Pulling an arm out from behind his head, Gunz rubs a palm down the center of his stomach to his bulge. He squeezes there and groans, his eyes locked on mine. That wicked tongue samples his bottom lip, leaving a wet sheen behind.

  “If things were different, I’d ask you to sit on my face,” he admits out of nowhere, continuing to massage his erection to full mast, not an ounce of discomfort or remorse to be seen.

  Shocked by his brashness, I swallow hard but remain poker-faced. There’s no need to show how much I’d love to try that. Not that I have any experience in that field.

  He’s not done. “Then I’d tongue fuck you ‘til you couldn’t walk straight.”

  My knees almost give out at the thought. “Erik,” I breathe.

  The sexiest I-wanna-eat-you-alive smirk hooks at the corner of his mouth. “When the time comes, and you decide to pick me back, I’m gonna do that. Right here. In our bed. I’ll devour your pussy ‘til you beg me to stop. But I won’t, love. ’Cause you’ll be mine… and I ain’t never had anythin’ be all mine.”

  Oh.

  “Erik.” I open to mouth to say… what? I don’t have the slightest clue. But he cuts me off before I can say something I’ll regret.

  “Don’t say anythin’, love. Just get your fine ass up here.” He pats my side of the bed. “Take that stupid hat off first, so I can see your sexy head for once, and then read to me. I wanna hear all about Rhage and his old lady.”

  Doing as instructed, I throw the beanie onto my nightstand with flourish. Gunz chuckles. Refusing to let my lack of hair own me, I do one better and remove all my clothes, down to my sensible blue lace panties. No bra. Nothing. Emboldened by him and my faux confidence, I pretend I’m just as sexy as I was when we first met. When my tits were perky, and I didn’t have tiger stripes across my abdomen. When cellulite was just a word other women had to deal with. Then I crawl into bed beside the man who turns my world upside down. Chibs joins us, making his own kneaded doggy bed at the end of ours, in the corner, facing the door.

  Ignoring the fact I’m mostly naked in front of Gunz for the first time since Adam was conceived, I coolly collect the book from the nightstand, prop my back against the wooden headboard, stretch my bare legs out, and read.

  By page three, I gather enough courage to glance over at a quiet Gunz. Propped on his side, he stares at me. Pupils dilated. Breathing labored. Cock straining the cotton of his boxers. A dot of precum soaks into the fabric, changing the gray to a darker color in that spot. I turn back to the book before I do or say something stupid.

  “Love?” His voice sounds like chewed-up gravel.

  I keep my attention focused on the book. “Yes?”

  He draws a single digit down the side of my arm. “You’re fuckin’ perfect.”

  Oh. Damn.

  I blush down to my toes, my heart pounding a thousand miles an hour.

  Gunz

  If the Devil was real, Kit would be his muse. He’d protect her from everything. Fuck her for eons. Worship the ground she walked upon. Drink her fucking bath water. Because this is what perfection looks like. This is what men go to war for. What men die for.

  Christ.

  Locked in a fucking trance, I listen to the goddess read. Words don’t permeate, but her tone sure does—light and airy. Articulate. Smart. She knows what she’s doing. So fuckin’ brave. So fuckin’ exquisite.

  Soft, handful-sized tits hang the slightest, with big ripe nipples, needing to be sucked on, chewed on. I gorge on her form as Kit pretends I’m not as hard as a rock over here. As if I’m not ready to suffocate in her pussy. As if I’m not fucking addicted.

  Keeping my hands to myself, for her sake and my own, I listen, and I savor, every inch, every second. Colorful ink coats her body in a tapestry of art. Legs and arms, part of her side. Jeweled lace beneath the breast, making those tits even more mouthwatering.

  In the warehouse, I caught a glimpse of this. But it wasn’t the same. Years ago, when I fucked her into oblivion, it wasn’t the same then either. That was the girl. This is the woman. A grape turned into wine. A road map of life… of experience.

