Overpossessive Read online

  I grab the bottle of Jack back from Kitka and use a big drink of it to clear my throat. When the liquid courage is fully flowing through me, I’m ready to lay it on this arrogant little bitch.

  “You want to make this interesting, Kitka? You want to actually challenge me on this?”

  She laughs as she asks, “On what, Sunny?”

  “On if I can get that guy to sleep with me,” I reply. Kitka pauses and looks me over. Her face transforms from that plastic fakeness to something more cold and terrifying. This was the real Kitka I knew.

  “Okay, Sunny. You go ahead. Try to sleep with him. I’ll even be nice and give you twenty-four hours to lock it down. But I’m not going to take your word for it or any of these hoes. You better come back with something.”

  “Like a prize!” Mary shouts as she claps her hands in excitement.

  Both Kitka and I turn our heads towards her, beckoning her to shut the hell up and mind her own business.

  I bite my lip and glare at Kitka again. “Oh, I’ll come back with something alright, and it won’t be just some hokey token to prove I bedded him. I’ll come home with something that’s really precious to him.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” she throws back, clearly not banking on me bringing back a personal possession of Bear’s.

  I take another drink, letting it wash over me. What’s done is done. And I just took on the bet of a lifetime.

  “You heard me, Kitka. I’ll bring back something very precious to the guy, and then you can suck on it.”

  “We’ll see,” she mutters.

  “Yeah, we will. Then we’ll see who has more respect around here.” I keep glaring at her until she is forced to look away—towards where Cobra is prepping our fighter.

  We all sit in stunned silence, but this time, I look on at Bear with a new, resounding determination. Kitka has pushed my buttons one too many times, and I am going to prove to her that I am worth my membership, even if it means sleeping with the enemy.

  Chapter Two

  Bear

  Dammit! Where the fuck is that guy with my drink?

  I’ve been out here for an hour now, waiting for the match to begin, and the least that little asshole could do is get my shot of whiskey like I asked him to. He’s taking too long. Everyone’s taking too long. I have no idea what the fucking holdup is, but things better get rolling soon, or I’m gonna get real damn antsy.

  I do a quick scan of the crowd. It’s definitely gotten bigger while I’ve been here. These matches are always a draw, even if you aren’t a member of the clubs dueling it out. It reminds me a little of that Gladiator movie where all the outsiders come and watch men get slaughtered by lions or one another. They get their kicks from watching men better than them rip one another apart until they’re dead or unrecognizable.

  My guy Cal told me not to take on the fight. There were guys way more experienced than me willing to duke it out. But shit if I was going to miss out on an opportunity to show my worth to the club. After ten years as a junior member of the Wilderkind, I have earned the right to wear colors and make some income off of my rides. Still, that’s not enough for me. I’ve got my eyes on the throne, and the only way I’m going to move up the ranks is to take on something huge like a fist-to-fist combat bout with an asshole Filthy Bastards member.

  The other guys call me a beast—partially because my name is Bear, but also because I take the savage path to everything. I’d rather rip a guy a new one than talk it out. And I don’t back down from something that will get my hands dirty or wet and red.

  It’s what got me in the club in the first place. I had been out of my house for a year or so. I lived on the streets doing odd jobs under the table for a few guys that owned a shady delivery service that was more focused on picking up than dropping off. I was given a job robbing this guy named Vance. Like usual, the owners gave me no info, just an address and what I was looking for—drugs, booze, and some jewelry. Nothing too special.

  Getting into Vance’s place was relatively easy for a guy like me. Back then, I was about a hundred and fifty pounds when wet. But I was quick and agile. All my lightweight boxing training had taught me how to use my lanky but tall body to get what I want. With Vance’s place, that meant just slipping in through one of those square pane windows most old school factories have. The place was dark enough that I could just jump down to the ground without alerting security, if he had any.

  However, I made the stupid fucking mistake of picking the lock of Vance’s office without checking first. See, Vance knew a thing or two about break-ins. The guy is a freaking master at them. And while he didn’t have security guards roaming the place, he did have the highest tech security system I had ever seen. Just me entering the main entryway of his business tripped a million damn alarms that silently signaled to him. Knowing I was there, he turned off the lights, grabbed a shotgun, and waited for me in his office next to his safe.

  He should have shot my damn head off. But, just my dumb luck, he didn’t. While he watched me rob his joint from his office, he saw something in me. At the time, he called it potential. I called it desperation. So, instead of killing me right then and there, he offered me a job with his club. It wasn’t much, but it got me some new clothes, a place to sleep, food and beer on the table, hot women to fuck, boxing lessons to beef me up, and a few bucks to call my own. In exchange, I worked odd jobs cleaning the bikes for the riders, learned the ropes on the whole dealer management, and even rode along to see how he did deals with the business owners in our neighborhood.

