Chapter 11
2272words
The rest of the four-hour flight to Carlsbad goes without a hitch. Meaning, no more probing questions, thankfully. Not even half an hour with her, and she was already gleefully slicing me open with her words. It only made me want to retaliate, but physically. I want her naked and squirming while I drive her mad with my mouth. And from the pink flush in her skin, she wanted me too.
The flush that I notice as she passes by me to disembark the plane, is still on her skin.
For fuck's sake, has she got me on replay in her head or something?
Sapphire refused to give any more details about her home apart from saying it's half an hour from Carlsbad airport, so of course, she drives while I sit stiffly in the passenger seat of the rented Impala. Apparently, the Mercedes I had waiting for us ‘isn't an option.' Again, she refused to elaborate further.
The moment we touched down, something about her demeanor changed. It was like she'd stepped out of a bustling street and into her own backyard. She seemed less tense, her limbs looser, and with a bit more sway to her hips. Sexier. As if that were even possible.
As she slowly maneuvers through the sparse traffic, silence stretches between us, yet neither of us feels inclined to break it. It seems we don't do very well with small talk, as previous attempts have often led Sapphire to wield her sharp wit, prompting a visceral need in me to make it stop.
So instead, I pull out my phone to catch up on updates from Damon.
Merely ten minutes after leaving the airport, Sapphire drives into an old shopping mall's parking lot, choosing a spot among the many empty ones.
'Feeling the urge to shop?" My question hangs in the air as she switches off the engine and steps out of the car.
I follow her out onto the side, where she stops for a moment and looks me over from head to toe, an assessing light in her eyes. 'I'm afraid you need to change, Mr Vitalo," she states, her tone suggesting it's non-negotiable.
Why the hell does she insist on calling me that?
I gesture to my all-black ensemble. 'I'd say this is rather fitting for a funeral."
'Yeah, if you want to stick out like a sore thumb," she retorts with a hint of impatience. 'You're welcome to wait here, but I need a change of clothes myself."
Puzzled, I tap the trunk, where her luggage is. 'Didn't you pack anything suitable?"
'No, because I don't have the kind of clothes I need back in Chicago."
My curiosity is piqued. 'What kind of clothes do you need?"
'You'll see," she spins on her heels. With a captivating strut, each step a study in seduction and command, she heads toward the shops.
I follow her to the mall, and I'm surprised to see her going into a store with more leather and chain than a BDSM dungeon.
But what is most shocking is that fifteen minutes later, I, Zade Vitalo, am dressed in a pair of tight black distressed jeans, a soft black T-shirt, a leather jacket, and a pair of combat boots. Clothes she picked out. Before leaving the dressing room, I tuck one of my guns into my boot and another into the waistband of the jeans since my shoulder holster would be rather conspicuous.
I step out of my cubicle and wait in the communal area of the dressing room. Sapphire is still behind the thin partitions, only a few cubicles down—which is as far as I would let her wander in this impromptu excursion. The attendant wisely chose not to stop us both from going into the men's changing room.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the slightly cracked mirror.
Fucking hell, I look like my own nightclub doorman decked out in his Sunday worst. Damon would laugh his fucking head off if he saw me right now. The last time I went out dressed like this in public was in high school.
This is not only ridiculous. This is fucking karma. I wonder how much penance I'd have to pay for ever conspiring to kill this woman.
And then Sapphire walks out of her cubicle, and all reason evaporates as my jaw just about hits the floor.
She's wearing black jeans that cling to her curves with an allure bordering on illicit, paired with a low-cut tank top. The top is laced up the sides with silver chains, revealing teasing glimpses of inked skin between each lace and showcasing a cleavage that could wake a dead man.
And as if that's not enough to drive me insane, she's traded her sensible pumps for a pair of knee-high boots with stiletto heels sharp enough to double as weapons. Her usually restrained hair is now loose, cascading in dark waves down to a point well past her waist, completing a transformation that's as breathtaking as it is maddening.
Sapphire looks like she's just walked out of my dirtiest fantasy.
She shakes her head as I look her over. 'Eyes back in their sockets, Mr. Vitalo. I'm your therapist, remember?"
I want to laugh because her eyes are roaming over me as well. But my humor dies when I realize her gaze isn't moving away from the bulge in my pants. She stares, almost as though she can't help herself.
I slowly advance on her until I'm crowding her into the wall, bending until my lips are next to her ears. 'I could say the same about your roving eyes, fiammetta, although I'm not one to complain about such things."
The pulse at her neck beats a mile a minute as her breath hitches, 'You're my client, Mr Vitalo. So, even if I was willing to look past the fact that you're a dangerous psycho—which I'm not, by the way—there is no way this," she says, motioning back and forth between us, 'can happen."
I step even closer to her. There's about a hair breath of space between us, but I'm careful not to touch her. 'Didn't you know? Rules were made to be broken."
And if ever a rule was begging to be broken…
'Mr Vite—"
'Zade," I growl, rearing back to stare into her eyes. 'Say it."
I see the moment her pupils dilate. Christ, this woman is fire with the way she responds to my words. 'Go on," I coax more gently.
'Zade," she breathes, and fuck if it doesn't feel like a lick on my cock. I lose it when I feel her small hands creeping up my abs, and my name leaves her lips again, this time on a moan, 'Zade…"
I have to taste her right now. As I bend to crush my mouth to hers, a nasal voice cuts through our sensual fog.
