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“He killed him.” I fought for air. “I had forgotten, but… he killed him.”
“Who, baby?”
“Lorenzo… he killed his own da.” After a long deep breath, I started to calm down and fall back to sleep. “He’s vile, Duke.”
Lynx held me tight. “Shhh… Sleep.”
I did.
Sitting in the back seat, happily flipping through pages of one of my magazines, I peered up at Vice when he asked me, “Why would we throw a blanket?”
Surrounded by such wonderful men, I was more peaceful than I could ever remember being in my whole life. Freely, I giggled. “Because they don’t belong to a bed. You can toss them to whoever is in need. I will have one someday. Everyone should have a throw blanket at their disposal so they can snuggle with it. Like in a real home.”
From the front seat, Legend whispered to him, “It’s probably still the drugs.”
Next to me, Lynx chuckled.
“Keep laughing, VP,” I said. “Soon, I’ll be tossing one at your head.”
An abundance of male laughter boomed as we drove down another road, me finally awake and fully coherent.
“So, what kind of theme do you guys decorate your—” I stopped. “What do you call your home again?”
“Our home,” Lynx not so delicately reminded me. Then… “Clubhouse.”
Vice chortled, “Is a stripper pole considered décor?”
I blinked in horror. “What?”
Legend grinned at him. “I think that was a no.”
Back to flipping pages, I asked, “VP, you don’t enjoy women on this pole, do you?”
Quickly, there was a, “Hell no. Gross. Despicable—” As the two men up front howled laughter, Lynx snickered, “Fuckers,” readjusting his sunglasses.
“Hmmm,” I mused. “I’m smelling bullshit. VP, looks like we need a ‘come to Jesus’ meeting.”
Legend celebrated, “Give ’em hell, girl!”
Grinning big, Lynx barked, “Pops! The fuck?”
Vice shrugged. “Sorry, bro. The club is desperate for a strong woman to watch over us lunatics.”
My heart pinged with a touch of pride. They think I’m strong.
I asked, “No wives visit the clubhouse to take care of you?”
Legend sounded remorseful when he said, “The ones still alive decided the lifestyle isn’t for them.” He stared out the windshield at a row of trees, solemnly adding, “As you’ve already seen, it’s no easy road to travel.”
He was right, but after Lorenzo, these Stallions seemed like sweet puppies that just happened to like to play with guns, knives, and motorcycles.
After what I had been through, all the trafficked victims, the murders, the ruthlessness… it was very possible a ‘normal’ man would never be able to handle me, nor be enough for me. He wouldn’t be able to relate to my criminal knowledge, nor would I be able to unsee all that I had already witnessed and lived through.
Instead of bringing down the mood in the truck, having these men rehash pasts that couldn’t be changed, I teased, “So, what kind of free reign do I have with being the only woman of the club? Decorating how I like? So far, I’m envisioning a large pink leather couch.”
Three sets of shoulders seized.
“Purple sparkly barstools—”