  And now, I’m here. I’m still not running the club, but Vance asked me to fight tonight, and I wasn’t going to disappoint him. All those years of him watching my matches were probably done to prepare me for fights like this where it was crucial we win. Each one we took home meant another piece of territory we fought back from the Filthy Bastards MC without having to spill some blood… well, other people’s blood, mine not included.

  I heard some guy on the radio say that adrenaline tastes metallic to the taste buds. It’s gotta be true because my entire mouth tastes like a motorcycle revving up to go. My hands contract and relax against the tight tape around my knuckles and wrists to the beat of the loud, rock music playing over someone’s speaker set. The rest of the crowd shouts over it as they make their bets.

  This would fuck with any other guy’s head, but not with me. I’ve mastered the way to tune it all out and focus on the task in front of me. I single out something away from the action and put all my efforts into it. For whatever reason, it helps me shut off my mind and drift away just long enough that I can think clearer.

  Tonight, I’m eyeing off one of the Filthy Bastard chicks sitting on the gravel hill of the overpass. There are about five or six of them that I can see. Some of them lay flat on a blanket, staring at the sky. The others talk amongst the others while passing around a bottle of something hard. But in the center of them is this girl—this girl with hair like a halo and eyes that strike me even from here. She stands out not only because she’s looking straight at me, but also because she’s like a pristine piece among dirt and grime.

  One of the other girls hands her the bottle, and she drinks. No, that’s not accurate—she chugs that thing. My mouth waters seeing her lips around that bottle top. Fucking hell, was she doing this on purpose? She hasn’t broken her glare in minutes now. Those eyes are, unabashedly, stuck on me. Part of me wants to go over there, pick her up, and toss her over the side of the hill, so she stops with the whole Ice Queen thing. But the other side of me wants to see how far she’ll take this.

  I give her a wink. Hell, I give her two winks just to be sure she sees it. Her fuchsia pink lips twitch slightly and then shoot up into a full-on smile. Her face turns the same color of the label on the bottle. A few moments later, something happens because the girls around her, they go fucking nuts. Each one of their heads turns towards her, and the one sitting next to her shifts uncomfortably in her spot. But her eyes never leave my side, even as I begin to
walk towards the match ring.

  “Hey, Bear!” a high-spirited voice greets me. “I brought you your shot. Aaron told me you wanted some whiskey. I made sure you had one.”

  I grab the drink out of the girl’s hand. I’ve never seen this lady in my life, but she obviously knows who I am. All the Wilderkind chicks know who I am. I haven’t just built up a reputation with the men, but I’m also killing it with the girls. They all seem to want to fawn over me like I’m hot shit. But I ain’t buying it tonight.

  This girl is relentless, though. She chases me down as I walk away from her towards a few of the guys I recognize as the match officials. “You haven’t heard, right? You look like you don’t know.”

  “Know what?” I growl as I spin back at her. I don’t fuck around. You tell me what you want to tell me or you get the hell out of my way. Playing these games is just a bullshit waste of time that women do to get me by their side.

  She cowers slightly and then fixes herself again. Her hands shift her dress neckline and smooth out the wrinkles. After a deep breath, she says, “They’re postponing it. Sounds like Vance is tied up at some business deal and can’t be here for a while. All the girls are going out to work the bar at Red’s truck. You wanna go get a drink or something?”

  As soon as she explains what the hell is going on, a mass exodus towards the bikes and trucks happens. Everyone’s heading towards the free booze the clubs bring along to make this show worth the effort of attending. I mutter a “Thanks” to her under my breath and head towards the line of trucks opening up their beds to set up. The girls position themselves at the front with loads of red cups and beers in hand.

  I don’t wait long before one of them approaches me. Daisy—I think it’s her name. She’s got a flower tattoo along her hips where she’s tucked a few sweating beers. “You want a drink, Bear? I’ll serve ya first since you’re getting in the ring soon.”

  With a nod, I reach down towards her hips, my hands circling around her tiny waist before pulling out one of the brown bottles from her belt.

  “Thanks, girl,” I say as I tip the beer towards her. She yanks out a bottle opener from her unbuttoned top and hands it to me. As I turn to crack the bottle open, I spot her. She’s even more killer than she was on the hill with that Barbie look on her. Her long, lean legs march in thick, black boots towards me, her smile cocked and loaded. I hand the beer back to Daisy and stride over to her.

  We pause before each other, both taking a spot at the imaginary line that somewhat separates our clubs from mingling.

  “I could use a drink, girl,” I say as I clear my throat. My low, rumbling voice must have taken her off guard because she takes a few, tiny steps backward on her heels. I’m pretty used to that reaction with women and pussy boys. They see this man about six-foot-four with muscles and tattoos running up his body and still think that I’m going to be this teddy bear of a guy. But I’m not. I’m exactly what you get from the outside looking in and in reverse.

  The blonde mumbles a bit, but I make out her asking, “What’s your poison?”

