Heavy: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance, page 1
Heavy
A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance
Cate C. Wells
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright 2021 by Cate C. Wells. All rights reserved.
Cover art and design by Clarise Tan of CT Cover Creations
Cover photograph by Golden Czermak or FuriousFotog
Cover model Nick Pulos
Edited by Nevada Martinez
Proofread by Kayla Davenport
Special thanks to Lily Luchesi of Partners in Crime Book Services, Kara M., Elisabeth J., Sara F., Katee R., Layne K., Erin D., An C., and Nina V.
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Contents
Chapter 1
DINA
Chapter 2
HEAVY
Chapter 3
DINA
Chapter 4
HEAVY
Chapter 5
DINA
Chapter 6
HEAVY
Chapter 7
DINA
Chapter 8
HEAVY
Chapter 9
DINA
Chapter 10
HEAVY
Chapter 11
DINA
Chapter 12
DINA
Chapter 13
HEAVY
Chapter 14
DINA
Chapter 15
HEAVY
Chapter 16
DINA
Epilogue
Want A Deleted Scene?
About the Author
1
DINA
I wish everyone had a name like Heavy Ruth. It’d make life so much simpler.
He’s heavy. He’s ruthless. He’s labeled.
No guessing or trying to pick up cues—no wondering if a twitch is a facial cue or the beginnings of a sneeze. How straightforward everything would be if you learned a guy’s name, and you knew the important things right away.
I like straightforward. I like simple. I like predictable, quiet, and in my control.
And I hate every single agonizingly awful second of this present moment.
I’m perched on the end of Heavy Ruth’s bed, my stomach knotted and queasy, my brain numb from the buzzing. I snuck into his room at 4:26 a.m. Now it’s 7:37 a.m., and he’s still sleeping. He’s on his back, splayed like Da Vinci’s perfect man—the circle pose, not the square.
Da Vinci would not have used Heavy Ruth as a model. His proportions are all wrong. His head’s too big, for one. It’s hard to tell whether he has a prodigiously large cranium or if it’s all that hair—the bushy black beard and the wild black mess on top of his head—but it throws off the symmetry.
His chest is big, too, but it’s on scale with his legs. If his thighs are thick tree branches, then his chest is a massive trunk, and his head is the leaves. The dimensions are correct for a sequoia, but not for a man.
He snuffles, hacks a cough, and scratches his crotch. My breath hitches, but he doesn’t wake up.
Realistically, he could sleep for several more hours. I cannot sit cross-legged and cramping by his enormous feet much longer. I’ll have to pee. I don’t have to now, but I will, and worrying about it prompts my wonky brain to produce cortisol, and cortisol surges always make me have to pee.
I pick at my nails—I don’t even try to stop myself. Desperate times and all.
I could poke Heavy very lightly. Or make a low humming sound. He’d wake naturally, and he might not immediately lunge for the pistol on his night table.
The gun—it’s a 9 mm Sig Sauer with a thumb safety—is three inches from his right hand. If he startled awake and went for it, I might be able to drop off the bed and onto the floor before he could squeeze off a round. But, I can’t do a rough estimate of my odds since I have no idea how fast he can aim and fire.
Pretty fast, I’d bet.
The gun is a complication. I didn’t notice it until I’d already eased onto the end of the bed. I’d tried to creep back off the bed and hide it away from him, but the motion almost woke him, and he’s much closer to the gun than I am.
It was an obvious complication to overlook, but when I’m overstimulated, I only register the broad strokes in my surroundings.
It’s like opening your eyes underwater. You can see, but it’s disorienting, and you’re more focused on not drowning than the scenery.
Motorcycle clubhouses are overstimulation central. Loud, smelly, and lousy with simultaneous visual stimuli. Even though I was staring at the floor, and I only stole glimpses to navigate up here to the bunks, I saw multiple pairs of bare tits and one flaccid penis.
At least Heavy Ruth’s room is dim and quiet. It smells earthy—like wood and old books. It’s not a bad smell, per se, but it’s strong. There are too many visual stimuli here, too. I mostly stare at his feet poking at the sheet, but I slide a glance around the space every so often.
An entire wall is dedicated to a murder board. Like in a detective show. Photos and newspaper clippings and index cards are connected by red string and thumb tacks. I don’t look in that direction again. If I tried to make sense of it, my battered brain would crack.
There are full bookshelves. More books stacked on the floor. A table with a chess set.
Above his bed, there’s a poster of a pin-up girl from the sixties. I can’t stop checking it out. She’s naked, on her knees and leaning back, propped on her hands, her huge, perky breasts thrust up, smiling from ear to ear.
I can’t tell if it’s a Duchenne smile or not. She’s contracting her zygomatic major muscle, but she’s wearing too much eyeliner to tell if her orbicularis oculi are engaged.
Duchenne smiles are genuine. All other smiles are warnings. I learned that from social skills group back in middle school.