  For hours we hang. Every now and again, I lean in and kiss her thigh, liberating the smallest of sighs from her—a soft, throaty, content sorta sound. On her side, in the juncture between hip and ribs, I drop another kiss, atop one of her biggest stretchmarks. Not wanting to pull away from her peaches-and-cream scent and her warmth, I linger there, needing to remain close. To touch her in any way she’ll allow, without crossing lines.

  Cupping the back of my skull, Kit presses my head to her stomach. “Rest.”

  Curling up to Aphrodite incarnate, I relax a cheek on her belly and slide an arm underneath her legs to get extra comfy. My hand cups the meat of her ass cheek on the opposite side. I open my mouth to ask if this is alright, but her slight shiver and a pat on my hand communicates all I need to know. This is good. She’s happy. I’m fuckin’ happy. Rhage is fuckin’ happy.

  I could do this shit for eternity.

  And I will.

  Come Hell or high water, this woman will stay mine.

  If I don’t fuck it up first.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  KIT

  Six Weeks later

  Standing in front of the kitchen sink, sipping the last bit of tea from my favorite hand-thrown mug, I rest a hip against the countertop, and watch Gunz load our dishwasher. “Would you just talk to me?” I beg. “Please tell me what’s going on.” My voice cracks alongside my poor, achy heart.

  He says nothing. He won’t even look at me.

  A person clears their throat.

  I blink and then frown, trying to remember why I’m here.

  Centering myself, I draw circles across the arm of the couch I’m seated on.

  “How has everyone’s week been? Is there anything you’d like to discuss?” our dark-haired, lean, pencil-skirt-wearing, group therapist asks from her seat beside me on Loretta’s hideous, well-kept 1970s autumn-colored, wood-trimmed velour couch. If you’re old enough to know, you know the one I’m talking about—wheelbarrow and trees. Odd texture. A sofa someone in your family likely had growing up. Only this one is in Loretta’s sitting room. A space she’s designed to look like the ’70s came for a visit and puked all over the space. Wood-paneled walls, orange shag carpeting, geometric printed curtains, with plants on every surface, including a few hanging from the ceiling. It’s a trip. Literally. I’d hate to be high in this place. Not that I’ve lit up since college. But I’m willing to bet this is Blimp’s favorite room.

  We’re here for our weekly therapy session. Five weeks ago, Big, ordered we attend these together at Loretta’s house since it’s next to Jade’s and easily protected. Jennifer’s our therapist. She’s about as nice as you’d expect and has experience with women who’ve been sexually assaulted.

  Jade hates her.

  Loretta’s indifferent.

  I’m ready for the next five weeks to be over with, so I don’t have to deep dive talk about my feelings anymore. Trust me when I say, I appreciate therapy. I also appreciate what this woman is trying to do. But it’s apparent to the three of us, her experience with rape victims doesn’t include kidnapping, murder, or motorcycle clubs. The first thing we covered was Niki’s death. That I didn’t find out about until a few days after I was living on the compound.

  The following week, we had her wake along with Runner’s. A two in one, if you could call it that. It felt like more of a party, with drunken antics and club whores, than a celebration of life. It was nothing more than a reason for men in leather to screw whatever available pussy they could get their paws on. Gunz and Adam both stayed for the bash as I, and most of the women, left the men to their devices. I wanted no part in it. Neither did they.

  Especially when a van load of young, topless women wearing short, schoolgirl skirts rolled in carrying six-packs of beer. I heard one of the brothers say this would have been Runner’s wet dream. Another said Niki would have loved it. I can officially say I’ve never attended a wake that resembled anything of the sort. Nor would I want to attend another like it again.

  A single look at the topless women draping themselves all over Gunz, my son, and the taken brothers, I thought I was gonna be sick. Two days later, I began searching for apartments. Every one of them I’ve called to get a showing has bailed. Said they had no vacancies, or I wasn’t approved. Except for the one I’m viewing this afternoon, thanks to Bink and her influence.

  I wish I could say the past six weeks have been a glorious, life-altering cuddle fest with a particular sexy biker. Sadly, the honeymoon bubble has exploded, and along with it, my childish fantasies of romance and belonging. Each day that goes by, it’s more apparent I need space, as does Gunz. Sure, we still sleep in the same bed. Still eat at the same dinner table with our son each night, trading off cooking duties. We spend time with his granddaughter, Harley, the most adorable one-year-old on the planet.

