Page 12 of Savage Fire

Such agonizing grief. Such heartache. Such anger and guilt and regret.

Her mother. God…her mother. She’d been dreaming of her mother.

Is that what she felt all those years after that bastard Jacob had brought home his first of several child brides? Is that the emotional morass she lived with every day, seeing the man who’d made her love and trust him give himself to another woman? Share himself with another woman?

God, it was no wonder her mother had been a husk of a woman when she’d made Tessa run. She hadn’t wanted her own daughter to know what the felt like, to be tied to a man who couldn’t even keep his dick in his pants with his wife in the next fucking room.

And she wondered why her feelings for Fang were so fucking twisted. Never in her life had she felt such a connection, such attraction for another human being. When she looked at Fang, she saw more than the gorgeous biker badass with the amazingly wicked smile and panty-melting accent. She saw a man who had gentle hands to wipe away tears, strong arms to hold her together when her world was falling apart, and a thoughtful, caring soul beneath all the Latin lover bullshit. In truth, Fang would be one hell of a partner, someone she could count on to be there for her when she needed him. Someone who would make her body scream in pleasure and her heart sing in joy. But he was also the man who’d lived a life of easy sex, avarice, and careless vagary—like a hobo riding the rails, looking for the next town to plunder on his way through to the next stop. He was a patched officer in a powerful, rich, kickass MC—a brotherhood all about the brothers, the pussy, and the booze. How could she compete with all the club had to offer?

Amelia, Rosa, Daisy, Tammi, Laurie, and Becca—all club bitches with willing snatch, camel toes, big tits, and mouths that could suck the cheese off of every Cheeto. Ever. All at once. Without breaking a single one.

Why would a man like Fang even look twice at her? Nah, she wasn’t a Fido, but she wasn’t a Barbie, either. Tessa was well aware of her charms and her flaws, and she hadn’t given a shit about any of those flaws until she met the gorgeousness that was Fang.

Even if what she’d seen at the grocery story hadn’t shown her what he was like, surely the club bitches—

Wait.

Hold on.

She couldn’t remember a single time where Fang had touched a club woman. And it wasn’t like those women were shy about servicing the brothers right out where all the eyeballs could see. Realistically, he could easily be meeting them back in his club bedroom, or even banging them in the common room when she wasn’t there. It wasn’t like she lived at the club; there were plenty of times for him to fuck one of the club bitches without her there to notice.

Staring up into the cracks of her bedroom ceiling, Tessa rifled through her memory files, trying to think of a single time Fang had taken a bitch up on her offer…or even when a club bitch had evenmentionedbeing with Fang—and those womenlovedto brag. Had any of them ever bragged about Fang?

Shaking her head in disbelief, she realized…no. For real? That couldn’t be right…right?

But that couldn’t mean Fang wasn’t getting pussy; that man could grin at a grandma and get her to take out her teeth for a sloppy BJ. That just meant that he was keeping his dick out of club pussy. The woman hanging on him at the grocery store certainly wasn’t his sister, and those “come and sit on my face” vibes he was tossing those other two women were well-practiced and potent.

Okay…let’s think this through….

No! She’d lain around long enough. She needed to get her ass out of bed and into the shower. Her shift started at six and her clock showed it was quarter till five.

Groaning, she rolled her tired, achy ass out of bed—cursing Savage Fist trainer Marc and his eight-pack for making her do so many fucking ab curls—and trundled toward the shower. Fifteen minutes later, she was pulling on her thick, polyester uniform pants. After she’d donned her togs and boots, she hustled into the kitchen to fill her 32oz travel mug with the coffee her expensive, digital coffeemaker brewed every morning at five.

Dressed, coffee in hand, she headed out the door, her mind on the paperwork she still had to finish from the last rider of yesterday’s shift.

But no matter how much she tried to cram into her morning routine, that morning, nothing stopped her mind from shuffling back over to thoughts of Fang. Of the possibility that he could be…faithful?

Ugh! Why, because he’s discreet and not bringing his random women around the club to fuck them in your face?

Because he was pursuing her, asking her on dates, and making her remember the man he was behind all the machismo? Did that mean he actually…wantedmorewith her?

Hope lit a flame in her chest—a small, wavering flame, but a flame nonetheless.

God, she was a mess.

And it wasn’t just the awful dream she’d had that was mucking up the gearworks in her brain, it was also the thought that, after their date, there was the real possibility that she’d finally get that man’s mouth on her. In all the months they’d spent together, not once had Fang taken his attentions over the invisible line, from friends to friends with bennies. No casual, sexual touches, or innuendo. No kisses or dry humping. The man had shown remarkable restraint. And she’d been both grateful and pissed about it.

Again, ugh!

Get it together, Tessa.Shit, she needed to figure out what the hell was going on with her. But one thing was for sure…she refused to relive that dream in her own life. She refused to be one of many, the woman left to suffer while her man fucked around. Having seen first hand what kind of damage that could do to a woman, she never wanted to know the depth of that pain for herself.

In her car, she sat, thinking. Her cellphone burning a hole in her pants pocket. How long had it been since she’d even thought about calling her mom? Months? Years?

At first, she hadn’t called her because it wasn’t safe; Jacob could be listening in, waiting for Tessa to slip up and say where she was. Also, she didn’t want to tip the asshole off—leaving her mom to deal with the consequences of letting wifey number six escape. Eventually, though, it had become an exercise in ignoring the guilt that reared up whenever she thought of her mother and all she’d left behind when she’d fled. It wasn’t just her mom she’d abandoned; she had step-sisters and brothers, siblings she’d known and loved since they were born. Girls and boys she’d helped raise—along with the crèche of young wives all nesting in the same house. In all, there were twelve children sleeping in that house the night she’d slithered away into the dark.

Tears burned the back of her eyes, her chest growing tight.

Her hand shaking, Tessa reached into her pocket and pulled out her cell.

---