I hate smiles. I wish they came with labels. Clear ones like “real” or “sleazy.” Not “Duchenne.”
Heavy sniffs again, and I straighten my spine, but then he lets out a whistly, grumbly snore. Ugh. This part of my plan is subpar. I hate waiting, and I really hate waiting in one position. It twists my innards, and I get bloated.
I could tickle the bottom of one of his big feet. His instinct would be to reach down, not toward the gun at his side. Or I could touch his dick. It’s tenting the thin sheet as much as his long feet. He has an erection. It started twitching about a half hour ago, and it’s been rising steadily since like a ghost in a sheet.
I’m no expert, but it seems disproportionately large in terms of length and girth. And bulbosity of head. It’s as if a stout prairie dog wearing a stormtrooper helmet is alerting. Or a fat man’s fist is slowly thrusting upwards.
And it’s twitchy. What kind of tensile strength does a dick that size have? Prodigious, I bet. I could nudge it and find out. Kill two birds with one stone.
But it would be wrong to touch Heavy’s dick without his consent. By that logic, it would also be wrong to tickle his feet. But my lower stomach aches. I’m wearing leggings. I can’t pop a button and ease the pressure. I need to move. What can I hum?
What song would wake a man like Heavy Ruth in a good mood?
“Are you just gonna look at my cock, or are you gonna touch it?” A bombastic bass voice, gruff with sleep, rolls like thunder from the head of the bed.
I jump in my skin, choking on a breath.
He’s awake. His eyes are wide open. They’re pitch black and glittering, which is strange since the shades are drawn, and the room’s cast in gray shadow.
Eye contact is too much, so I dart my gaze back to his dick.
“It would be wrong to touch it without your consent,” I mumble.
It seems even bigger now, but I think it’s a matter of angle, not an actual increase in size. It’s pointing more towards his head than the ceiling.
“I consent,” he rumbles, drawing himself up, sniffing and hacking, until he’s settled upright against the head of the bed. The sheet falls down, baring his chest. Yikes.
He’s very muscular. A man his size should be more barrel-chested, but he has definition. Slabs for pecs. His abs aren’t a pack; they’re chiseled from the rock-hard mountain of his torso.
And he’s hairy. I wouldn’t call it a pelt, per se, but it’s no smattering. It trails in a downward direction, laying flat, not wiry. Is it soft or scratchy like a horse’s mane?
His dick is still covered by the sheet, but black curls and a hint of purplish-red peek out. I’ve never seen an erect penis in real life. Growing up with four brothers, I’ve seen plenty of flaccid ones. And a lot of bare ass. Especially Cash’s. He’s an idiot.
I flash a glance at Heavy’s face. His eyes crinkle at the corners. He licks his lips and dips his gaze down to his lap.
He wraps a massive hand around the base, over the sheet, and slowly strokes toward the head. The motion pulls the sheet lower. I can see a
Logically, it’d be hot. It’s blood flow, right? Increased blood flow causes a rise in temperature.
But how hot? Warm like a blush? Or burning like when you bake in the sun in the middle of summer?
“It’s okay,” he urges. “Come closer, little girl.”
He strokes it again, root to tip. A damp spot shows up on the fabric.
I raise up on my knees. I need to take the pressure off my belly, and I’m antsy. Squirmy.
“You can do whatever you want. Come on,” he urges.
I like those words. I can never do whatever I want. I can’t now, either, of course, but I rerun what he said through my memory so it’ll stick. You can do whatever you want.
I am curious, but I don’t actually know what I’d do with a dick. I’m on the internet all day long. I’ve seen porn. I understand the possible permutations, but I haven’t thought through what I’d try, if the opportunity arose.
It’s definitely “arisen.”
“Well?” he prompts.
I dart another glance at his face.
Oh. Ugh. He’s smirking under his thick beard. Smirks are the opposite of Duchenne. It means he’s mocking me. I don’t like being teased. I’m an easy target, and people who make fun of an easy target are assholes.
I scooch backward and slide off the foot of the bed.
“Pass.”
He lets out an exaggerated sigh and arches a thick black eyebrow. “Then, what can I do for you, Miss…?”
I blink a few times, try to sift out the extraneous stimuli and find my way back to my train of thought. I wander over toward his murder board, but I’m careful to keep my back to the wall. If I look, I’ll get lost again.
It’s time to execute my plan. I designed it so that I don’t need to think clearly to put it in action. I knew I’d be overstimulated. I just need to follow the script. I draw in a deep breath.
“It’s not what you can do for me; it’s what I can do for you,” I begin. I stole that line from a movie.
“You still have my consent, baby.” He licks his generous red lips. Then he stretches his arms over his head, biceps bulging, as he yawns like a sea lion and cracks his neck.
He isn’t taking me seriously. I clench my teeth. It doesn’t matter. He will.
I plunge ahead and recite my next lines.
