Fallon by Jessica Gadziala

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Five

Danny

 

 

 

 

I felt like I could still smell him on my skin.

I'd showered twice since I'd gotten home.

Once just to wash off the sweat and sex.

The second because I felt like I could still feel him all over me.

But even after a night of restless sleep and my second shower, I still caught a whiff of him when I moved around.

I knew, logically, there was no way there was any trace of him on me after I scrubbed my skin red, but it was there, a scent memory that refused to go away. So I went about my morning with a constant reminder running through my head about what we'd done.

Which was the stupidest thing in my entire life. Which, let me tell you, is saying something. I wasn't a woman who'd played by the rules, stayed in her lane, and did what was expected of her. I'd gotten myself into one sticky situation after the next. I'd done a lot of shit that could have been life-ending, not only life-ruining.

But fucking the president of a rival MC?

Yeah, that topped the cake.

For many, many reasons.

But a lot of it boiled down to the obvious fact that it wasn't a predicament any other MC president would find themselves in. So if my club—or any club—found out what happened, I would lose all credibility.

Hell, I might not even live to suffer the humiliation of that discovery.

I held no illusions about my place in the boys' club known as an outlaw motor club.

I didn't get to make mistakes like the men could. I didn't get to show weakness. I didn't get to have flaws.

I always had to be on my game. There was no such thing as an off day. There damn sure was no way that I could screw up to this caliber and keep chugging on.

I needed to find a way to compartmentalize it in my head. And then I needed to move forward like nothing happened.

It was the only way.

"Thinking about the shooting?" Grandpa asked, making me whip around, finding him leaning against the wall near the steps, two cups of coffee in his hands.

"The only reason you're not getting chewed out for not knocking is because you brought me coffee," I said, taking it from him.

"I did knock."

"Oh."

"You were busy pacing."

"I do that," I agreed, taking a deep breath, then letting it out, trying to shrug the weight off my shoulders.

"I know. I remember thinking you were going to wear through the floor of the old clubhouse when you were a kid. So, what are you pacing about? The shooting? You've lived through worse."

That was true.

I'd gotten out of the whole ordeal unscathed.

Physically, anyway.

"No," I admitted, knowing that I was too worn out to lie convincingly.

Grandpa, being who he was, didn't push. Instead, he waved his mug toward the whole of the basement and declared, "I really like what you've done with the place."

Alright. Admittedly, I was nobody's interior decorator. I had never been around enough women in my life to pick up tips on house making. I mean, sure, there had always been the clubwhores. But they were always more interested in talking about dick size or tongue game than throw pillows and wall colors.

I'd done some work since Grandpa had last been down, though, and as much as I hated to admit it, I was a little disappointed that he didn't seem to notice. Even if a lifetime around men had taught me that they really weren't the most observant creatures the world had to offer.

I'd taken the dull, dark, gray cinder block walls and slapped a coat of off-white on them to make it seem less like a dungeon since the only light I got was from the tiny casement windows that faced other buildings that tended to block a lot of the sunlight.

My queen-sized bed was no longer sitting on the floor, but rather had a frame and a nice, matching bed-set. Like I was a whole grown-ass human being. I'd taken some old, abandoned cabinets that must have been torn out a decade ago, fixed them up, and made myself a little kitchenette complete with a mini-fridge, coffee pot, and microwave.

Sure, there was a long way to go. I hadn't done anything to paint or soften up the cold, hard, paint-splattered cement floor. I had nothing on the walls. And my clothes were sitting inside a makeshift dresser built out of old milk crates that had been left by the previous owners.

But I'd made some progress.

"The bed is... unexpected," Grandpa added, making me realize he did pick up on some of the changes.

Turning, I inspected the bed through eyes that weren't my own.

And, okay, yeah, I could see it.

I'd gone for a white metal bed frame which, in and of itself, was almost like it came from a cottage. But the bedspread and shams were a cotton Jersey waffled quilt set in a blush color so light I was sure none of the guys would be able to tell it was pink.

After an entire lifetime of having all my choices dictated by what the men in my father's club would think, I had gone a little rebellious with the pink.

The only other way I had a little feminine rebellion was with my fancy underwear sets, things my men would never see.

