Unattainable (12 page)

He just couldn’t.

He had to fuck this bitch, he had to
hurt her. He wanted—no,
needed
—to watch himself disappear
inside of her knowing she could do nothing about it, that she was
helpless, powerless, that he was in complete control, that he was
going to get off at her expense.

Not Ellie.

Oh, fuck. He wanted to get off; he
wanted it bad. He let the walls down, let the memories come,
allowed them to take him over, spin wildly in his head. All the
touching, groping, not being able to stop his erection even when he
was crying, begging
her
to stop, and she was drunk and
moaning, forcing him to touch her as she held him down and lowered
herself down on his cock.

He grew harder just thinking about it,
harder and sicker. What was wrong with him? He didn’t understand
how something so vile, so motherfucking awful, had become something
that perversely turned him on, made hurting women result in easing
his sickness.

He had to come, he had to come, he had
to fucking come. Worse, he had to think about his foster mother,
about the sick and twisted shit she’d done to him, while he tried
to come and to do it, to go through with this, he had to remind
himself that the bitch passed out facedown on his bed was just
that. A bitch. A useless fucking club whore who didn’t do shit with
herself except pass her dirty pussy around to his brothers. All
except him. But she would, she would fuck him willingly too if she
knew what he actually looked like.

But he didn’t want her to want him. He
didn’t want her to touch him. He just wanted to fuck, wipe out
these fucking thoughts inside of him after a week-long buildup of
jerking off…about things no man in their right mind would ever jerk
off to.

But he wasn’t in his right mind, had
never been. He’d been brutalized at such a young age he didn’t even
know what it felt like
not
to feel fucked-up. Fucked-up was
all he’d ever known.

Clenching his teeth, feeling the acidic
rise of bile in the back of his throat, Dirty slid inside the
whore. His first tear fell along with his first thrust, and then
his second, and his third, and then he was silently yet openly
crying, his tears landing on the tattooed back of the woman beneath
him.

He didn’t care about her; she was just
a whore and he didn’t care. Squeezing his eyes shut, he fucked her
harder, envisioning his foster mother, envisioning what she had
done to him and then…

Fuuuuuck. There it was, what he’d
needed. The image, the memory that would send him over the
edge.

Years later, after he’d finally gotten
his shit somewhat together, he’d gone back to New York City and
turned the tables on her.

His rich, bored, fucked-in-the head,
piece-of-shit foster mother.

She hadn’t even recognized him. He’d
been twenty-three years old, standing on her doorstep, and she’d
looked down on him like he wasn’t of importance, like he was
garbage. No, like he was worse than garbage, like he was
nothing.

“
What do you want?” she’d
asked, frowning as she looked him up and down.

He hadn’t answered, he couldn’t. His
head was spinning, his thoughts were clouding up, and his eyes
began to water. Directly behind her, the wallpaper, the carpeting,
the smell wafting into his nostrils, bourbon and Lysol, everything
was exactly the same. Even her. She was still beautiful, still so
regal, so put together.

And as she went to close the door in
his face, his leg had shot out, his boot had slammed into the door,
effectively throwing it wide open and catching the bitch off
balance, sending her stumbling backward and sprawling on her
backside. He’d stormed inside that house of horrors and the pain
those four walls still held within them radiated out and triggered
something he hadn’t felt in a very long time, something from deep
down, from his childhood. Helplessness. Confusion. Fright.
Anger.

All of those emotions, they had pulsed,
roared, screamed, and shouted; pushing, punching, clawing, and
digging their way out.

Before she could get to her feet, he
was on her, and she screamed as he straddled her, forced her legs
apart, and then pulled his piece and held his gun to her
head.

“
Shut up!” he roared and
her mouth snapped closed as she trembled beneath him.

“
Please,” she begged, her
voice wavering. “Please, I have money.”

He stroked her cheek with the cool
metal as he fumbled with the hem of her silky dress. “It’s okay,”
he whispered, unzipping himself. “You’re going to like it, I
promise you, I’m going to make you feel good.”

Her pretty hazel eyes went wide and her
glossy lips parted. “Michael,” she breathed.

“
Not anymore,” he hissed.
“You made sure of that.”

Feeling dizzy with adrenaline, drunk on
power, combined with the overwhelming need to make her hurt, he
shoved the barrel of his gun in her mouth and a mere heartbeat
later, his cock inside her.

And when he was done, he blew her
fucking brains out.

Now he was attempting to feed Ellie and
failing, when he heard her laughing. He stared at her, watched her
pretty face alight with humor, and something shifted inside of him.
It was such a pleasant sound, so light, so feminine, something he’d
heard before but never directed toward him, never because of him.
And…he liked it. It turned him on.

Being attracted to women for something
other than physical traits was something completely foreign to him.
He grew flustered and uncomfortable, his heart started pounding,
and he broke out into a cold sweat.

The bag of popcorn fell from his hand
and then he quickly crossed the living room, his jaw locked, his
fists clenched, refusing to look at Ellie, refusing to breathe
until he’d slammed the bathroom door behind him, locked it, and
sank down to the floor, his hands already fumbling with his jeans,
releasing himself.

With one arm slung across the closed
toilet lid, he bent his head down, resting it on his forearm as he
began to stroke himself. He focused on Ellie’s torn, bloodstained
clothing lying in a small pile in the corner of the bathroom, and
his cock surged forward.

Ellie’s sweet laughter echoed in his
head, even as he pictured her half-naked, bleeding in the alleyway,
and later, bruised and battered, standing naked before him,
vulnerable, helpless, looking to him for things he could never
offer her. Then he pictured her fully clothed, giggling over burnt
popcorn.

And then pictured himself knocking her
out, taking away her control, hurting her, listening to her scream,
making her cry, fucking her.

