Page 70 of Savage Fire

What. The. Fuck?

She pressed into him harder, her hand dropped to his belt buckle, more than ready to undo his fly and suck his dick out in the open. And usually, he’d let her. He didn’t give a shit who was watching. But after that morning….

“Not tonight, sugar,” he rumbled, thankful that just then Odin stepped into the room, signaling for him to follow.

Thank fuck. Hopefully, Odin had something Trouble could do to keep his mind off of all the angry, regretful, painful shit twisting through him—body and soul.

Pushing Amelia off, he ignored her angry huff, and turned and followed his prez out the door toward the man’s massive matte black on black Dodge Ram. He was ready to get the fuck out the clubhouse and do something that would get his mind off of all the shit living in it. Wallowing in it.

With the hell that had gone down with the Calderone Cartel, Fang’s Hive drama, and the news from the Stonecutters, he was ‘bout ready to drink and fuck himself into a coma. But he couldn’t do that. He was the VP of the Savage Raiders MC, and that fucking meant something, even when it didn’t. Even when the demons from the desert rose up to clamp their icy cold hands around his ankles to drag him back into the pit of memories, agony, and humiliation.

Throwing open the passenger door, he climbed up and onto the seat, slamming the door behind him with a little more force than necessary.

“Fuck man, mind the brutality. This beast is on two months old, and I’d like it to still be like new when my little man gets here,” Odin grumbled.

Trouble grinned, happier than a pig in shit for his prez, his former commanding officer in the US Army Rangers. His best friend.

“How much longer until your Valkyrie pops?” he asked, using the club name for Odin’s old lady, Skathi.

“Too long. She’s ready to go now, though, says she’d rather give birth to him now than try to push a ten-pound baby out of her body.” He snickered. “I don’t blame her.” He winced, more than likely picturing himself trying to push a watermelon out of his cock.

Trouble was picturing the same thing, and it was fucking awful.

Cringing, he watched as Odin pulled the truck out of the compound gates and pointed the hood toward town.

He opened his mouth to ask him where they were going, and then ask if they could first stop off at Delicious for a lap dance or two—though the Prez would bow out and leave his VP to his own debauched devices, when the loud ring of the Odin’s phone through the Bluetooth speaker blasted through the cabin.

Trouble grit his teeth at the name displayed on the digital screen embedded in the truck dash.

DR. LIZ CALLING….

What didshewant? After that morning, and the gutting she’d delivered, he didn’t know if his heart could stand the sound of her voice.

Suck it up, bitch. You brought this shit on yourself.

And, boy, had he.

Hitting a button on the display, Odin greeted, “Doc, what can I do for you this evening?”

Silence. Leaning forward, Trouble tilted his ear, listening for any sounds from the other end of the line. Still silence. Had the call disconnected? No…it was still all green for “go”.

Trouble sat up straight, a pang in his chest echoing down into his guts. For as long as he’d known Liz, he’d known that woman wasn’t silent. She could fill the somber solitude of a cemetery with enough commentary to raise the dead. If she was silent, something was wrong. Something wasdefinitelywrong. All the hair on his arms stood on end as apprehension trilled over him like someone struck a bad chord on his spine.

“Hello?” Odin tried again. “Doc?”

A soft, quiet voice whispered over the line, “H-hel-lo?”

Odin and Trouble both turned to each other, their eyes wide, their bodies tense.

That definitely wasn’t Dr. Elizabeth Simpson.

“Hello, there,” Odin greeted, softening his voice. “Who is this?”

Silence.

“You there, little lady?”

“Is…is this Mr. Odin?” the little voice pleaded, making Trouble’s heart skip a beat.

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