"It was on sale," I said, brushing it off. "But I—"

"Yo, Danny," Pops called down the stairs. "Got a problem," he added.

"Ugh, if you guys broke something else, heads are going to roll," I grumbled, charging up the stairs, mind on some big plumbing or electrical or window replacement bill heading my way.

"No, actually, it's the Henchmen," Pops said as I moved out into the hall that led into the bar.

"What about them?"

"The president is here."

"Reign is here?" I asked, pushing through the door into the bar.

"No. The other one."

"Fallon?" I asked, heart tripping even as my stomach sank.

"Yeah."

"Tell him to fuck off," I said, shaking my head, hoping my tone sounded as indifferent as I tried to school it to be.

"Tell him yourself," Fallon said, making me grind to a stop, turning to find him standing just inside the door with two of his men.

One was the one who used to cage fight. Niro, I think. A fitting name, since he looked like a young Robert De Niro.

If I had to guess, he was the muscle.

The other was someone we hadn't been able to figure out yet. We knew his name was Brooks and that he built like a high school linebacker with dark skin and light brown eyes. According to my guys, whenever they saw him out with his brothers, he never really talked much, hardly drank, and rarely spent any time chatting up women. Work-focused, it seemed.

So he was the brains, I guess.

"Okay," I said, turning fully to face Fallon as I straightened to full height and casually rested my hands on my hips, widening my chest and stance, wanting to take up room, look like my role. "Fuck off," I said, chin raising.

"We need to talk," Fallon insisted.

An instantaneous cold sweat broke out over my skin as I became all too aware of my men scattered around, watching, listening.

"The fuck we do," I said, tone cold, sharp, cutting. It had to be, or it wouldn't hide the growing panic swirling through my system.

"We need to compare notes about the shoo—" Fallon started, trailing off when the door to the kitchen burst open at the side, and out walked a couple.

Well, no. That wasn't technically accurate. One of them was walking. The man. Tall. Massive, really. A big bear of a man with a full beard, medium-brown hair, and a belly that the clubwhores all found endearing.

The other part of the duo—a petite woman with thick thighs and red hair—was held upside down against his chest, her knees on his shoulders. With his face buried in her bared crotch thanks to her short skirt that was hiked up, giving us all a view of her ass.

"Munch," I called, barely able to keep my tone authoritative when he just kept walking, completely oblivious to all of us gathered around. "Munch, company," I called, making him lift his head from his task to look at the Henchmen for a second.

"Let's take this back to the cooler," Munch declared, burying his face as he turned and lead them back from where they came.

The door was still swinging when the woman let out a wail that said Munch's skills in that department hadn't gotten rusty.

"Munch?" Fallon asked, lips twitching.

Taking a deep breath, I prepared myself to have no reaction to my words.

"He likes munching on muff," I supplied tone dry.

There was a split second of heat in Fallon's gaze before he let out a chuckle that had no right to be as sexy as it was. "Who the fuck says 'muff' these days?"

"It was from a song or some shit," I said, shrugging. "Anyway. Back to you. Being in my clubhouse. Uninvited. Leave."

"I'm not leaving until we compare notes on the shooting."

"Wanna bet?" I asked, aware of my men standing, moving inward in case I needed them.

"Danny," Fallon said, tone softer than I expected. The sound shivered over my skin, making goosebumps rise on my arms and across my chest.

Damnit.

He had no right to affect me like that.

"Fallon," I shot back, though my tone wasn't anywhere near as soft as I folded my arms across my chest.

"You're going to potentially let your club get taken out because you're a fucking stubborn ass?" he asked, and his tone wasn't soft anymore.

"My club can take care of itself."

"Not against a damn near invisible threat, it can't."

"Do you have information to share with me?"

"I'll share if you share," Fallon said, shrugging.

I had to agree, right? That was what my men would expect. To put my personal distaste for him aside to potentially protect the club as a whole.

"Fine. What?" I snapped when he glanced around the room.

"You can use the kitchen," Grandpa suggested, reading Fallon better than me, it seemed.

"With Munch?" I shot back, snorting. "No."

Silently, I added, And all the apartments are occupied too.