His hand squeezed around his cock as he
increased the speed of his strokes.

The dual images, the sounds of screams
and laughter, continued to assault him. He tried to focus on just
one thing, the pain or the…

He didn’t know…

In the end it was the sound of her
screaming, crying, the look of fear on her beautiful face that
finished him off.

Breathing hard, shaking, Dirty lifted
his head and looked down at his lap. And promptly threw
up.

Seated at the far end of the dining
room table, I watched Cage stomp into the kitchen, past the island
that separated the cooking area from the dining area, and grab the
closest chair, next to Cox. Fuming, he sat down hard and slumped
backward, his thick arms folded across his chest. I knew that look,
had seen it a million times on his face growing up alongside him.
And if I hadn’t already heard Deuce laying into him, as if
everybody in the house hadn’t, I would have already known that was
exactly what had happened.

I actually caught my emotions start to
lean toward him in sympathy and the urge to touch him, to comfort
him arose, the strong feeling every bit as familiar to me, as
natural to me as when we were children.

Before he’d—

Oh no, I wasn’t going to feel bad for
him like I used to. No way. Cage was a slut and dumbass, and it
wasn’t my fault Deuce liked to remind him of that every other
second.

Deuce was next to storm into the
kitchen, giving out glares as freely as he breathed. As much as I
appreciated all the man had done for me financially, he had such a
serious caveman complex that I was loath to comprehend what Eva saw
in a man that was just so…

I glanced back at Cage, then again to
Deuce, and shut down my line of thought. I knew exactly what Eva
saw in Deuce. It was the same thing I saw in Cage. It was the
reason I kept sleeping with ZZ. They were all just so…

Men. They were fucking men. Hard-core,
badass, live by their own set of rules…men.

Goddamn, I was such an
idiot.

Taking his seat at the head of the
table, Deuce gave everyone his signature once-over, then he
growled, “Eat.”

And eating commenced.

I rolled my eyes.

“
Tegen?”

I glanced to my right where Kami was
offering me a large bowl of mixed vegetables, looking more like a
vegetable model than a mother of two, a wife of a heavily tattooed
biker just passing a dish full of food. Tall, waif-like, blonde,
blue-eyed, and beautiful, Kami was a runway’s wet dream.

She smiled at me. “It’s nice to see you
at dinner, T. You should come home more often.”

Forcing a smile, I accepted the bowl.
Avoiding all carrots, I took a small helping before dishing my
brother out an equally small, carrot-free helping, and then passed
it to Danny.

“
Carrots are good for
little kids,” Danny said, frowning at Christopher’s
plate.

“
Carrots are fucking
disgusting,” I retorted, my bad mood rearing its ugly
head.

“
Carrots are fucking
disgusting,” Christopher mimicked and Cox burst out
laughing.

“
See,” I said, smiling
sweetly at Danny. “He agrees.”

Danny glared at me, her icy blue eyes
narrowed in annoyance. “Oh, shut up,” she said, sounding every inch
like the valley girl she resembled.

“
Momma!” Harley cried,
looking properly horrified. “You said shut up is a bad
word!”

“
Mommy tells Daddy to shut
up all the time,” Diesel said, pointing at Kami.

“
She tells him way worse
than that,” Devin muttered.

Ripper started laughing, only stopping
when the fork Kami threw at him nearly hit him in the
face.

“
Hey!” Danny
snapped.

“
Damn, Ripper,” Cox said,
snorting. “You’re so pussywhipped you need your old lady defendin’
you?”

“
Cox, don’t speak,” Kami
said. “It makes you less hot.”

“
Shut up isn’t a bad
word,” Ivy said matter-of-factly. “Goddammit is a bad
word.”

“
It is a bad word!” Harley
insisted.

“
It is not!” Ivy
screamed.

“
Stop it,” Deuce growled,
looking at his youngest daughter. “You don’t need to be sayin’ it
either.”

Ivy’s face contorted into what I liked
to refer to as Danny’s prissy angry face. “You like her better than
me!” she screamed. “You wish Harley was your daughter and not
me!”

Harley grinned at Ivy. “Papa loves me
best,” she said, her tiny voice sugary sweet.

Eva closed her eyes and let out an
exasperated sigh. “Nobody loves anybody more than anybody else.
Everybody loves everyone the same.”

Cage snorted and Deuce turned his glare
on him while Ivy stuck her tongue out at Harley, who scowled back
at her.

“
Fuck me,” Deuce muttered,
picking up his beer and taking a long swallow. Setting it down, he
looked at Eva and pointed his beer toward her stomach. “That kid in
there better not be a girl. And will someone give me the
motherfuckin’ salt?”

“
You put enough salt on
already!” Eva yelled.

I tuned out after that, listening but
not really, pushing my food around on my plate as the bickering
continued much the way it always had. Nothing had changed, not even
with the latest wave of bikers and old ladies-to-be.

Just another generation of aspiring
criminals and the sad, pathetic women who will love them despite
their inability to keep their dicks in their pants.

Halfway through the horrible ordeal, my
endurance nearly shot, the doorbell rang. Ivy shot out of her chair
and raced through the kitchen, screaming, “I’ll get it! I’ll get
it!”

My head started pounding.

“
Hawk is here!” came the
high-pitched scream from the foyer. “Hawk is heeeeere!”

The pounding in my head
worsened.

Hearing his father’s name,
Christopher’s green eyes widened. “Daddy!” he shrieked, jumping up
to a standing position in his chair.

Ivy came skidding back through the
kitchen, Hawk’s booted feet pounding the linoleum behind her.
Surprisingly he was freshly shaven, his mohawk trimmed, and not
wearing his usual leathers but instead a clean pair of jeans, a
plain black T-shirt, and his Horsemen cut.