One Taste of Angel: A Dark Virgin Romance

Prologue

Eagle

Few reach a moment in life when they seriously consider whether this world is worth taking another breath for. That place where pleasure and pain meet. Where you realize love and hate are the same thing. Where your life plays out in slow motion inside your head and you wonder: If you could change one thing, would it make a difference?

I can’t stop the rush of thoughts as Stone chokes me. Reggie has my feet pinned. And I don’t give a shit.

As Stone applies more pressure to my trachea, I see spots and white light. I struggle to breathe, but don’t fight him. I refuse to flail like a little bitch. Death is a welcome release. I’ve bled for my club. Taken four bullets. Buried eight brothers in six years. Fucked a hundred women.

And only loved one.

And she’s gone.

So why shouldn’t I give up?

I close my eyes as Reggie pulls me up and strips my cut off. It marks my indisputable surrender. Give up the patches and die.

Always thought these patches were too good for you, Stone murmurs, and slams my head against the concrete floor.

Skull-splitting pain sets in, and I stretch my arms out like Christ on the cross, ready for whatever is coming.

Do it, motherfucker, I say.

Open your eyes first, Stone says. I want you to remember this moment.

If there’s an afterlife, the last thing I want to take with me is the memory of Stone’s ugly mug. So I laugh.

Something funny? Cold steel bites into my throat.

I don’t like the numbness. It pisses me off more than the asshole threatening me. A few years ago I wanted to live—I had every reason to. Now, it would be so easy to die. Her face flashes in my mind—that smile, one that could melt any biker’s heart. She was pure. Real. Worth fighting for. Worth dying for, but not like this. What would she say if she knew I was about to go out like this? Fight, Eagle. Live for me, for us. I hear her voice saying those words, like she was next to me. And then I know, as long as I’m breathing, her memory will stay alive. My eyes pop open. Yeah, I say. If I can smile, then I must want to live after all. I catch Stone’s head between my hands and jam my thumbs into his eye sockets so hard he screams.

The blade hits the floor and I toss Stone aside, knowing his death is imminent from the injuries he sustained.

Fuck . . . Reggie scrambles to his feet and looks for a way out.

The only exit is through me.

We’re in an abandoned warehouse on the west side of the city. No one lives or works in this shithole of a neighborhood. So no matter what happens, one of us will end up fodder for the maggots. I spot my cut on the ground, angry I let them take it off me. First rule of the Iron Norsemen MC, never give up your colors.

Let’s forget this happened, Reggie says.

Pick it up and hand it to me. I point at my vest, ignoring his words.

His gaze flits around the shadowed space. He’s sweating and nervous. I outweigh him by sixty pounds, and never understood how he earned a place in any MC. Especially my rival club—the Dead Dogs.

As Reggie stoops to get my cut, I grab the knife off the floor and stab him. The blade is buried six inches deep in his chest. He falls immediately, my leather still gripped in his hand. I walk over and stare down at him.

Was it worth it? I ask.

Blood trickles out the side of his mouth and he coughs violently. Angel is dead. We thought . . . I thought . . .

That I’d lay down and die?

Glassy eyes meet mine. Yeah.

I rip my cut from his grasp and put it on. So did I, I admit. But everything has changed.

I watch in sick fascination as he bleeds out, the spark in his eyes fading.

Eagle, he whispers.

I kneel beside him. What?

Did you love her?

Do you need to ask? I stole his sister away from his club three years ago. That started the war.

Did you?

More than my own life. I stand and then walk away, satisfied I exercised mercy. That’s more than any Dead Dog would have given me.

I kick open the metal door and welcome the afternoon heat as I step outside. Today ended something. That suicide trip I’ve been on, like death by cop, was miraculously put to rest by a last-minute thought. I suck in a deep breath. Angel would want me to live. For her. For me. For my club.