'Did you find everything okay?"
The store attendant's timing couldn't be worse.
Sapphire's tawny eyes shift from a dreamy haze to wide-eyed alarm in an instant. She looks like a deer caught in the most glaring of headlights, seizing the moment to slip away. In her hurry to get away, she leaves behind not just me in the dressing room, but also her clothes and shoes, forgotten in the rush to escape.
Inevitably, it falls upon me to pick up after her—fate, it seems, has a sense of irony.
After I pay and get our clothes packed up, I meet her waiting by the Impala, her expression carefully blank.
'By the way, why the hell are we dressed like this?" I ask, since it doesn't seem like dragging her back into the dressing room and kissing her is an option.
She remains silent, offering only a smile in response—a genuine, radiant smile tinged with a dash of slyness that I haven't seen before.
Christ. That can't be good.
Back in the car, I figure we're in for a half-hour-long trip of stony silence, so I settle against the backrest to start up another slew of calls, but Sapphire suddenly asks, 'How did you and Leo meet?" Her gaze is fixed on the few cars ahead of us.
She's going to start this again? It's as if she knows where it hurts most and wants to keep poking at the wound.
I keep my expression light. 'He sucker-punched me," I offer. It's harmless enough information.
Her eyebrows lift, and her gaze flickers over me, leaving a trail of heat before swinging back to the road. 'I find that hard to believe."
'Hey, we were six years old, first day of school," I continue, recalling vague snippets of that day. 'He came up from behind on the playground and punched me in the back. Next day, I walked right up to him, cocked back, and punched the little asshole square in the nose—none of that sneaking up from behind shit."
She chuckles, a soft, warm sound with a cute snicker that makes me wish she'd do it again. 'And I suppose it was all smooth sailing from there?"
I nod, smiling at the memory. 'We'd worked our shit out."
At a red light, Sapphire's gaze shifts to me, assessing, before a smile quirks her lips. ‘Boys,' she mutters, a hint of sadness in her voice. As she refocuses on the road, her eyes shimmer with unshed tears.
Sapphire is more deeply affected by this guy's death than she's letting on. I wonder if she's masking her grief for my sake or if, like me, she's unwilling to let herself feel because it would be too overwhelming.
'Cade punched Rafe the first time his dad brought him—" She slams her lips shut. 'Sorry. Never mind," she says, and it's clear by the closed look on her face that she'll say no more.
But damn, if I'm not far more interested in finding out just who ‘Cade' and ‘Rafe' are than I should be.
It's almost thirty minutes later when she swerves onto the side of the road and stops the car.
'We have to change seats," she says, once again elaborating no further. She gets out of the car and circles around to the passenger side with the car still running.
I step out of the car as well, but I wait, my gaze fixed on her, demanding an explanation. Not that I have any qualms about taking the wheels—in fact, I'd much prefer it. Sapphire's cautious driving and overly polite approach to every roadside interaction, combined with her habit of slamming on the brakes without any apparent cause, have, to say the least, been stretching my patience to its absolute breaking point.
Still, I make no move to slip obediently into the driver's seat. 'You pick out a sluggish car, have me dressed up like a clown, and now you're choosing your driver because what, you're suddenly tired? Get back in the damn car and drive, Sapphire."
She rolls her eyes. 'I mean it, Zade, if we show up with me behind the wheel, they'll spend the next twenty-four hours looking for my penis and your vagina."
I laugh. I can't help it. Who the hell are these people of hers?
'Just get on with it, Zade. You wanted to be my ‘plus one,' well, here goes nothing," she mutters then she sidesteps me and slides into the passenger seat. 'We're heading to a small coastal town called Harmony. I'll give you directions."
I take the wheels, and in a few minutes, we arrive in Harmony. Sapphire guides me through increasingly deserted and narrow streets. A flicker of concern crosses my mind that perhaps her home might be some forgotten place at the edge of civilization.
However, the reality awaiting us is a stark departure from my concerns. It's far from the dilapidated scene I had braced myself for, yet in many ways, it's so much worse.
'Make a right through there," she says, pointing to an open chain-link gate at the end of a long dirt road. A smug smile dances at the corners of her lips, a hint of triumph in her eyes that she can't quite suppress.
The entire lot is surrounded by a tall chain-link fence, and there's a large brown-brick building with a porch near the front of the lot.
And about thirty Harleys parked in front of the large building.
'An MC clubhouse?" The notion intrigues me, and I try to reconcile the Saphisticated woman I first met in her pristine office with the raw, untamed spirit of a motorcycle club—though, admittedly, she could grace any Harley poster and put the other models to shame. It explains why she seems to have a spine of steel, and the change in attitude the closer we got to here.
She simply nods, her gaze shifting toward the side wall of the building, which is adorned with an expansive graffiti mural. ‘The Reaper Druids,' declares the bold lettering above the image of a weathered skull, with green flames melting the eye sockets and a Celtic knot proudly etched onto its forehead.
'Home sweet home," she says, her voice quiet and caught somewhere between horror and awe. But underneath those, there's a warmth in her tone she can't quite hide.
Every hair on my body rises as I park in an empty space between the Harleys. Normally, in places like this, I'm accustomed to asserting dominance, dictating outcomes as men fall in line or fall altogether, serving my interests from rackets to intercepting consignments. Club presidents often align their businesses with mine as fronts for laundering and arms dealing.
