Not Even A Mouse Page 3

  “What’ll you have?” The lyrical, deep voice had seemed to come from a far distance away, wrapping around him like flannel sheets, dragging at his skin in a way that made every nerve ending come alive. He ignored the question, focused instead on those damned eyes, watching as they darkened. “You see something you like, honey?” That same voice, but it had developed a distinct flirty tone, and recognition had jolted Myron out of the daze those damned eyes had put him in.

  “What?” God, he’d hated how he sounded. His voice had been soft and startled, and so at odds with the persona he had to present to the world all the time, he had hardly recognized it.

  “To drink. Do you know what you want?” Myron’s gaze had dropped to the man’s lips, watching them move and stretch as he smiled, seeing the dance of a clever tongue behind lips and teeth. In that moment he’d known all this man would have to do was ask and Myron would do anything...anything at all, just to have those eyes and that smile directed his way again.

  That need had slipped past his guard, opening up wounds he didn’t know he still carried. Standing in Mouse’s kitchen, Myron flinched at the painful memory. Andy, he thought, remembering the request as they’d fumbled off their clothes last night. “Mouse is the guy who works the bar. Here, I’m just Andy.”

  “Mister man, what’s your name?” Here was a question he could answer finally, having dodged all her others about why he was there, and why Papa was such a sleepyhead.

  “Myron, sweetness. My name is Myron.”

  “Myron is Papa’s good friend, baby girl. I hope you haven’t been too big a pest.” Myron and Natalya both jerked around to look at the doorway. Myron let his gaze take in Andy’s casual, rumpled at-home Sunday-morning look, hair a mess and lips still swollen from their kisses last night. “Morning.” That rumbled greeting paired with a salacious wink had Myron’s dick perking up, pulsing with a renewed desire that sent a thrill through him. A strange look swept across Andy’s features for a moment and then he seemed to shake it off, strolling towards where Myron stood next to Natalya. “You look good in my kitchen.” He got close and reached out to place a hand on Myron’s waist, giving a squeeze as he bent to press a kiss to Natalya’s head. “What’s for breakfast, little Talya?”

  Andy straightened and was so close Myron felt heat from his body all along his front. Andy gave him another squeeze that sizzled along Myron’s nerves. Then, as if he knew his effect on Myron, one corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk as he stepped to the side, leaving Myron weaving drunkenly in his wake. That’s what had happened last night, too; Myron had gotten drunk. Not on booze, he’d only had one beer at the bar, but on the heady knowledge that a man like Andy had sensed his attraction and then acted on it, making it clear that he liked Myron’s attention, and more—returned it.

  “Pancakes!” Talya crowed, throwing her arms in the air as if having pancakes for breakfast were a lifelong dream finally being realized.

  “Then let’s get busy.” As easily as that Andy had accepted Myron’s invasion of his home, working alongside him until they finished preparing the simple meal and followed Talya into the dining room, plate of pancakes in hand.

  That was the moment things began to go bad.

  Just a stranger

  Andy

  Andy woke in a bed that had always seemed just slightly too small for two broad-shouldered men to sleep easily, unless they were cuddlers. Which he’d never been, not even in the first exhilarating rush of a new relationship. Certainly not with a casual hookup, or even one of the rare repeats he’d had over the years. But, something he’d discovered about himself last night was he could be—with the right man. He’d drifted up from his doze a couple of times to find himself wrapped around the biker in his bed like he was Andy’s own personal snuggle bunny. The temperature in the house had been a little too warm—thermostat set for solo sleeping—and instead of moving apart, they’d quickly abandoned the blanket, keeping just the thin sheet. A move that proved to be chilly now that he was alone in the bed.

  Alone.

  His eyes opened a slit to see light creeping in around the blinds.

  Well, hell.

  Still hoping, he reached out, his palm encountering only cool, entirely rumpled sheets. Fuck.

  It shouldn’t have been a surprise that the apparently closeted biker abandoned his bed during the night. Andy had met enough of the Rebel Wayfarers members that when he’d caught what looked like curiosity in the man’s eyes, he’d assumed his radar had gone wonky at first.

  He remembered the first night the woman Bexley had come in. She was the sole reason the sleepy neighborhood bar had acquired new clientele. The sudden appearance of a massive, badly-scarred-but-still-badass-looking biker had been startling as he’d swept her up and out of the bar. It had been only minutes later that Andy had gotten the full story from the kitchen staff, which meant he hadn’t put up any kind of fuss when two more burly bikers showed to drag the scumbag who had tried to drug her out the back door of the bar. A few days later she’d showed again, looking none the worse for wear, and her biker he-man had not only asked Andy to watch out for her, but clearly made the same request of his friends. These days it was like clockwork: if Bexley showed, he was guaranteed at least one biker coming in as well, their focus always on her.

  Until last night.