And then the bastard I trusted more than anyone else in the world went right ahead and betrayed me.

"There's the basement," he suggested, face so blank that I couldn't tell if he was picking up on something, or if he was just stating the next logical place to have a private conversation.

"Fine," I hissed, chest going tight. "But your men stay here with my men," I demanded.

"Seems fair," Fallon agreed as he started to follow me.

Was I imagining it, or had his voice gone tense too?

Wishful thinking, probably.

He had the upper hand and he knew it.

If he told his men that he'd fucked me, he'd be the hero, and I would be the butt of jokes. If I told mine that I'd fucked him, the reception wouldn't be nearly as warm.

So there was no reason for him to be tense.

It was just me projecting my own growing anxiety.

It was a strange, foreign sensation. I'd never been prone to it before. I was usually running headfirst into the problem rather than giving myself time to get anxious about it.

I hated him more than I already did for that.

I charged into the center of my little basement apartment, whipping around to find Fallon standing just at the bottom of the steps, glancing around. He, like Grandpa, focused on the bed. Only with him, I couldn't figure out if he was looking because he thought the pink was ridiculous, or if he was having flashes of images about things we could do in that bed.

Again, probably just me projecting.

What the hell was wrong with me?

"This is where you live?" he asked, and I thought I caught a hint of distaste in his voice.

"Right. Because you live in the fucking Taj Mahal."

"What's with the attitude?" he asked, shaking his head at me.

"Just responding to your attitude."

"I don't have an attitude," he insisted. "There are apartments above the bar. Why would you be stuck in the basement like some thirty-five-year-old loser with no social skills?"

"It's private," I said, wanting to stay annoyed, but he really was being conversational. I was just on-edge because of what we'd done the night before. "You might not have a problem shacking up on top of one another, but I've had enough of that. I need space to breathe."

"And plan to open a bar," he said, moving forward to fiddle with my pile of books stacked on a TV dinner stand beside the bed.

"Don't touch my stuff," I demanded, voice tight.

This time, when he looked at me, I was sure there was a flash of heat in his eyes mixed with a teasing smirk that I wanted to slap off his face.

"Touchy," he said, turning, and sitting down on my bed.

"I didn't say you could sit down."

"And yet..." he said, waving toward the bed.

"Do you have any information to share with me?" I asked, refusing to be baited, not wanting him to think he got the better of me because of the night before.

"I have a long list of people I don't think it was. At least not organizations that would want to fuck with us. I figured we could compare that list, see if you have any beefs with syndicates we get along with."

"I don't have beef with anyone. We're a brand-new club, remember?" I reminded him.

"Bringing up stealing from us is probably not your best course of action," Fallon said, tone getting edgier, darker.

And, damn, but the man was hot when he was ticked off.

That was the problem, wasn't it?

I found him hot when we argued. And all we ever did was snipe at each other. Maybe if I chose a different tack.

Being cordial.

I couldn't claim to be good at it.

But I could try.

"My point is, we are a new chapter. We haven't had time to make enemies yet. Aside from you."

"What about your other chapters? Sister chapters? Mother chapter?"

"None of your business," I said.

The reason we had managed to be as successful as we were as a whole was because we all kept our mouths shut about the other chapters' business. Especially because our business model involved taking a chunk of whatever local empire was thriving. So it was different all over the country. Guns in Navesink Bank and Texas. Loan sharking and enforcing in big cities like Boston and Chicago. The list went on and on. But we only managed to do what we did because there was no real central power. Yes, sure, there was a mother chapter. But it didn't stick its nose in anything unless it became necessary to do so.

"For fuck's sake, Danny. We could have died last night."

"Oh, honey, was that your first shooting?" I asked, pressing a hand to my heart as my condescending tone snuck up in and under his skin.

So much for being cordial.

I mean, it was a long shot to begin with.

Old dogs, new tricks, and all that.

"Cut that shit out," Fallon demanded, tone biting.

"Or what?" I challenged, taking a step forward.

That was my mistake.

Because when he popped up off the bed, he was close. Way, way too close. Like feel my too quick breathing close.

"I get it, Danny. Okay? You're a badass. Fine. What-the-fuck-ever. You don't need to keep being an asshole to prove a point. I get it."

