I looked to the heavens and let out a deep sigh.
Fuck my life.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ICEMAN
It was chilly in this dang car.
In fact, my nuts had been freezing since the day before, when I’d ticked Saint off by walking out of the kitchen to stop me from ripping asshole Sam’s head clean off his goddamned neck. I didn’t expect my girl to tell me the gory deets about every sexual partner she’d had over the last two years, but I did expect her to inform me about any that hung with us.
At her house...
Every damned day.
The reason my nuts were freezing was that Saint hadn’t gone near them since that particular convo. But it wasn’t because I basically told Sam (in so many words) never to touch my woman again—though, according to Saint, that shit was bad enough.
No, the reason my woman hadn’t made any contact with any part of my anatomy was because of dickwad Gambit, the big-mouthed fucker.
I mean, why would he tell Boomer about the club whores?
Why?
It wasn’t a state secret, but civilians didn’t understand the reasoning behind the club girls.
Not only did our men have needs, but they also hadneeds.It wasn’t as simple as just getting off; moreover, the boys—in our club in particular—needed release. They needed help to sleep and relax. Hell, they needed help to function. It was necessary for them, and sex helped them do it in a way where they didn’t need drugs to get their dopamine moving through their bodies.
It wasn’t the most efficient coping mechanism, but it was still healthier than taking prescription medication when there was a danger that the men could develop an addiction.
However, my argument came crashing down when Saint pointed out that sex could also turn into an addiction. The other part that came crashing down was that I didn’t actually have PTSD; I just really fucking liked sex.
So yeah, Saint wasn’t talking to me, and it was making things tense for everyone except Boomer, who kept looking between us and grinning. He seemed to thrive on awkward silences because the fucker sat in the backseat of the club’s GMC Yukon on the way to the hotel, picking his guitar, grinning, and shaking his stupid head at the shitty atmosphere.
Lucky for Sam, he was in the other car with Ghost, Trick, and Jonny J, so he wasn’t in danger of being decapitated—for now—though I meant every word I said to him the day before. He needed to stay the fuck away from Saint because I was already hanging by a thread, and if he made one wrong move, I knew that thread would snap.
The girls and Boomer were in the back of the Yukon chatting, so I took the opportunity to catch up on club business with Blade, who’d picked us up from the airport.
Talia had taken one look at Veep and smirked appreciatively.
I got it. He was a mountain of a man, and even I could appreciate the handsomeness of the dude. He was dark-haired, tanned, and had piercing blue eyes that saw straight down to any mischief in your soul. He could look at a man and assess their intentions from the get-go, which was a talent that came in very handy, not only during his military career, but also when it came to controlling a club full of men.
Veep turned his blinker on to maneuver the car off the I-95 toward Arrowhead Point and side-eyed me from the driver’s seat before asking, “Doghouse?”
I jerked a nod and rolled my eyes.
His lips twitched, and he muttered, “Whipped.”
I jerked another nod and proudly said, “Yep.”
“Can’t wait for Church,” he cut out under his breath. “This one’s gonna be good. Ice, the unbothered, is suddenly very fucking bothered. And there was Diablo thinking that Saint McClure was gonna be the next and last love of his life.”
“Hendrix mentioned he’s a fan,” I said dryly. “Never saw that one coming.”
“Why?” Blade asked. “Saint’s Rapture’s music’s cool as shit, and your girl’s beautiful. A lotta the boys are excited to meet them. Even Wyoming has...” His words trailed off, and he let out a quietharrumph.
A chill ran down my arms.
Slowly, my head turned toward him, and I asked, “Wyoming has what?”
