Madeline Sheehan: Undeniable

Thankfully, Deuce appeared beside me saving me from having to respond to her.

He looked quizzically between us then followed Dorothy’s gaze to Jase and frowned.

“D,” He said in a low voice. She glanced over and blushed.

“Sorry,” She whispered.

“Can’t have you pissin’ off my old ladies and makin’ shit hard for my boys, D.”

“I know,” She whispered. “I’ll go if you want.”

I dragged him a good distance away. “It’s his fault,” I hissed. “He followed her inside and did you know what!”

Deuce raised an eyebrow. “You know what?” He repeated, smirking.

I folded my arms across my chest and his gaze zeroed in on the cleavage that had just popped out of my deep purple sundress.

“Can we go do “you know what”?” He asked, grinning.

I rolled my eyes. “No.”

“Please?”

I fought my smile and lost. He ran his knuckles down my cheek.

"Got you a present," He said softly.

"A big sweaty man present?" I asked.

Deuce grinned. "That too. Come on."

He grabbed my hand, led me inside the club, past the bedrooms, through the living area, and pushed open the front doors.

"All yours babe."

I blinked rapidly. Then I forgot how to blink and just gaped at the priceless beauty in front of me.

"No," I whispered.

"Babe. Yeah."

Solid cast aluminum wheels, a beefy front fork and a wide-bodied fuel tank. Twin shocks tucked neatly out of sight, the rigid-mounted Twin Cam 96B engine, the chrome over/under dual exhaust, and the five-gallon fuel tank.

I was in shock.

"Boys who did the custom work gave me a whole lotta shit 'bout those sparkles darlin'. You fuckin' owe me."

It wasn't as if he'd had the entire bike custom sparkled. Just the seat and I absolutely loved it.

"I can't believe you remembered," I breathed, running my hand over my bike. My perfect, perfect bike.

"Cutest kid I ever met. And at Riker's no less. Talkin' 'bout sparkly Fatboys and pink fuckin' helmets with skulls on them and tellin' me straight up you were gonna be Queen of an MC. That was your dream babe. I'm your man. You feelin' me?"

Oh my god. He'd made me queen. Because he was my man and that was my dream. My man made my dream come true.

He got me my sparkly Fatboy.

And my pink helmet with skulls on it.

I turned, grinning so wide it hurt, and poked him in the chest. "You love me."

He snorted.

"Babe. Yeah."

I launched myself at him. Gripping my waist, he swung me up and into his arms. Our mouths crashed together and we kissed the way we always kissed, desperate, hungry, full of such crazed intensity, that if bottled could power an entire city.

Sheesh. He so loved me. Just…sheesh.

"Hey," I said softly and cupped his cheek.

"Yeah?"

“What about your dream?”

His face went dimples. “I’m lookin’ at it, darlin’.”

Oh. Crap. My heart felt near bursting. I was absolutely done for. This man owned me, body and soul, and everything in between.

“I wanna go do you know what now,” I whispered.

“That’s good babe,” He whispered back, “Real fuckin’ good.”

We fell onto our bed in a tangle, kissing feverishly, tearing at each other’s clothing. “Love you,” I breathed, “So, so much.”

He pushed the straps of my dress down my shoulders and spread kisses along my collarbone. His mouth traveled lower, his hands pulling my dress down as he went. I threaded my fingers through his hair, moaning, begging him for more.

Using the tip of his tongue he traced the scar from my c-section.

“Fuckin’ love you, baby,” He rasped.

Then he got to his feet and tugged my underwear off. Lifting my legs, I rubbed my grass stained feet over his bare torso and giggled.

Grinning, he unzipped his jeans. “You want it hard?” He asked gruffly.

I bit my lip and shook my head. “I want it slow, baby.”

His eyes went soft. “Fuck,” He murmured. “I just wanna look at you babe. I just wanna stand here and look at you until I can convince myself you’re really fuckin’ here and you’re not goin’ nowhere and you really want me.”

I closed my eyes letting his words sink inside of me.

"Get the fuck off her, mother fucker, before I blow a hole through your fuckin' skull."

My eyes flew open. I knew that voice.

Frankie appeared from behind Deuce and moved to his side, pressing the barrel of a gun into Deuce's temple. He was a mess. Filthy. His hair was greasy, his beard was long and unkempt, and his clothing was full of holes and covered in stains.

"Horseman!” Frankie bellowed. “I said back the fuck up!"

Nostrils flaring, his expression murderous, Deuce zipped up his jeans and backed slowly away. I hurriedly pushed myself into a sitting position and pulled my dress up.

"Don't fuckin' move cunt," Frankie hissed at me. Turning, he tossed a pair of handcuffs at Deuce who caught them one handed.

"Cuff yourself to the radiator," He demanded.

Deuce stared at him. "No fuckin’ way," He growled.

“No?” Frankie grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked me across the bed. The barrel of his gun felt cool against my neck. “You want her to die?”

Shaking with fury, Deuce bent down beside the radiator under our bedroom window, clasped a cuff around one of the steel bars and the other around his right wrist.

Frankie turned back to me, grinning.

"Been watchin' you baby," He said. "Been watchin' you a long fuckin' time now." He leaned over the bed and got up in my face.

"BEEN WATCHIN' YOU FUCK THIS ASSHOLE!"

Trembling, I stared into Frankie's dark eyes. "You killed Chase. You butchered him."

"Yeah," He sneered, standing up straight. He shook his head and laughed. "Fucker screamed like a girl, too."

I felt the acidic burn of bile rise in the back of my throat.

"You didn't think I knew, did ya? But I did. Every time he'd come to fuckin' talk to me I saw it in his eyes. Him thinkin' he was pullin' one over on me. Thinkin' he could get away with fuckin' my wife."

"I did it for you," I whispered.

Still gripping my hair, Frankie yanked me to my knees and slapped me across the face. “You fuckin’ the Horseman for me, too?”

Holding my cheek, I stared up at him.

“Frankie,” I whispered. “Please don’t do this.”

"Get on your fuckin' stomach bitch," Frankie snarled, releasing my hair and shoving me down. "Gonna show you and this fuckin' asshole who really fuckin' owns ya."

Deuce made a strangled noise in the back of his throat and my eyes shot to him. He was six foot four inches and two hundred and fifty pounds of murderous rage. He was pulling on the handcuffs so hard his hand was bleeding. His body was strung bowstring tight, his veins were bulging out of his arms and neck, his eyes bugging out of skull. He was vibrating, literally vibrating, with hate.

Trembling, trying to blink back the tears burning in my eyes for Deuce’s sake, I shifted onto my stomach and turned my head to the side, keeping my gaze on Deuce.

"Been gettin' sloppy fuckin' seconds from this fuckin' asshole for too fuckin' long," Frankie muttered as he shoved my dress up and spread my legs apart. "That's gonna fuckin' stop today."

I heard his belt buckle open, the slide of his zipper, then I felt his weight and he began pushing inside of me. I bit my lip to keep from crying and kept my eyes on Deuce.

His eyes never once left mine, he kept me with him, held me tight inside his eyes, where it was safe and warm and no one could hurt me.

☼☼☼

He had been beaten within an inch of his life.

He had been strangled, stabbed and shot.

He had shot, stabbed, strangled, beaten and killed.

He'd been hurt, scared, mad, angry as fuck and homicidally inclined.