Chapter One

Serafina

Five years later

Holly Beach, Louisiana

I begged Ben not to book this party. I recognize the house from my childhood adventures, biking around the neighborhood. Gang leader Lazaro Mendoza lives here. The bachelor party is listed under John Smith. Whenever my boss writes that alias on a work order, warning bells go off. I frown as the limo stops in front of the beachside address. Working for a private striptease company is nearly as dangerous as being a call girl. I scan the faces of my associates. Jeanie and Jana are identical twins—tall and blond, everything I’m not. They smile at me.

Whenever customers order blond Amazons from the catalog my boss sends me along as a bonus. I’m barely five-three, Italian, with green eyes and dark curly hair. There’s never enough Barbie to go around. Ben always thinks I’ll appeal to the locals—whatever that means.

Our driver opens the limo door and I step onto the cobblestone driveway, the first time I’ve smelled salt air in Louisiana in five years. When I escaped Holly Beach, I never dreamed of coming back. Not like this—hair dyed, a nose and cheek job, and color contacts to disguise who I really am.

But the assholes inside won’t know me. Neither do my coworkers. To them, I’m just the naive part-time college girl who wandered into Ben’s office looking for a job.

Ladies, the driver says, offering his hand.

The twins slide out.

What’s wrong, Serafina? Tony asks.

I cross my arms over my chest. "You know whose house this is."

He shakes his head. A three thousand dollar booking fee says I don’t.

Our boss, Ben Matthews, holds a monopoly on the private striptease circuit from Beaumont, Texas, to the western half of Louisiana. He also owns a large limousine company. Your silence is cheap. I shove my dance bag higher on my arm. What about the Olsen twins?

He snickers at my sarcasm. What they don’t know . . .

Yeah. I’m not sure those two know much except how to bump and grind each other and the customers. It’s disconcerting to watch them sometimes, how far they’re willing to go for big tips. Good thing I brought my chemistry book; I’ll study while they entertain.

Before I can finish the thought, the front doors of the house open. A tall man in a charcoal suit steps outside. Mr. Connors? Tony shakes hands with him. I’m Mr. Diaz, your liaison for the evening.

I roll my eyes. We have a liaison? The idea just reinforces the negativity I feel for the cartel. They make their money off the pain and suffering of people—getting them hooked on the drugs they sell. I glare at Diaz, wishing I was at home. He continues. Any financial transactions will be handled through me. Anything you need—find me. Understand?

Yes, sir. Tony nods obligingly.

I know what lurks underneath Tony’s country boy simper—a black belt and a loaded Desert Eagle. He turns and presses his hand against the small of my back. May I present Serafina?

Diaz’s gaze roams over me appreciatively. Very lovely. And the twins?

Tony points.

They scoot closer, giggling. Ah . . . perfect. He claps his big hands together. Please, follow me inside.

We head down a long hallway off the great room. Diaz opens a door. I hope these accommodations are acceptable.

Tony steps through the door first; I follow. I spin slowly. It’s a beautiful suite, complete with matching four-poster beds, a sitting area with a gas fireplace near a hot tub, and a ridiculously large bathroom. We’ll manage, I comment.

Tony throws me a shut up look.

Diaz smirks. Good, he says. I’ll see you in an hour. He exits the room and closes the door.

Turn off the charm, Serafina, Tony warns.

Jeanie and Jana throw their bags down and head for the hot tub. I bounce on one of the beds. Very Scarlett O’Hara-ish, I say.

I don’t think she lived in a ten-thousand-square-foot hacienda, Tony replies.

Probably not, I agree. But the décor is Old South.

He nods. Listen, Scala, he says. This isn’t the typical party.

I gathered that . . . what’s with Alfred Pennyworth?

Who?

Batman’s butler, I reply. Don’t you know anything?

He laughs. I don’t think Diaz qualifies as a loyal butler. He’s a no-nonsense money man.

Like a banker?

No, Tony’s voice grows more serious. More like a hitman with an open wallet.

Oh. I consider it, knowing the clientele before I even meet them. Holly Beach is a family town. But once the sun sets, the truth is exposed. The dirty truth. A crossroads for cartel heroin on its way to places like Atlanta and Miami, real life gangsters and hardcore MCs have established themselves here. One of the reasons I sought refuge somewhere else. Who’s the lucky bachelor?