“I have proof that in 2001, Des Wade and Anderson Watts planted five crates of black-market Kalashnikovs in a box truck driven by Stones and Knocker Johnson with the intention of framing the Steel Bones Motorcycle Club.”
I sink back against his murder board. A push pin digs into my shoulder blade. I force myself to watch his face. I hate it. It hurts. But I need the information.
His expression had been relaxed, lips curving up, but as I speak, it transforms. He bares his teeth, narrows his eyes, his jaw jutting. His entire body tenses, and somehow, he seems bulkier.
My heart kicks up its pace.
He rises from the bed, allowing the sheet to fall—and he’s naked and hairy and bulging with muscle. He crosses the room in one giant step to loom over me, vibrating with menace, almost seven feet tall, snarled hair falling over his shoulders, fisted hands the size of hams.
My heart goes even crazier, thumping against my ribs. I need to run, but he’s between me and the door.
No. Stop. No running. This is a panic response. I just need to breathe through it and wait for him to reply. Then I say my next line. All I need to do in this moment is be still.
But my body thinks he’s a predator, and I’m prey. I’m itching to bolt. I could duck him. Big is slow, right?
But I’m not in real danger. Come on brain. You know this. I have what he wants more than anything else in the world. I’m in control. I force myself to suck down a breath.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, little girl,” he finally says.
His voice has lowered, impossibly deeper. Shivers zip down my spine, and I break into a cold sweat.
I cough to clear my throat and visualize my script.
“On August 7, 2001, Steven Wayne Johnson and his son, Brian Lee Johnson, were pulled over by the state police on Route 29. By no coincidence, there was a photographer there from the county paper.”
I bet the photo from the front page is on the wall somewhere behind me.
“What’s your scam?” Heavy widens his stance, broadening his shoulders. He was already a giant before. The move is gratuitous, but my body recognizes it as aggression.
My heart bangs. It’s going to explode and bust out of my rib cage like an alien in the movies. The contents of my chest cavity are going to leak all over his expensive wool carpet.
I dig my nails into the skin on the back of my hand, letting the pain center me. My heart is fine. It’s reacting normally to stress. I just have to keep going.
I swallow and plunge ahead.
“It was a setup. Watts used his clout—and the local hand wringing about rising crime—to push through a stalled development deal for the Petty’s Mill waterfront. Des Wade, the developer, made millions. Anderson Watts used the publicity to tip a close race for state senator.”
Heavy looms closer and closer. He still has an erection. His flushed dick bobs every time he breathes.
“What’s your name?” he bites out.
I assume he’s glowering down at me threateningly, but my gaze is glued to his dick. It’s pointing up at me. The vein pulses.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say to it. “Do you want the evidence you’ve been looking for or not?”
He bristles, his chest vibrating with vicious, animalistic reverberation as he spits out, “If you’re gonna proposition me, little girl, look me in the eye.”
I can’t. Not now. “Pass.”
I can force myself to maintain eye contact with my mom or my best friend Rory, but in this moment? No way. I wouldn’t be able to speak.
He lurches forward, bracing a thick arm on the wall, caging me in. His forearm is larger in diameter than my calf. Veins pop from the muscle. He’s not even flexing.
“You don’t get to pass,” he says, grabbing my chin.
I screw my eyes shut.
He digs in, bruising my jaw. “What’s your name?”
“Boris Stasevich.”
“Your name is Boris Stasevich?” He forces my chin higher ‘til my neck stretches as far back as it’ll go. I keep my eyes closed.
He’s so close. Heat radiates off him. He smells like the outdoors. Wood and leaves and tilled soil. Also beer.
He could snap my neck. He could bash my head against the wall. Blood pounds in my ears.
I have a script. I have what he wants. I’m in control.
“Boris Stasevich sold Watts the guns,” I manage, my voice quavering. “Stasevich was extradited five years ago. As part of his appeal to stay in the U.S., he gave testimony against Watts and implicated Wade.”
“Bullshit. Never happened. That would have been national news.”
“The feds buried it. Stasevich lost his appeal. They put him on a plane to Moscow. He was dead within weeks.”
He’s silent for a moment. I can hear him breathing.
“Very entertaining,” he finally says. “You read a lot of spy novels?”
“I don’t like fiction.”
“You sure like telling stories.”
“I have the affidavit.”
“Show me.”
“I want something in exchange.”
He laughs, bitter and booming. It blasts over me, and now I tremble. If he weren’t holding me up, I don’t know if I could stand.
I grab his wrist. His fingers don’t loosen their unforgiving grip on my jaw. I’m in control, but he’s stronger. A fear response is natural. He’s killed before. Many times. That’s why I’m here.
I can’t help it. I peek up from under my eyelashes. His lips twist, his eyes blaze. With the hair, he looks entirely uncivilized, a prehistoric man, a creature of violence and rage and appetite.
