Tank

“Open up, babe,” he says, with a grin that suggests he wants me to open more than just the door for him.

“I can’t. Tank has this place locked up tighter than Fort Knox.”

Killer points to the little white box on the wall.

“I don’t know the fucking code, genius,” I snap, and glare at him through the thick tinted glass. “Otherwise I would have used it to get out of here hours ago.”

He rolls his eyes. “Bitch, shut up and punch in the fucking code, already. Three, five, zero, four.”

I do as he says and the little red light on the box turns green as it beeps. I unlock the door and jump at Killer so he has no choice but to gather me up as I wrap my legs around him. “Hey, baby. Ya miss me?”

I kiss him smack on the lips and he kisses me back, his tongue pushing into my mouth and playing there. He walks us over to the couch and lies me down, but then when I reach out and touch his cock he pulls away as if he’s been stung and takes several steps back, ru

“Why not?”

“Because I appreciate having a dick.”

I stare in confusion and blow off the comment by reaching for him again. “It is a very nice dick. I promise I’ll be gentle.”

Killer paces out of my reach. “It’s not you I’m worried about, darlin’. It’s your bodyguard.”

“Tank’s not here,” I say impatiently.

“Don’t matter. He’ll know. Trust me, the fucker sees everything. Even when he’s nowhere to be seen.”

“So what? Tank doesn’t own me. I’ll fuck whoever I want.”

“Oh, but he does, darlin’. See, you don’t know ’cause the last time you jumped my fucking bones you were too high to remember it, but he laid me out, and then laid claim to you. No one’s allowed to touch you anymore, Ivy.”

All the blood drains from my face. “Motherfucker.”

“Yep, that’s Tank.”

“He can’t just claim me,” I protest, folding my arms over my chest and unfolding them again when the effort of holding them there hurts too much. “I’m not his.”

Killer grimaces and sits down on the couch beside me, playfully patting my thigh. “Yeah, you pretty much are.”

“This is bullshit. I don’t belong to him. I can fuck whoever I want.”

“Not anymore.”

Fury burns through my veins and turns them all to ash. I’m go

“Ivy. No.”

He turns his cheek. I won’t lie, it hurts like a son-of-a-bitch, but I recover quickly and go to work kissing my way down his neck, writhing in his lap. His cock is hard and my body is just as responsive to him. My panties are soaked.

“Bitch, you gotta cut that shit out—oh fuck.” I move my hand between us, tug his zip down and slip my hand into his jeans, pulling out his cock and stroking him. “Ahh. NO!” He jumps up from the couch, unseating me in the process, and I land hard on the floor and whack my spine on the edge of the coffee table. All the bones in my body jar as they grind against one another. My flesh smarts, and so does my pride. Killer sends me an apologetic look and tucks himself back inside his jeans, though not without some difficulty.

“I’m sorry, babe. You know how fuckin’ hot I am for that arse of yours, but you’re my brother’s old lady, and I appreciate my balls far too much to lose them.”

Ignoring his proffered hand, I shoot up from the floor, even though I feel it in all of my muscles. “This is fucking ridiculous, you know that, right? You can’t claim someone who doesn’t want to be claimed.”

“Have you seen Tank? No one is go

I don’t sit. I’m too angry to sit. I don’t pace either, because that would hurt and take way too much energy.

“Anyway, clubhouse is kinda lame without you, babe,” Killer says, picking up the remote from the coffee table and switching on a game. “Everyone’s calling dibs on Brooke, ’cause Prez won’t let us touch Raine, and Neisha’s got her strap-on all fuckin’ twisted up in Crazy’s arse. It’s slim fuckin’ pickings at the club. Prez is go

“She’s not Kick’s bitch,” I snap, too loudly. Too aggressive.

Killer narrows his eyes. “Actually, darlin’ she sort of is. At least he’s acting like she is.”

I can’t hear talk of Kick and the woman he replaced me with. Not today. I can’t. I stalk into the kitchen, so he won’t see the tears forming in my eyes. “What the fuck are you doing here, Killer?”

“Prez’s orders. He sent Tank off on some club business, so Tank called me. It’s your lucky day—before I walked into the clubhouse, Prez was about to send Country.”

“Do you have drugs?”

“What? No,” he says, but that’s the thing about spending time with liars—you become really good at spotting a bad one. “Anyway, what the fuck have you been doing out here?”

I frown and sigh deeply, and then I head over to the coffee machine and start banging shit around to eliminate some of my frustrations. “I’m detoxing. What the fuck do you think I’ve been doing?”

“And how’s that working out? I see you’re acting bitchier than usual.”

“I want to strip my skin off, Killer.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. Fuck is right. Only I haven’t done any fucking, because Tank is an arsehole.”

“He’s an arsehole that cares about you. We all are. We’re go

I love Killer; he’s like the sibling I never had. I mean, aside from the fact that we have sex a lot—or used to—but sometimes I could strangle his a

“Wow. That sounds like a really fulfilling job,” I mutter.

“I don’t fuckin’ know what he has in store for you, babe, but you can kiss fucking the club brothers goodbye, ’cause it ain’t go

“Sorry. It’s coffee or that herbal tea shit that Tank likes to poison me with.”

“What the fuck? Bastard didn’t tell me there wouldn’t be anything to fucking drink while I babysat your arse.”

“Alcohol is still a drug,” I say, mimicking Tank’s deep, growling baritone. “We’re eradicating everything to do with fun.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ. And here I thought this detox bullshit was just an excuse to get you up here and make you his house mouse?”

“Welcome to my own personal hell, Killer.” I smile like a Stepford wife, though the anxiety gnawing at my chest doesn’t have me smiling for long. I need a hit. He must have some on him; this is Killer we’re talking about. Tank would have threatened him, but I know Killer. He can go about as long as I can without a line, and that’s not long at all.

I make coffee and Killer gets up, removing his hoodie and his gun, and setting them on the table. He never takes his eyes from the game once. I take the mugs to the lounge room and sit on the couch. We watch a bunch of ’roid-raging athletes run around the field with a ball. AFL, or some crap—I don’t pay too much attention. I just sit quietly as Killer slowly becomes more and more absorbed. After a while, I get up and say, “You want something to eat?”