Chapter 3

3

Mase

Ithrow a wrench down into my toolbox with more force than is necessary.

My plan to focus on building the new custom bike order to distract myself isn’t helping. I’ve been in one hell of a mood since yesterday. No amount of work or whiskey can blur the memory of Ripley spreading her thighs and inviting me between them. I might have Motorhead turned up to ten decibels on the garage stereo, but all I hear is her breathy, little whine.

I don’t want to wait anymore to be filled up. I need it now.

Reaching down, I adjust my miserable dick, once again reminding myself of all the reasons I can’t return to my brother’s house, lock Ripley in her pretty pink bedroom and bang her brains out.

Number one is always the same.

She deserves better than some low-down murderer like me.

Murder isn’t what got me sent to prison, but I was a member of the local MC for five in my early twenties and these hands ended plenty of lives. Rival club members. Hell, anyone who got in my way. I was a ruthless son of a bitch. A lost cause—and I still am. But none of the offenses I’ve committed in my life would compare to locking down my perfect, bright, mischievous Ripley.

My possessiveness of her is already a hair’s breadth from running wild. If I let this attraction grow into something real, I’d ruin her. I’d get her pregnant immediately, do bodily harm to any man who breathed in her direction and I’d never want her out of my sight. My obsession would make her miserable. Instead of going to college, making friends and having a normal life like she should, she’d spent it with a man with a prison record and a temper.

I’m not going to let that happen.

The sound of motorcycle engines pulling up outside my shop brings my head up. Wiping my hands on a grease rag, I go to investigate, although I already suspect who is stopping by for a visit. My suspicions are confirmed when I look through the glass of the front entrance and find two members of the Mountain Men MC climbing off their bikes.

I push open the door with my elbow with a grunt. “The bike isn’t ready yet.”

Chavez strolls toward the shop adjusting his leather cut. “Thought we’d stop by and check on the progress,” he drawls.

We lean in and slap each other on the back.

Clint moves in and does the same, all while laughing at my skeptical expression. “Ah, this man isn’t stupid, Chavez. He knows we’re here to lure him back to the club. Again.”

Already shaking my head, I head back into my work area, both men laughing in my wake. “Not happening.”

When I got out of prison, it was a given that I would rejoin the club. The men who rode alongside me were my family. My life. They had my loyalty.

Then I went to my brother’s house to visit him after a decade in the slammer.

And everything changed in the blink of an eye.

Shechanged everything with one smile.

It’s not easy getting out of an MC. Once you’re in, it’s a lifetime commitment. You’ve seen too much, known too much. If you’re not sinning alongside them, you’re nothing but a liability. A potential witness to all the ways they ignore the law and live by their own.

When you take the fall for the club president and spend ten years locked up for your trouble, though, certain exceptions are made.

“We need your kind of loyalty around the table, Mase,” Chavez calls over the loud music, but he quiets his voice when I turn down the volume. “These fucking newbies wouldn’t understand commitment if it bit them in the ass.”

“Amen to that,” Clint mutters, walking down my row of custom bikes and whistling with approval at what he sees. “They’re good for beer runs and that’s about it.”

“None of this is my problem anymore,” I say, crossing my arms. “I did my time for the prez and I don’t regret it, but nothing you say will get me back.”

Chavez spots something over my shoulder, a smile curving his lips. “Is that her?”

Knowing exactly what he’s referring to, dangerous heat permeates my gut. There’s a framed picture of Ripley on my work table. “Don’t.”

“Come on, man. You leave the club because your niece made you want to be a better man,” Clint says. “You expect nobody to be curious about her?”

I regret a lot of things in my life, but number one is telling the club members about Ripley. My confession happened by accident. Four years ago, the day I rode to club headquarters to turn over my patch, a picture of Ripley fell out of my helmet. They asked me where I’d been and I told them. I’d just come from visiting my brother’s house.

They knew it couldn’t be a coincidence that I decided to exit the MC the same day.

These men were smart. They knew me.

And hell, I’d been off balance after meeting the purest form of joy in the world.

Ripley.

After ten years in an ugly pit of despair, I sat in my brother’s professionally decorated dining room, feeling so out of place it was painful. I worried I was going to break the fragile chair beneath me or eat like an animal in front of his new, visibly disapproving wife.