  But we don’t touch anymore.

  The forehead kisses and hand-holding have left the building.

  He’s gone.

  The night of Niki and Runner’s wake, the man I knew disappeared, and in his place is this new zombie of a person I don’t recognize. He smiles little, works a lot, and comes home drunk more times than not. It’s early to work, dinner, then disappear into the clubhouse. By midnight, he’s crawling into bed, reeking of alcohol. I’ve asked him what’s wrong repeatedly. I’ve tried to figure out why things have changed. All I can deduce is he doesn’t want me there anymore, but he doesn’t have the courage to ask me to leave. Even if that’s not why, he still won’t tell me what’s going on.

  So, I’m taking matters into my own hands, for both our sakes and my sanity. Because if I have to attend these therapy sessions to deal with my own trauma and live with him like I have been, I won’t survive another week, let alone a month.

  Seated on an overstuffed brown chair, Jade plays on her phone, paying Jennifer no mind. The fierce, tatted-up, curvaceous beauty I call friend has little patience for these visits. She’ll sit, say a handful of words, and disappear back into her phone for the rest of our hour. Today, she’s wearing a black-and-white polka dot dress, black chucks, and a beanie.

  True to her eclectic tastes, our hostess, Loretta, is rockin’ a new wig to cover her still mostly bald head. Well, she’s decided to keep hers that way. Easier to wear wigs, she says—now that she’s bought a dozen different kinds in assorted colors and styles. Today’s is long, sleek, and black—akin to Cher’s hair. It pairs well with her leopard-print shorts and slouchy, off-the-shoulder tank.

  I wish I could say I look as good as any of these women, but my lack of sleep, abundance of stress, and boredom, has caught up with me. Holey jeans, a band shirt, and flip-flops. No frills. Only mascara. Not even a hat. I’m starting to embrace the baldness in my own way. This quarter-inch hair is the starting point to doing just that.

  When none of us reply to her questions, Jennifer cuffs both hands over her knees, an irritated tell, and tries a different tactic. “Have any of you begun exploring sex again, like we’ve discussed?”

  Eyes rolling to the heavens, Jade snorts, and Loretta does as she always does when sex is the topic of conversation. She overshares. Tuning her out, because I don’t wanna hear about her and Blimp’s sexual exploits, I join Jade in playing on my phone. It’s a gift from the sisters. A new, secure line, with all the modern advancements—the latest iPhone.

  A couple of weeks ago, Jennifer asked about our sex lives during one of our sessions and encouraged us to take baby steps to see how we feel about sex now, in the wake of our trauma. She said it’s perfectly normal to explore our boundaries and triggers. The thing is, Jade is celibate. Has been for ages. I might as well be labeled the same. I haven’t had consensual sex in forever. With the current state of my life and hers, neither of us are going to be exploring our boundaries and triggers anytime soon. This leaves Loretta, who has jumped feet first into the deep end with her man—fucking like rabbits.

  This isn’t helpful.

  Or healing.

  It’s an hour out of my week, spent talking to women I already talk to daily, about shit we already talk about, if that makes sense. Except it’s with a therapist who, no doubt, reports her findings back to Big. We are under no illusion there is any sort of confidentiality here.

  My phone vibrates with a text through our collective sister thread.

  Jade: If I gotta listen to Loretta talk about her sucking Blimp’s dick one more time, I might scream.

  Me: She’s your best friend.

  Jade: I know.

  As if on cue, Loretta sweeps her hair over her shoulder and starts talking about blow jobs, using graphic hand gestures, and making slurping noises.

  Refusing to encourage her behavior, I stifle a laugh. Jade does the same as she looks up at me, arches her brow in a see-I-told-you way, and returns to texting.

  Me: I think this is so Jen will report back to Big.

  Jade: Look at her. The woman is blushing.

  Me: Loretta has that effect on people.

