sensing her blood is coming to a slow simmer with the topic, I wrap my hand around her wrist, thumb pressed into the center of her palm, and pull back. "Protocol, Lace. I feel fine with it. How does it feel knowing more than I do about something that clearly happened involving you and not being able to confide in me — someone, anyone — because of the same protocol?"

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Her jaw clenches, giving even more striking definition to her face. There it is, finally a fullfledged reaction. She overcomes the slip quickly, of course. "You know—" Lace lifts her opposite hand, drags her thumb along the length of her tongue, and starts using the saliva on the pad instead of the napkin to finish tending to my lip "—I really hoped your sweet, innocent disposition would stick around for a while. Seems that poison Hell for Leather administers to anyone who crosses their path contaminated you hard and fast."

Not sure what to say, I simply open my mouth, hoping the words will come on their own. Big mistake. Lace brushes along the shape of my split lip and slips her thumb slowly into my mouth. Her fingers uncurl, lengthening along my jaw as the pad of her thumb finds my tongue and swirls around it.

Lace leans in until we are nose to nose, tilts her head to the side, hooks her thumb behind my bottom teeth, and applies enough pressure to open my mouth wide enough to swipe her tongue inside.

Thumb still hooked, she pulls back long enough to whisper, "Good thing for you, I happen to really like the contaminated ones."

The emphasis she applies and how she moves in afterward for an all-consuming kiss goes straight between my legs. I shift on the stool, release her 33

wrist, and my hands dart up to cup her cheeks.

Having her face between both of my palms fills me with a thrilling sense of possession.

Kissing her is easier this time. Doing it is familiar. No one is around.

I feel…

I feel…

I fe— Oh, God. There was more than alcohol in that drink. "L-Lace, Y-y-you dru—" I slur, unable to get out any more syllables, my tongue suddenly the weight of a brick in my mouth.

No, no, no! Panic seizes my chest because I have no idea what to do or how to handle this. My phone weighs down my breast pocket like a handful of stones, and while my lax fingers itch to pull it out, my hands now feel even heavier than my tongue. I know my time is growing limited.

Lace tenses, gaze flicking to my jacket as though she read my mind. We both move at the same time, but because she is of a more sound mind, she is quicker and removes both my personal phone and the burner from my inside pocket in an instant. In the next heartbeat, both devices go flying down the length of the counter, out of reach. I sway on the stool, and Lace hops off the bartop to steady me, her

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small hands gripping my arms as my body droops against her.

The last thing I see before everything goes black is the thick teardrop that drips off her trembling lip. "I am so sorry," are the last whispered words that meet my ears.

*TO CONTINUE, PURCHASE THE FULL COPY ON AMAZON!*

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR Adell Ryan is a hubby/wife pseudonym. Adell writes unconventional love stories about fierce women and their numerous male suitors. Because let’s be honest, we need more than one to satisfy our multi-dimensional needs. Right? Ryan simply puts up with Adell’s crazy fantasies and toots her horn regularly. Occasionally he’ll add in a shoulder pat, and a deep, sexy “Damn that’s good stuff.”

That southern boy (bless him) stole this northern girl’s heart and they live together in the deep south, raising their three boys. When Adell isn’t writing she’s homeschooling — primarily working on dictation, making sure they say ‘creek’ instead of ‘crick’ and ‘fire’ instead of ‘fer.’ She also dabbles in photography and graphic design. Oh yeah, and reading. Every. Night.

Much to Ryan’s dismay. Sometimes she puts the steamy stuff down and gives him a quick kiss on the forehead though.

To be the first to know about new releases and exclusive behind-the-scenes stuff, join the fun in her FB Group: facebook.com/groups/authoradellryan/ You can also check out her website at https://www.adellryan.com and sign-up for her newsletter.

Still not enough? Find her at the listed social media platforms as well!: Goodreads BookBub

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