Page 16 of Broken Pact

A handful of the brothers share women pretty regularly though. And I’ve walked in on more than the occasional orgy in the clubhouse, but that shit is usually planned so people can steer clear if they’re not interested.

I mean, my best friend shares his woman with his brother and his cousin. They made it work enough to get married and start a family. Real white picket fence shit. The rest of the brothers look up to our Prez and VP, so it’s not a surprise. Though I don’t think any of them are as serious as the St. James relationship.

Hawke claps me on the shoulder, his enthusiasm infectious. “Or fuck it, man, I’ll put in a good word with her for you.”

My eyes narrow on him. “And how exactly would you do that?”

He puffs his chest out, pride seeping from his pores. “Carter and I are tight.”

“Bullshit.”

He lifts a shoulder and tips back his cup to drain the rest of his drink. “It’s true. We’ve been talking?—”

“You’ve been talking to Coraline—my Coraline?” I interrupt him, lowering my chin to look at him through narrowed eyes.

Objectively, I can understand that he’s an attractive man. Tall, broad shoulders, good head of dark blond hair. But the idea of her with him? Nah, that shit is unacceptable.

Hawke laughs, his face lighting up like some kid on Christmas morning. “Bro, you should see your face right now.”

I immediately shut it all down, wipe any expression off my face and plaster on the usual one: casual interest. Happy to be here. Forever fucking chill.

“You’re a dick,” I mutter before tossing back the rest of my shitty beer.

Hawke laughs as he slaps my shoulder in that good-natured way of his. “Yeah, I know, but it was worth it. Real talk, man, Carter and I are friendly.”

“Friendly,” I grunt.

“Yeah, that step between acquaintances and friends.”

“Hm.” I absentmindedly nod, too busy plotting all the ways Hawke can get injured in the garage. Accidentally. Like fucking fate is pulling the strings, she glances over her shoulder, and we lock eyes. I watch with bated breath, my heartbeat kicking up a few beats inside my chest, as she leans forward and says something to one of the girls she’s with.

“Here we go,” I murmur, hiding my pleased smile behind the plastic cup.

She gathers her hair up in one hand, twisting and pulling it over one shoulder, and marches toward me. On the third stair, five feet away from me, she falters for a second. Her blue eyes look like the color of deep midnight in this light. And yet, it still feels like her gaze pierces me. Sharp, pointed flicks of pleasurable pain as she drags her gaze down my body and back up again.

My lips curl up into a smirk. Her steps faltering for a split second. And then she adjusts her scowl, twisting it into a sneer I’ve grown almost fond of.

She lets go of her hair and marches up the remaining steps, beelining for me. “Jagger.”

Hawke leans toward me, pitching his voice louder over the filler music playing. “Best of luck, man. I’m gonna do a lap.”

“Later.” I acknowledge without taking my gaze from her. I don’t want to miss a second of this little showdown of hers.

“Are you following me?” she yells, stopping three feet in front of me.

I don’t know when it happened, or the moment I decided to play with fire. But I find myself pointing toward my ear and shaking my head, like I can’t hear her.

She closes the gap, anger lining every perfect curve of her body as she steps between my open legs. The brush of her thighs on the inside of my legs shouldn’t feel this good. I feel like a chump, some preteen asshole about to get a semi because a pretty girl’s leg brushed mine.

“Stalking is a crime, Jagger.”

“Didn’t know you were so well-versed on the law.” My smile widens, genuine enjoyment inflating my veins.

Her eyes narrow on my lips, and she takes an unconscious shuffle-step forward. “What are you doing? Why do you look like the cat that ate the canary?”

I test the waters, knowing I’m playing with fire. The blue flame. The best kind of fire, really. So hot that one touch is liable to fuck you up for life. I ghost my free hand along the curve of her hip, a featherlight whisper of a touch.

“I think you mean the cat that ate the cream.” It’s not my best moment, and if Hawke asks me about it later, I’m definitely going to tell him I was a helluva lot smoother than this. But I can’t take it back now.

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