  Jade: This is ridiculous. Did she just make a choking sound? As if this woman has a gag reflex. I’ve known her forever. That’s not a thing.

  Me: Maybe we should have Loretta run these sessions from now on.

  Jade: Agreed. I’d much rather talk to you both when I’ve had a nightmare than to Jen. Do you remember the day she cried when we told her about the woman who died and was left to rot in the closet with us? I don’t want a therapist who cries. I know what we went through was fucked up. I don’t have to come to terms with that. Healing takes time.

  Jade’s right. Session two was heavy on Niki’s suicide and Julia’s murder. We didn’t get far before Jennifer had to take a moment to gather her composure.

  While these sessions haven’t been the most productive, something positive to come from the last six weeks we’ve been home has been my relationship with the sisters. We talk each morning and before bed each night. They know about Gunz, just as I do about White Boy living on Jade’s couch most nights, and Blimp’s hovering. And it’s not just them. I’ve gotten closer with the sisters on the compound, too. Bink, Deb, and the others I’ve been introduced to—Jezebel, my wild, across-the-street neighbor. Pixie, the colorful-haired, petite, tattoo artist, who owns the shop Jade works at. Daisy, Bink’s sister-in-law. Jo, Bink’s half-sister. Candy Cane, another OG of the club. You also can’t forget the kids—from Leech, Deke’s daughters, Deb’s sons, to Jezebel’s kids, Tati, the teen I first met, and Janie and Dom.

  On our same chat thread, Bink chimes in.

  Bink: Not to rain on your parade, Kit… butttt the apartment today is a no-go. Just got a call from them.

  Ugh. Another one bites the dust.

  Me: Why does this keep happening?

  Bink: I’ll give you two guesses but you’re only gonna need one.

  I figured as much. After the first two apartments fell through, I started to get suspicious. Now I know it must be the case—Gunz.

  He won’t let me leave.

  But he doesn’t want to keep me either.

  This man needs to make up his mind.

  I refuse to live like this anymore.

  In limbo.

  Miserable.

  If I can’t move into a local apartment to stay close to Adam, then I’ll do the next best thing. A hotel. I’m tired of sleeping next to a liquor store and waking up to an empty bed.

  I’m just… tired.

  Not wanting to be rude, I sink into the couch, suck up these warring emotions to deal with later, and pretend this isn’t that bad.

  At least it’s not the warehouse.

  At least I’m alive.

  At least my son is safe.

  Me: Thanks, Bink. I’ll figure something out.

  Bink: We got you no matter what.

  Jez: Gunz needs his ass kicked.

  Jade chuckles at Jez’s message as I hide a private smile. They have me. Have. Me. A woman they barely know. A woman who doesn’t deserve their loyalty. Jez is ready to commit violent crimes of the foot-to-ass variety. These really are my people. Women I don’t deserve, but I’ll cherish all the same.

  Mind made up, I tell them my plans. They’re minimal and off the cuff.

  Pack. Give Chibs to Jez for temporary safekeeping. Leave after dinner. Hotel.

  What do they do?

  They have my back.

  Bink books the hotel under a fictitious name to keep my identity a secret. Jez is excited to have Chibs for a while. Pixie will open the gate when I’m ready to leave because nobody would expect her involvement.

  In less than the hour it takes for our therapy session, everything is mapped out, and I’m ready to take the next step.

  Freedom is finally within my reach. No more limbo.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  GUNZ

  Closing my eyes for a beat, I massage the bridge of my nose, tryin’ to stay on task and focus for a solid minute without a fuckin’ problem. My head’s pounding, stomach churning. I’m runnin’ on a couple of hours of shit sleep, and once again, I’ve had to run interference on another apartment Kit has tried to move into.

  That’s not happening.

  Not now.

  Not fuckin’ ever.

  For the second time in less than five minutes, the vision that continues to plague me paints the back of my eyelids. I try my damndest to force it away. I don’t wanna see her. Not now. Not again. But the bitch won’t stop haunting me. When I’m awake. When I’m asleep. She’s there. I can feel her breath on my neck. Her tongue on my balls.