Page 1 of Dangerously Deceptive

“Who the fuck are you?” I shout through the open door and stop my pacing long enough to identify that the person entering my room is actually not the overweight, balding biker I had done my research on. This young woman with curves in all the right places and legs that go on for days is most definitely not who I was expecting. She’s an anomaly and I really fucking hate those, along with surprises. So no matter how fucking hot this chick is, I’m out.

“Listen, Kellan. Please just let me explain. I lied to you because I knew you wouldn’t be here if you knew it was me you were helping. But I really need your help. You’re my last chance of staying alive,” she explains, her voice wobbling slightly on the last part.

Fuck, if she knows I won’t help her, even with this whole damsel in distress thing that she has got working for her at the moment, then what she needs me for is really fucking bad.

“Are you linked to the Celtic Reapers, or did you just use them to get my attention?” I ask, needing to piece together as much information as possible, so I can decide if I can trust this girl or not.

“May I?” she asks, pointing at the old, tatty chair and sofa that are in the corner of my cheap motel room. I nod in confirmation, although I don’t join her, instead I simply continue to pace as I mentally work out what the hell I’m going to do. I also try not to focus on the way her leather trousers curve and shape tightly against her ass, or the way her creamy white skin glistens as she removes her leather jacket to reveal all she is wearing underneath is a lacy bralet. Her stomach is tight and toned, and there are small bursts of colour dotted over her skin as random tattoos become more visible.

The more I stare at this woman, trying to work out whether I trust her or not, the more I realise she is definitely lying to me. The way she has subtly done her make-up to make her face appear more gentle and soft, giving her big green eyes a more subtle look, which combined with the curls in her long platinum blonde hair, all make her look shy and timid. But it’s all an act. I can tell by the way she holds herself with confidence, the way she strutted across the room making sure her ass got all the attention. This woman knows she is hot, and she’s used to using her looks to her advantage. Which only means one thing, this woman is lying to me, and I don’t work with liars.

“I am linked to the Celtic Reapers, but if you knew you were meeting me, instead of a fully patched member, you would have been less likely to come and help me,” she replies to my earlier question, as my brain struggles to remember what I even asked her. I can literally feel my brain whirling a mile a minute. I don’t make decisions on the fly. This is why I get all the information beforehand, so I can do my research and make an informed decision. I have to weigh up all the fucking variables. I am not a fly by the fucking seat of my pants kind of guy.

“You are a liar, and I don’t work with liars. Good luck with your task, but you are going to have to do it without me. You can leave my room now,” I state firmly, as I gesture towards the door.

“No…please, let me explain. I know I lied to you, but I promise from now I will tell you the truth. I’m not lying when I say that you’re my last chance to remain alive.” Her mouth quivers as she speaks, before she chews down on her lower lip with her teeth, almost like it’s a weakness she’s aware of and is trying to put a stop to.

Fuck! I definitely do not need to hear this woman out, far from it. I should be chucking her sexy ass out on the curb right now, yet there’s a vulnerability in the way she asks for help that seems real to me. The rest I can tell is an act, but when she says she fears for her life, I actually do believe her. Which is how I find myself grabbing a miniature Jack Daniels along with a can of Coke out of the mini fridge before sitting down on the shabby orange sofa to hear her out.

“Aren’t you going to offer a girl a drink?” she asks, as I sit down and begin mixing my drink together. The sickly, sweet, fake as shit voice she uses actually grates through me, and I start to wish I had picked up two mini bottles and gone for a double.

“Let’s get one thing straight, shall we? Your fake-ass, damsel in distress act isn’t going to work on me. I can see straight through you. So, if you really do want my help, then you better stop acting and get real with me. And, if you want a drink from the minibar, then go for it. You’re paying for the room, after all.” My voice is firm and unwavering, and I see the moment she realises her act has been blown. For a very short time, something that can only be described as fear flashes across her face. Like me discovering that she was acting would somehow have caused her a vast level of fear. But it’s almost like she is well trained in the art of not showing your true intentions or feelings, because a smile spreads across her face, and I know I’m seeing the truth this time.

“I’m impressed. Most people fall for the ‘girl in need’ act,” she says, her voice no longer shaky, but instead sounding almost strong.

“Since we have established you are neither Patch, a member of the Celtic Reapers that I was expecting to meet, nor are you a shy, scared girl looking for help. Who are you?” I ask, as I roll the caramel-coloured liquid around in the glass, simply for something to do.

I’m not someone who is used to sitting still for long periods of time. I think that’s why I fell into computers; your hands are always busy while you are typing, or exploring. Plus, I don’t know if you have noticed this, but I’m not a massive fan of people. I only have one friend, Liam, and I class him as more of a brother than anything else. He will love it when I tell him all about this job. Liam swore when I was putting together all the background information, that there was something odd. Liam is a trained hitman, and a fucking good one at that. He said the Reapers are well known for keeping things in-house, so when they reached out to me, he said something was suspicious. I’m gonna hate having to listen to his incessantI told you socomments when I talk to him after this.

