Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

Poison

I push open the heavy door of the clubhouse, the familiar scent of leather, sweat, and stale beer greeting me like an old friend.

We've got a few days off from shows, and it's good to be back here, where there's some semblance of normalcy.

The noise is comforting—kids laughing, babies cooing, brothers getting drunk and rowdy.

"Hey, Poison!" Siren calls from behind the bar, her dark hair pulled into a messy bun, tattoos peeking from under her tank top.

"Hey, girl," I reply, sliding onto a stool. "Get me a shot of vodka."

"Coming right up." She pours the clear liquid into a shot glass, sliding it over to me with a knowing look. "Something eating you?"

"Just need to unwind," I say, tossing back the shot and feeling the burn all the way down.

"Another," I say, sliding the empty glass back toward Siren.

Her eyes narrow slightly, but she grabs the bottle of vodka again without a word and pours me another shot.

The liquid glistens under the dim lights of the clubhouse, almost mocking me with its clarity.

"Thanks," I mutter, taking the glass and downing it just as quickly as the first. The familiar burn travels down my throat, settling into a warm pool in my stomach.

For a moment, it's enough to dull the edge.

"All right, Poison," Siren finally says, crossing her arms and leaning against the counter. "What the hell is going on? Somethin' isn't right."

My lips twitch into a bitter smile. Trust Siren to cut straight to the chase. "Nothing I can't handle."

"Sure as hell doesn't look like nothing." Her eyebrow arches again, this time with a mix of concern and curiosity. "You don't usually knock ‘em back like this unless something's up."

I laugh, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears. "Since when did you become my therapist?"

"Since you started looking like you've got a ghost chasing you," she shoots back. "So spill. What's eating away at you?"

"You're relentless, you know that?" I shake my head, trying to keep the sarcasm in my voice. But it's hard when all I want to do is scream or cry or... something.

"Comes with the territory," she replies smoothly. "Now talk."

I exhale slowly, feeling the weight of her gaze on me. "It's complicated."

"Most things worth talking about are."

"You're not gonna let this go, are you?"

"Not a chance."

"Fine," I say, rolling my eyes. "Have I mentioned how annoying you are?"

"Nope, but it wouldn't be the first time I've heard it." Siren laughs, her eyes never leaving mine.

"There's bad blood," I start, choosing my words carefully. "Things that can't be undone."

"Okay, I have to stop you there. That's bullshit, and you know it," she counters, shaking her head. "There's always a way to undo things if you're willing to try."

"Not this time," I insist, my voice dropping to a whisper.

"Why not?" she presses, stepping closer.

"Because some scars run too deep," I admit, feeling the truth of my words like a punch to the gut.

"Scars heal," Siren replies softly, her tone surprisingly gentle. "It's the wounds you leave untreated that fester."

"Maybe," I concede, but I'm not convinced. Not entirely.

"Look," she says, placing a hand on mine. "Whatever it is, you're not alone. You've got family here. Remember that."

"My ex is the one on tour with Sydney," I say, setting the empty shot glass down with a thud.

Siren blinks, processing the information. "Wait, the same guy she's collaborating with? The one who's here on the property right now?"

"Yep, that would be the one," I nod, a mirthless smile playing on my lips. "And I haven't seen him in years. Now, I'm stuck being around him for who knows how long."

"Wow," Siren breathes, shaking her head slightly. "That's... intense. Was it a bad breakup?"

"Bad doesn't even begin to cover it," I reply, my voice tinged with a mix of sarcasm and lingering pain.

Siren's gaze softens, and she reaches across the bar, placing a hand on mine. "Damn, Poison. That sucks."

"Tell me about it," I mutter, glancing around the room.

The sight of the kids playing and the brothers laughing feels like a stark contrast to the turmoil whirling around in my mind.

"Anything specific that makes it so bad?" Siren asks cautiously, trying to probe without pushing too hard.

"Let's just say," I begin, choosing my words carefully, "there were things happening in the background, lies believed, that catapulted us thousands of mile away from one another without a word."

"Just remember, scars heal," she says, echoing her earlier sentiment. "You just have to give it a shot. Talk about things, get it off your chest. I'm sure you?—"

"I know," I cut her off, rolling my eyes. "It's more complicated than that, Siren. If it was simpler, I'd probably try to mend things with him. It's just a fucking mess."

"Things always are." Her tone is gentle but firm, unyielding. "But you're strong, Poison. You'll get through this."

"Thanks," I say, appreciating her support even if I don't fully believe her words.