"Maybe I'm just an asshole."

"Maybe," he agreed, nodding. Then, leaning closer, close enough that I caught the smell of him again—leather and soap—he said, "Or maybe you're insecure about being a woman in a traditionally male position, so you lash out to—"

"I don't need a psychoanalysis from you, of all people," I cut him off.

"Right. All I'm good for is arguing and fucking, huh?" he asked, eyes a dark challenge.

"Well, I'm glad you recognize that about yourself," I said, reaching out to pat his arm, trying for condescending even as desire pinged off my nerve endings at his proximity.

"So you admit it," he said, shooting me a satisfied smirk, making me realize I'd somehow walked into a trap.

"I didn't admit anything."

"Except that I was good for a fuck," he reminded me.

"Don't flatter yourself."

"So that wasn't you coming around my cock, huh? That was some other female MC president with a bad attitude."

"Must have been. There really wasn't anything very memorable about the whole thing," I said, keeping my tone flip as I shrugged at him.

"No?" he asked, voice going smooth. "Want a refresher?" he asked, taking a step forward, his front pressing into mine as his hand grabbed my ass, then slid upward, hooking a finger into the waistband of my jeans and sliding it across my back, my hip, my lower stomach.

I had to say no.

No was the only answer in this situation.

Except, of course, no answer at all.

Which was what I gave him because my tongue felt fat and lifeless in my mouth.

"See, I think you're just afraid to admit that you not only wanted it, not only remember it vividly, but also want a repeat," he said, his palm flattening against my belly, then inching downward.

Standing so close, there was no way he didn't feel the way my breath shook in my chest, the way a tremble of anticipation moved through me.

My gaze slid from his, focusing on his mouth instead of his eyes, not wanting him to see the level of desperation in my eyes, to know the depths of the chaos he was creating in my body.

His fingertips teased the lacy line of my panties, dragging a low mewling noise out of me.

"Funny," Fallon said, voice a shiver. "That doesn't sound like a No to me."

My mind screamed no.

But my body?

All my body had was pleads for this man to touch me, to stoke the desire raging through my system, to release me from the grips of it.

Hearing no objection, actually feeling my pelvis press closer to his, his hand finally slid down under my panties, touching the proof of my desire.

"Doesn't feel like a No either," he murmured, head lowering so his lips were close to my ear. "You're fucking drenched," he added, his fingers stroking up my cleft for a moment before circling my clit.

His free hand slid up my arm, over my shoulder, then up the back of my neck, grabbing, and yanking me against his chest. His fingertips slid upward, curling into my hair, and giving the slightest of tugs, and holding as his thumb moved to my clit, and two fingers slipped downward, then sank inside me.

A low, throaty moan escaped me at the touch. It met the slow, deep exhale that escaped Fallon, like he was trying to hold it together too, like he was getting as wrapped up as I was.

My hand raised, curling into the tee he wore under his cut, holding on as his fingers started to fuck me. But not like the night before. He was unhurried, so slow that the need for release became painful, a clawing, desperate sensation between my thighs.

My hips moved in small circles as his fingers stopped thrusting, and curled instead, stroking against my top wall.

He drove me up quickly, then right to the edge. And with one more circle to my clit and stroke to my G-spot, the orgasm crashed through my system, leaving me pressing my lips to his chest to muffle the moan as it escaped me.

Fallon's hand massaged the back of my neck for a moment, waiting for me to come back down.

As soon as I did, though, he murmured, "Yeah," as his fingers slid out of me. "You don't want me at all, huh?" he asked as I shocked backward from him, watching as he slipped his fingers into his mouth, licking my taste off of them. "Keep trying to tell yourself that, babe," he said, turning, and making long-legged strides toward the steps, then jogging up them.

Alone, I tried to pull myself together as quickly as possible, brushing back my hair, taking a few deep breaths, then charging up the stairs behind him.

"So?" Niro asked Fallon as he moved into the bar.

"So, she doesn't have shit."

"Or she simply doesn't share her shit with just anyone who asks," I said, schooling my face into indifferent lines as he turned to face me, brow raised.