He joins me on the bed. You already know.

Lazaro Mendoza?

He nods.

Shit, I say sarcastically. Not only did the most eligible bachelor market just shrink by twenty percent, now I’m afraid I’ll never get a shot at him. What’s next for Ben, booking parties in prison?

Tony pats my knee. Listen, kiddo, I know boss man tricked you into doing this. Make the best of it, enjoy the money while you can.

You think this is about money? I ask incredulously. If I wanted to be a stripper, I’d work at a club, not here.

His eyebrow raises. "But you are a stripper."

This is a point of contention between the two of us. By default.

I admit Ben is a prick. When he see’s something he wants, he goes for it. Sorry. Can’t cry over spilt milk. Time to put aside the ’tude, get ready for the party, okay?

I heave a sigh. Sure, that’s easy for Tony to say. All my dreams got flushed down the fucking toilet the day I met Ben in his pristine downtown office. He maintains the perfect front—the right business address, an attractive secretary, portraits of his lead talent hanging on the walls—a photography studio . . . The bastard lied. And like a starry-eyed fool, I fell for it and signed the contract without reading the fine print. Lingerie model turned stripper. In short, I’m prohibited from accepting any other employment unless Ben approves of the job. Of course he won’t, even if it’s flipping burgers in the campus kitchen. So I either shake my ass for the next two years or starve.

I pass by the twins, still in the hot tub, wishing I had a pair of rubber duckies to throw at them. Bert and Ernie possess more brain cells between them. I swear it’s not a jealousy thing—I just don’t tolerate stupid well.

Half an hour later, someone knocks on the door. Tony lets Diaz in. Diaz circles the twins, who are dressed and ready to go. He nods in affirmation—some kind of meat inspector.

When he approaches me, I warn him. I’m not changing into another outfit.

I should have protested this gig more. But this is one of the busiest weekends of the year, and Ben would have pressed me for answers if I resisted too much. And the first rule for my survival is never letting anyone know who I really am.

Diaz stares at me blankly. I wouldn’t dream of asking you to. He caresses my hip. Save a dance for me.

I bite my tongue. Tony mumbles something under his breath, one of his usual warnings to get my shit straight. I glance at my watch. Eight o’clock on a Friday. We’re expected to stay the night and head back to Texarkana in the morning—if the twins can wake up after drowning themselves in vodka cranberries.

Wonder how that’s gonna play out . . .

Chapter Two

Eagle

I grew up in the house next door to Lazaro Mendoza. But after high school, we went in different directions. He inherited his father’s wealth and power in the cartel and I patched out with my MC, receiving full membership honors. And though we’re often on opposing sides now, whenever I walk into his house, we’re like brothers again. No questions asked, no judgment.

I open the front door without knocking and Lazaro’s bodyguard, Diaz, meets me halfway through the living room. We shake hands. Diaz.

Mr. Laramie, how nice to see you again. Can I escort you downstairs?

I slap his back. I think I can find my way. I trudge through the formal dining room, skirt the kitchen, and take the stairs two at a time. As I near the landing, I hear my friend’s unmistakable baritone. I smile. The fool knocked up his girlfriend and now he’s trapped, but doesn’t hold back from bragging about it.

Fifteen minutes in my backseat earned me a lifetime commitment. Lazaro is finishing as I appear.

Fifteen minutes? I ask. That’s nothing to be proud of. You’re the quickest fuck she’s ever had, popping in and out every ten minutes.

Eagle, he says, you’re late.

We fist bump and he smiles like a drunk fool. The caterer hands me a beer. I claim the empty barstool next to Lazaro, then scan the plush room. There’s a porno playing on the big screen and the sex almost looks like it’s been choreographed with the Metallica song pounding from the speakers. Nearly fifty guys are gathered around two tournament grade pool tables. Serious money is being exchanged already. The room opens into the backyard where there’s an in-ground pool and hot tub. I laugh at the mob beyond the French doors. How many losers did you invite?

Lazaro gives me a toothy grin. Two hundred.

I shake my head. And the entertainment?

He holds his hands out. Only the best for me.