"Anytime," she replies, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze before letting go.

As I turn away from the bar, I catch sight of Asher across the room.

Our eyes lock, and for a moment, everything else fades away.

The noise, the people, the laughter—all of it becomes background static.

He starts walking toward me, a predatory glint in his eyes.

My heart races, my skin tingling with a mix of anticipation and dread.

"Polly," he greets me, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down my spine.

"No one here calls me that," I reply, my own voice sounding steadier than I feel.

He snickers, "Yeah, well, I'm not like everyone else here."

I scoff, "You're not lyin' about that."

"Want to step outside for some air?" He asks, though it's more of a statement than a question.

"Sure," I nod, following him towards the door.

It's probably a better idea for us to step outside anyways, away from prying ears.

We step out into the cool night air, the sounds of the clubhouse muffled behind us.

The moon casts a pale glow, highlighting the rugged lines of Asher's face.

He stops and turns to face me, his eyes dark and intense.

"What's going on with you?" he asks, picking away at the walls I'm struggling to keep standing up.

"Nothing," I say quickly, not wanting to dive into it right now.

"Doesn't seem like nothing," he presses, stepping closer.

"Just drop it, Asher," I snap, feeling the tension coil tighter inside me.

I'm fucking mad at him. Sure we had great sex, but I'm pissed. I'm hurt. I'm angry at the way he believed Rachel's lies.

"All right, all right," he raises his hands in mock surrender. "Let's not fight. Not tonight."

"I'd prefer not to," I mutter, crossing my arms over my chest.

He studies me for a moment, his gaze lingering on my face. "You look good, Polly. Really good."

"Thanks," I reply, feeling a flush creep up my neck. "Finally learned how to do my make-up exactly the way I like it."

"If you ask me, you don't need any fuckin' make-up," he says, his voice softening.

"You always liked me better clean faced," I murmur, the weight of our shared history hanging heavy in the air.

"Yeah. I never thought you needed that shit. It doesn't look bad on you, but I like you fresh faced," he admits, taking another step closer.

"Don't," I warn, but my guard is already starting to fall down.

"I can't help it," he says, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my face.

His touch is electric, sending sparks shooting through my body.

"We can't do this. You're trouble, Asher," I whisper, my voice trembling.

"Always have been, always will be," he grins, that familiar cocky smile tugging at his lips.

"God, I hate you," I say, but there's no venom in my words. Only longing.

"You've always been a bad liar," he murmurs, closing the distance between us.

His lips crash against mine, rough and demanding.

It's like coming home and getting burned all at once.

I kiss him back, pouring all my frustration, anger, and desire into it.

His hands grip my waist, pulling me closer until there's no space left between us.

I don't know what to do about this undeniable chemistry. I want to pull him closer and shove him away at the exact same time.

"God, I need you," he growls against my lips, his breath hot and ragged.

"Then take me," I breathlessly whisper.

Without another word, he spins me around, pressing me against the old tractor parked beside the clubhouse.

His hands roam over my body, igniting every nerve ending.

"Fuck, Polly," he groans, his fingers digging into my hips.

"Do it," I urge, yearning to feel him inside me.

He doesn't need any more encouragement.

With a swift motion, he yanks down my jeans, his own pants following suit.

The cold metal of the tractor bites into my skin, but I don't care.

All I can think about is the way he feels against me, the way I need him.

He flips me around and lines his cock at my entrance, slamming full force inside me.

"Harder," I gasp, my nails scraping against the rusted paint.

"Hold on," he commands, his voice a guttural growl.

His thrusts are relentless, each one driving me closer to the edge.

I cling to the tractor, my body arching against his.

The night air is filled with the sounds of our desperate union, raw and primal.

"Fuck, Asher," I cry out, the intensity of it all overwhelming me.

"Let go for me, Polly," he whispers, his lips brushing against my ear.

And I do. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me, leaving me trembling in its wake.

Asher follows soon after, his own release mingling with mine.

For a moment, we stay like that, panting, him balls deep inside of me.

Then, slowly, reality begins to seep back in.

"I didn't mean for it to be like this. I just wanted to talk," he says quietly, his forehead resting against my shoulder.

"Me neither," I admit, still catching my breath.

"Guess some things never change," he chuckles softly, pulling away to fix his clothes.

"Seems that way," I agree, doing the same.

"Come on," he says, offering me his hand. "Let's get back inside."

"Yeah," I nod, taking his hand as we walk back toward the clubhouse