  Late summer, a lot of the locals were away at lake houses or on vacation, which meant his night had started slow. Stools and seats had gradually filled with regulars, including Bexley, which Andy had known meant the appearance of one of her leather-clad cavalry was imminent. He stuck to what he did best, joking and serving drinks, and tried unsuccessfully to shake off the slow night blues. Then, oh then, he caught his first sight of a brand-new, shiny biker dude at a two-top in the corner.

  The biker must have slipped in when he wasn’t looking and by the time Andy saw him had focused on his phone, firm chin tilted down, tousled hair angled across his face. Even without looking up he made an impression. A very good one. So, the first time Andy waited on a nearby table he’d paused, stepped close and asked if the guy needed anything. Tell me you want me, baby. It had been a no-go with that wish, but there remained something that drew Andy in.

  Everything about the wiry man was memorable. Not just how appealing he looked in his vest or jeans, although those pants had looked like they fit very well. Every time Andy had turned from ringing up a new sale on the register to sweep the crowd with his gaze, checking levels of bottles and glasses, the biker at the tiny table in the back had been staring at him. Not glaring, although Andy was accustomed to some of that, men who seemed personally offended that he wasn’t shy about batting for the other team. No, Andy had become convinced the luscious and lickable biker had been staring at him with interest. There was just…a presence about him.

  Myron, the patch on his vest had read, and the name fit who he seemed to be. Slightly stuffy, but definitely a name that begged to be whispered during a kiss.

  Lying alone in bed Andy murmured it again, feeling his lips pursing with the sounds. “Myron.”

  He pressed the heels of his hands to his forehead before rolling to the edge of the bed. Sitting there, he could hear tiny noises that signaled movement in the house. Andy shook his head. Talya was normally so good about staying in her room until he’d gotten up. Glancing at his phone, he saw it was early yet and sighed as he pushed up from the bed. Myron clearly hadn’t hung around long, and Andy’s eyes felt full of gravel on only three hours of sleep.

  The closer he got to the kitchen, however, the less certain he was that Myron had actually made it out of the house. Sure enough, when he peeked around the corner, there stood the tough-looking biker, hair adorably mussed, with powdered sugar smeared along the edge of his stubble-rough jaw. Natalya was poised on her stepstool next to him, hands steadying the bowl as Myron dipped a cup of batter to pour in a careful circle on the griddle.

  “Good job, mister man.” Talya’s praise made Myron’s lips quirk in a lopsided grin,
and Andy stepped out, losing Talya’s next question in his rush to make sure this was real. This gorgeous man truly was standing in his kitchen after he’d expected to never have this again, calling his little girl “sweetness” simply because she was.

  The next few minutes were exciting and mundane in the same breath. There were no awkward morning-after jitters in his belly, and Andy let himself lean close, capturing Myron’s lips in a chaste kiss in a moment while Talya was otherwise occupied. He kept her busy with setting the table and then organized their trek to the dining room. It was almost surreal, the happiness it gave him to watch Myron move through his house, the biker doing it with a level of comfort Andy found addicting.

  He tried to stay in the moment, not wanting to read too much into the whole encounter. Still…it was hard because he wanted this, craved more of the quietly shy man he had met last night, and desired at least one more taste of the sweet lover he’d discovered lay under the denim and leather.

  He wanted…more.

  ***

  Myron

  Andy smiled as he pulled out the seat at the head of the table while Talya moved towards what looked to be her usual chair, booster seat strapped tightly in place. Myron reached for the chair to Andy's right. This would place their little group of three clustered around one end of the table, allowing for easy conversation. Something Myron found himself very much looking forward to.

  Then tiny Talya looked up at him, wide eyes swimming with tears as her face fell, pain and sadness suffusing her features. “That's Daddy's chair.” Myron froze and looked to Andy who was staring at Talya, a matching mask of pain stretching across his face, distorting the smile he’d worn all morning and turning it to a twisted grimace.

  Myron glanced around the room, seeing pictures he’d ignored earlier, candid photos of a smiling Andy standing next to a handsome man in a suit who was tall and lean, a strong arm wrapped possessively around Andy. A younger Talya was balanced on one of Andy’s hips, her hands on the other man’s face, pulling him around to face the camera. Daddy. Andy had a man, that’s why they’d fucked in the guest bedroom and not the master. Can’t have the sheets smelling like a stranger when Daddy got home.

  Andy hadn’t argued when Myron found an immediate and pressing need to leave, following him to the door with downcast eyes. A whispered, “I’m sorry,” the only thing said between them. The, I can’t do this remained unspoken. Nothing else needed to be said. Myron was sorry too.

  I wish

  Myron, one week later

  “Jesus.” He panted for breath as he reached to where his phone was propped against the wall. On the other end of the line, Andy did the same thing, the angle of the video changing from the artful presentation of a no-longer-erect cock to his sweating, smiling face. “You’re killing me.”