That means strippers and anything else I can imagine. He points to the far corner of the room. A raised stage and pole. Holy shit. You’re sick.

Nah, he says. If you’re gonna fall—do it with style.

I nod. The farthest thing from my mind is marriage. I doubt I’ll ever settle down. But I’ve watched four of my brothers get hitched over the last two years. I raise my bottle. Here’s to keeping your dick in your pants.

Lazaro shakes his head. Who said anything about that?

That’s where I draw the line. Fucking around as a single guy is one thing . . . taking a vow another.

The lights suddenly dim. We rotate on our barstools, and Diaz calls everyone to attention. Time for the strippers. The rush inside sounds like a herd of elephants. Good thing the game room has the capacity of a small bar. I order a Martini with extra olives and scan the mixed crowd. Let’s just say Lazaro doesn’t have discriminating taste. There’s a mixture of gangbangers and businessmen here. I’m the only one wearing MC patches, which suits me just fine.

Good evening, gentlemen, Diaz says, attempting to be a professional DJ. As you know, our gracious host, Mr. Lazaro Mendoza, is getting married tomorrow . . . The crowd explodes in applause. In remembrance of his freedom, please enjoy the company of our special guests. Jeanie and Jana—twin sisters from Las Vegas.

Diaz is a serious throwback from the old days, somewhere between the Rat Pack and Scarface. I’m waiting for him to play Dean Martin. Instead, the music switches from metal to Justin Timberlake. I laugh, nearly spitting out my drink on Lazaro. Really? I throw him a what the fuck look.

Shut up. He crosses his arms over his chest and stares at the stage.

The dancers are nearly six feet tall with more plastic parts than a blowup doll. I’m instantly turned off. Not that I’m completely opposed to enhancements—but those tits . . . Lazaro’s brothers appear, then drag him to the stage. They handcuff him to a chair and unbutton his shirt, and then the twins slather him with baby oil. Too much for me. I wander to the back of the room, enjoying the cool breeze blowing in from the Gulf of Mexico. December in Holly Beach is beautiful. There’s a cabana and guest quarters near the pool. I know the entertainment doesn’t end in the game room. I hear catcalls from the guest house and head that way, hoping whatever darlin’ awaits is better than the feature act.

Serafina

I instantly freeze when my ass grazes the barrel of a gun. Of all the moments for Tony to leave me alone. And of all the parties for Ben not to send an extra bouncer. He thinks rich guys are safe. I try not to lose it. I’m surrounded by thugs sporting their colors and tats. I’m dancing for one of the leaders—introduced as Tito.

Por que te tienes a bailar bonita?

He wants to know why I quit dancing. I turn around, resting my hands on his shoulders. I lean forward and whisper. Because your gun poked me in the ass.

"Mierda. He laughs. Your mouth is gonna get you in trouble."

Okay, is he playing games or completely serious? He’s not the first thug I’ve danced for, but there’s something about him that makes me uncomfortable. I give him a look. I didn’t do anything.

You’re supposed to keep your trap shut, bitch. Dance. He grabs my ass.

I smack his hands away. "Mantener sus malditas manos quietas, I warn. If I want you to touch me, I’ll ask." I’m not in the mood for this shit. Apparently Diaz didn’t have a talk with his guests. I grab my top from the back of Tito’s chair and start to walk away.

I cringe when I hear him chamber a round. Come back here.

I face him, not more than ten feet away. Really? I’m about to crap my G-string. And if I don’t, you’ll shoot me?

He eyeballs his gun, then me. No, he admits. But I’ll shove the barrel up your pussy.

The guys behind me snicker. There’s only one way out of here, and judging by the wall of sweaty bodies behind me, it’s likely kicking and screaming. Not interested. Defiance never gets a girl anywhere. I know better. My whole body shivers in fear. For some reason, I don’t want this asshole to win. Call me stupid—I’m sinfully prideful. It’s an Italian thing.

Tito leans forward in his seat, then lays his handgun on his lap. "Come here, mamacita. He switches back to nice guy mode. I won’t hurt you." He holds his hands