"That's how it is, huh?" he asked.

"That's absolutely how it is."

"And there's... nothing I can do to persuade you?" he asked. From the way he angled himself, I was the only one who saw how his tongue darted out to lick at the corner of his lips. But the fact that he dared to do it while around our men was enough to have my spine straightening, my jaw tightening.

"Not if you were the last ma—organization on the planet," I told him with a smile so fake it ached.

"Fine, get yourself killed," Fallon said, making Dutch, Pops, and Grandpa who were still gathered around stiffen and look toward me for cues.

"You first!" I said in my best honey-sweet voice, pairing it with a big smile and a little "toodles" wave.

With that, Fallon shook his head and moved toward the door, disappearing with his men.

"I take it that it didn't go well," Dutch said, lips twitching, always being a fan of when I was a bitch. Which was good. Because I knew I acted that way often, even if it was usually forced.

"Can anything ever possibly go well with that condescending prick?" I asked, making my way to the bar, going right for the vodka.

"His father seems pretty loved in this town," Grandpa said, running a hand through his salt & pepper hair.

"Yes, well, then his mother must be a real pain in the ass, because that apple fell far from that paternal tree," I said, taking a long swig of the vodka, enjoying the burn as it made its way down my throat.

"Did he have anything to say?"

"Only that they are as clueless as we are about the whole thing. They can't think of anyone who would want to take them out."

"Except us," Pops said, shrugging.

"We've been over this. We can't take them out. Haven't you seen how well-connected they all are? You fuck with the Henchmen, you not only fuck with them and their sister chapter in Florida that keeps growing, but you fuck with that weird-ass survivalist camp, some of the best contract killers and hired muscles in the area, the mafia, and likely even the fucking loan sharks."

"And that sister of his," Dutch agreed.

"His sister? Fallon's sister?" I asked.

"Yeah. Weird name. Ferryn, I think. She's a fucking lunatic. Has a bigger body count than all of us put together. If I remember it right, she's with one of the Henchmen. Vance, I think."

"It's hard to keep track of all of them," Pops said, shaking his head.

"Yeah, but you get my point. It's a clusterfuck. And unnecessary. We're getting along better than expected when we stole from them. And had their president kidnapped."

"So, if they don't think it's an enemy of theirs, and we don't really have one yet, then it has to be an outside threat," Dutch said.

"Yeah."

"Someone trying to take over the trade in the area," Grandpa concluded.

"Exactly," I agreed.

"So, research mode," Dutch declared.

"Yeah. I mean, I'm sure they are on that angle too. Especially with all those survivalist freaks on their team. But chances are, they aren't going to share that information with us. So I want as many hands on deck as possible to hit the streets, and start asking around. Ideally, I want to know who it is, and move in on them before the Henchmen figure it out."

I didn't want to say it, but we needed that. We needed to prove ourselves. Not only to the Henchmen and the other established organizations in town, but to anyone who might think that because we were new, we were weak.

"I'll start waking people up," Pops said, nodding.

"And where the fuck is my vice president?" I asked, throwing up a hand.

"He said he will be back soon," Dutch supplied. "Your father got his claws into him for a bit after he dropped off what we owed him."

"Alright," I said, rolling my neck, feeling the warmth of the alcohol chasing away the desire and embarrassment and the niggling emotion hanging around that felt a hell of a lot like shame.

Shame.

I'd never felt shame in my entire life.

It was one definite perk to being raised around bikers and the clubwhores. Everyone fucked and felt nothing about it. Which I'd adopted in my formative years. I'd never romanticized sex.

"Making love" was a phrase that didn't exist in my world.

I sure knew how to fuck, and I enjoyed it, and I never felt anything about it after.

I didn't understand shame.

I almost didn't recognize it when it started to course through me.

But there was no denying the swirling discomfort in my stomach, the weird sick sensation that rose up my throat when I thought about it.

I felt ashamed of being attracted to Fallon, of acting on it, of wanting more of it.

Feelings weren't my forte in general. So I was going to do what I did best. Drink about it until I could ignore it, then ignore it until it went away.

It was fine.

It would be fine.

So long as I didn't cross paths with him again.

But, well, fate had other ideas.