Then Ripley came twirling into the room talking a hundred miles an hour about boys and homework and cheerleading tryouts. When she’d spotted me, the big, nasty motherfucker sitting in her expensive dining room, she hadn’t been scared. She’d smiled with all of her teeth and said welcome home. Never once that day—or ever—did Ripley make me feel anything but…important. Like I belonged. Like I could be more than an ex-convict who dropped right back into a life of crime and pain.

She changed me.

And as she changed over the years, my feelings for her became more complex, more inexcusable. They became what they are now.

Infatuated turmoil.

Chavez is still looking at Ripley’s picture, curiosity lining his face. “How old is she now?”

“Don’t worry about it,” I growl, purposefully letting my arms drop so he can see my tightening fists. “Don’t you dare speak her name.”

“I wouldn’t piss him off,” Clint says, coming up beside Chavez. “They still tell stories about how Mase used to handle people who got on his bad side.”

Chavez shrugs a shoulder. “Yet another reason we’d like you back.”

For a moment, I consider it. Rejoining the club would be a distraction from thinking about my niece. From remembering the way her body felt under mine, sweet and limber and perfect. If I wore the Mountain Man patch once again, I’d be back in that lifestyle of mayhem and it would be a valuable reminder to keep my distance from Ripley.

But I can’t do it.

Through her, I’ve glimpsed the goodness in this world. Because of her, I opened my own successful custom bike shop. And thanks to her, I’ve become more.

Not good enough to have her, but not so irredeemable that I have to go back to a life of crime. Ripley will never know I gave up the club for her. But if she did, and she knew I went back, she’d be disappointed. That’s enough to have me shaking my head.

“I’m out and I’m staying out.” I clear my throat and pick my wrench back up. “Your bike will be ready by Friday.”

A few minutes later, Clint and Chavez are gone and I find myself wandering over to the framed picture of Ripley. It was taken in her backyard. She’s wearing an innocent sundress, her arms thrown out wide, her face turned up toward the sunshine. The definition of purity. And yet, I’ve beat off to this picture more times than I can count, my hand caked in motor oil and grease, moving angrily up and down my cock. I’m ashamed of myself.

I need to let the girl go to college and start her life.

I need to move on for her sake. Next time she pursues me, I’ll be too weak to say no and then it’ll be over. I’ll be her jealous, obsessive, criminal boyfriend. Oh, and also her uncle. Her reputation would be burned and I’d be to blame.

I’m older, dammit. I’m supposed to know better.

A while back, one of my customers told me about a brothel in Julian. I put the number in my phone, positive I would never call. But maybe this is the only way. Forcing myself to be with someone that isn’t Ripley. Maybe if I force my body to let go of the possibility of having her, my brain will follow suit.

With lead in my throat, I take my phone out of my pocket and hit dial on the number.

“Hello, this is Estelle,” says an older woman. “Would you like to schedule a service with one of our escorts?”

“Yes,” I croak, guilt causing me to turn away from the picture of Ripley. “You wouldn’t happen to have any redheads, would you?”

She laughs. “As a matter of fact, we just hired a stunning redhead.” She drops her voice to a whisper. “A virgin. How would you like to be her first? It’ll cost you, but she’s worth it.”

You can imagine she’s Ripley.

Okay, picturing my niece while I get rid of this pent-up sexual frustration isn’t the best way to get over her, but I don’t know if I’m capable of going cold turkey, anyway. Once again swallowing my guilt, I say, “I’ll pay whatever it is.” No way I’m going to negotiate terms when this stranger is giving up something as important as her virginity. “Tomorrow.”

“Consider it scheduled,” she purrs. “As luck would have it, actually, we have two virgins on staff. You wouldn’t happen to know anyone else who’s interested, would you?”

I think of my buddy, Gavin, who has been going through a self-imposed dry spell lately. Spending too much time focused on his work as a professor and taking no time for anything else. I’m kind of reluctant to tell him I’m visiting a brothel, but he doesn’t have know the sordid details. That I’ll be envisioning my niece. Plus, he’s not the type to ask too many questions. “Yeah. I might know someone.”