“My name is Shayla. My father, Mack, he’s the President of the Celtic Reapers. Patch is my uncle, the Treasurer of the MC. I used him because I knew you would be suspicious of my father himself reaching out. He would never come himself, nor would he send his VP. But, it does make sense that his Treasurer would reach out for help. The problem still remains the same, I still need to get a thumb drive from a very important person, and I only have a very small window of opportunity to get it. It’s more well-guarded than Fort Knox, which is why I came to you. Believe it or not, I have no interest in getting myself locked up at nineteen, or even worse…killed. This is some serious shit, and I can’t do it by myself.” Her voice rings true, even more so at the end when I can hear her voice beginning to tremble. She tried to rectify it, but there’s no denying I heard it. This girl is terrified, but she doesn’t want me to know she is. Fuck, this girl is like one giant mystery puzzle. One my brain is telling me to walk away from, yet I still find myself sitting on the sofa, staring at her, with more questions running through my mind to help me unravel her mystery.

She shuffles around, trying hopelessly to get comfortable on the lumpy motel chair, and with each movement I catch more of the real Shayla. As she tucks her curled hair behind her ears, showing off her bralet more, I don’t know how the fuck I missed it before, but this girl has got perfect tits. Like, even in the bralet, they hold their own, remaining firm and upright, as well as being slightly larger than your average handful. I was too busy assessing the rest of her to concentrate on them before, but there’s no denying not only does Shayla have a gorgeous fucking rack, it’s also incredibly fake.

Clearing her throat, she pulls my stare away from her tits and back up to her face. “Sorry,” I mutter, as her laughter rings around the room.

“Don’t be. You aren’t the first guy to stare at my tits, and I’m sure you won't be the last.” Still, it doesn’t stop the blush that spreads towards my cheeks.

Trying to change the subject quickly, I hope she didn’t catch sight of my cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I have done my research on the Reapers, and they do have a bit of a reputation here in Limerick. Usually when they see something they want, they charge in with full force and all guns blazing, not caring who gets caught in the crossfire, simply taking what they came for. So, why change methods now?”

“Because that plan won't work this time. The man they want me to steal from, he’s meticulous in his planning and his security. If we were to hit his home or office, we would stand no chance. Which is why we need to do it while he is here for work. He comes to Ireland every so often to do business. He never stays for more than two nights, and even though his security is at its lowest, that still doesn’t mean much. This is going to be tough, and we will have next to no warning over when he will be arriving. We have someone watching him, so we will know when he leaves England, but that’s as much notice as we are getting. So we need to be ready to go at a moment's notice.” As she explains the plan, I can see she is becoming more nervous. Her leg begins to bounce up and down, almost like it’s an anxious tick, while her hands begin wringing together. Further adding to my belief this girl is scared.

“Okay, but why you?” I ask, genuinely curious as to why the Pres would send his pride and joy out on such a dangerous mission.

“I asked for it.” Her words hang in the air. She knows I’m not going to take that as her answer, but I can tell she doesn’t want to tell me anything more. Taking a small sip of my drink, and loving the burn as it slides down my throat. I wait her out, simply raising my eyebrow in question, letting her know that our discussion is not over yet.

“Fuck, you’re infuriating. Has anyone ever told you that?” she shouts, as she stands up and begins pacing on the well-worn carpet that I suspect was once a beige colour.

A small laugh breaks free from me. “Actually, yes. My brother tells me that all the time.”

“You don't have a brother,” Shayla replies quickly, before silencing herself. So, she has done her research on me? Good for her. I might be at a disadvantage, but I am pleased to know she has at least done her research, and wants this to succeed. Or if her earlier slips were any indication, it’s more that she needs this plan to work.

“You’re right. On paper, I don’t. But as far as I’m concerned, my best friend is my brother. Now, are you going to tell me what I want to know, or am I going to have to kick you out?”

With a frustrated groan, she throws herself back on the chair, only this time, her body is angled a lot closer to mine, and our knees collide, that’s how close we are. “Do you know what the women of the MC are called?”

Shaking my head, I answer honestly. Not many people really know how an MC works, unless you are part of it. “There are three types of women in the club. There are children, who until they reach the age of around thirteen are usually fairly well-protected. Then, as adults, you are either an Old Lady, or a Sweetbutt. You are either attached to a patched member for life, or you are free game for anyone. As soon as I turned sixteen, I became a Sweetbutt. I wanted to prospect into the club, I’m more than good enough. But the archaic society is too fucking old-fashioned to allow a woman to ride. So, I want out. Pres says if I pull this off, they will allow me to leave the MC. I need to get out of the club. I need you to help me,” she explains, and it’s not hard to hear the pain in her voice as she talks.

I have never understood how MCs work. They treat women as second-class citizens, no matter how important they are to a patched member. Shayla admitted that she became fair game at sixteen, but I would imagine that’s a lie. Most MCs protect their kids until thirteen. At that point the boys start learning the ropes, and the girls learn to take care of the compound. What the poor girls go through as teens is baffling to me. The only thing I can liken it to would be like growing up in a cult. But the problem with cults, and MCs, is that they drill loyalty into you before anything else. No matter what, the club will always be Shayla’s priority, which is why I’m surprised she wants to leave.

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