  “Whiskey. Beer. Bourbon. I don’t care. I’m thirsty.” She nods twice and then walks back towards where the other girls are tending to their Filthy Bastard clients. When she returns, she’s got three bottles in her hand—Jim Beam, Jack, and Bud. She holds each one up for me to choose, but I’m more interested in those perky tits she’s practically laying out on a platter for me. I can feel myself get hotter despite not having a shirt on.

  “I’ll take the Jim Beam, lady,” I say as I reach over to her side of the overpass for the long, golden-colored bottle. She places the beer down and drinks straight from the Jack. Impressive. It’s not often you see a girl willing to get a little loose around the enemy.

  When she’s finished, she carefully dots the drips of liquid from her lips, careful to avoid the lipstick, and says, “I’m not a ‘lady’ pal. My name is Sunny, Sunny Carter.”

  “And I’m certainly not your pal.”

  “No, I guess not, all things considered. You’re Bear.”

  “Yeah.” I laugh. “They do call me that.”

  “Is it your real name or some biker name you got?”

  “It’s my real name now,” I shoot back. I hate it when girls try to sneak in the personal questions. Shouldn’t she know by now that this is not how it works? Still, I’ve gotta ask her.

  “Is Sunny your real name?”

  “Yeah, unfortunately.” She makes a face that looks as if she’s bitten into a lemon—pouty lips and all. “My momma was a little optimistic giving it to me.”

  “Well, Sunny, how long have you been with the Filthy Bastards? I’ve never seen you around these fights before.”

  She shifts her weight from side to side as she looks away at the group of girls staring at her like she’s about to melt or something. “Uh, it’s been a couple of years now. They took me in when I was a teen and old enough to get out of my house. But I’ve been around. It’s a rule that we go to these things.”

  I can sense the hesitation in her voice, and I want to know more. “‘These things?’ What the hell is that supposed to mean? You’re not a fan of the fighting?”

  “The blood. I’m not good around blood.” She looks down at her feet as if she’s ruined herself to me.

  But instead, I laugh. “What the fuck are you doing around here then? Are you crazy!”

  “Probably… aren’t we all?”

  “Fuck if I’ve been sane in years,” I reply, still chuckling to myself. I can’t remember the last time a girl made me laugh, or when I’ve given her a chance to even talk to me like this.

  Sunny drinks again, this time locking eyes with me as she swills one back. I reach over, grabbing her by the wrist. In an instant, I can feel a hundred eyes turn to me. I’ve broken that seal, that line, that unspoken truce to not touch another club’s girl. But I couldn’t care less.

  “Whoa there, girl,” I say as I take the bottle away from her. “I like to have a good time myself, but don’t get yourself messed up over me.”

  “Why not?” she asks as her darkened eyelashes bat like moth wings. “Isn’t that what we’re all here for? To have a good time?”

  She takes a step towards me but stumbles slightly. I’ve still got my grip on her arm, enough to make sure she balances straight back up. When she lifts herself higher up on her heels, her cheeks are as bright as a red moon on a warm day.

  “Watch yourself. This ain’t the place to be fal—”

  “My man!” Some asshole slaps me on the back so hard I can hear the crack of his hand hit my skin. I turn around to find Vance behind me—a beer already in his hand. He throws it to me, taking away my drink in the process as he says, “You need to be in your best shape. No hard shit.”

  “Yeah, I know how to do this. I got more wins than any of the other Wilderkind boys.”

  “That’s why I asked you to do this.” Vance eyes Sunny over my shoulder. He doesn’t break his glare on her as he says, “We’ve got some business to do before we get this fight started. Let me bring you over, so you’re not walking into the lion’s den alone.”

  He heads back towards the meeting spot; the place where I was originally waiting for the fight to begin. It gives me just enough time to turn to Sunny and say, “You take care of yourself, girl. Don’t get into any trouble.”

  “Is that an order?” she asks with a grin that could stop a train.

  I give her a quick wink. “Yeah. I suppose it is.”

  The boys have already gathered and are in deep in conversation when I butt in. Crazy-ass Killer is already ranting over the terms. “Fuck that shit, man! I ain’t giving up the north corner of Vine. That’s our land!”

  “You shook on it already, boss,” Vance corrects him, all the while keeping his cool. “This is what happens when you mess with our territory. Now we gotta fight it out… unless you’re too chicken to send your boy in against my Bear.” He pats my back again. I fucking hate when he does that.

  “The Filth
y Bastards aren’t scared! I can take this punk down in a few blows!” The Filthy Bastards fighter is almost frothing at the teeth. Good. My old boxing teacher told me that the easiest ones to take down were the guys who showboat before the match or put on too much emotion. It’s the cold, steely guys you’ve got to look out for. This was getting better and better for me.

  “What do you want if you win, DJ?” Killer asks his man.

  “Five hundred from the pot. And a bottle of the good shit. Not this bottom shelf crap the girls are serving up.” He spits on the ground.