  “If you’d jack with me instead of after, you’d end these calls in a better mood.” Andy laughed, light and carefree. He was still out of breath, his chest rising and falling fast but his relaxed smile was slow as molasses, making Myron’s heart lurch. “Did you like that one? You requested more dirty talk, did I deliver?”

  Myron reached down and palmed his cock, touch too familiar to be erotic. When they were like this, he would sometimes get far enough into the scene he could convince his body that it was Andy’s hand. Not tonight. He hissed in frustration.

  The reason for that filtered under the doorway, sounds of the party downstairs making their way to his room on the second floor of the Chicago clubhouse. Myron adjusted the earbud he had in place, ensuring there’d be no eavesdroppers on this very private conversation. He kept his voice quiet, pitching it just loud enough Andy could hear him through the mic. “I did like it. It was perfect.” Having his own private porn streaming on demand was more than a novelty, it had become the highlight of his days. “So perfect.”

  Myron hadn’t lost the bartender’s number. He hadn’t lost the memories of what they’d done, either. He’d managed to wait a whole day before texting the first time, covering his eagerness to talk to Andy by asking about a zoo expedition Talya had rattled on about as they made pancakes. They’d quickly fallen into a routine of texts and calls on days Andy was off.

  It didn’t seem to matter to his dick that Andy had a regular man in his life. At the beginning of every call, Myron promised himself he’d bring up the man in the picture, but then he’d imagine watching Andy close off, expression shuttering, and he couldn’t do it. As long as they kept it to this, kept the distance between them while maintaining intimacy, Myron could tell himself it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was Andy’s smile, his excitement, and yes, his dirty talk didn’t hurt, either. Myron knew if he asked and Andy answered, the walls that kept them safe would fall, and the world would rush back in.

  Myron’s position in the Rebel organization meant unless things were going down, he could carve out an hour or two nearly anytime. Without letting himself ponder what it might mean, he’d tried to make a point of doing so each time Andy texted. This connection between them—whatever it was—had stayed strong, so much stronger than he could have predicted. For all he liked his spreadsheets and formulas, and the probability of being able to plot out any given path, he’d found himself happily winging it with Andy.

  “Are you coming back here soon? I didn’t hate this house as much when you were in it.” Andy’s pupils were still blown, dark and earnest, kissable pink lips puffy from biting them as he’d jacked and fingered himself. Words unguarded, undoubtedly by the orgasm, he murmured, “I liked you here. Made everything…better.” He shifted backwards on the bed and grabbed his boxers, discarded early on during the call, and used them to halfheartedly wipe down before collapsing again. Andy’s face was nearer the phone when he whispered, “I want to see you again, Myron. Want to hold you.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve told you things are a little…unsettled here.” That was an understatement. Diamante MC was stirring the pot again, and Mason had called an all-officers meeting earlier tonight, pulling in men from a half a dozen chapters. That was the reason for the big blowout happening downstairs. Myron knew if he walked down the steps to the main floor, he’d be presented with a dozen different varieties of what Andy had just shown him, all female versions. “I’m gonna go now.” Andy’s bottom lip stuck out on cue, showing without words how he felt about Myron ending the call before he finished on his end. Voice he could accommodate, and had, his whispered pleas hit the air alongside Andy’s deeper commands. Video was trickier, harder to refute if someone captured any of the footage. “Brat. You gave me a lot to use for inspiration.”

  “At least there’s that.” Andy grinned, but it died fast, falling away. “I wish you were here.”

  “Me, too.” It wasn’t a lie. He wanted a world where that was possible. Where he could be the main attraction in Andy’s life. Heavy footfalls came down the hallway towards his room, the only door at this end of the building, which meant they were coming for him. He leaned towards the phone as he shoved his cock into his pants, wincing when his not-quite-wilted erection snagged on a button. “I gotta go. Text me.”

  “You know I will.” Andy pursed his lips, and Myron disconnected with a smile, arching up to settle his pants around his hips.

  “Myron.” Thud. Thud. Thud. “Sorry to wake you, brother. Boss wants a word.”

  “Be right there.” He listened to the receding footsteps, slowing his breathing. He’d never before begrudged the Rebels anything. They’d saved him. No part of his life was his own, and that was how it just was. How it needed to be. No matter if it wasn’t how Mason saw it, Myron was body and soul a Rebel.

  Sometimes, though.

  I wish…

  He didn’t finish the thought. Angling off the bed and stamping into his boots, he then reached for the doorknob.

  What I need

  Myron, one week later

  Standing just outside the back door of the Rebel Wayfarers Fort Wayne clubhouse, Myron surveyed the clumps of people standing here and th
ere. Whenever there was a mixed-club party, there was always a certain amount of tension. Inviting others into the RWMC house, even friendly groups like this club from Florida, Myron and the other officers were on guard for any missteps.

  Not that he expected anything to go sideways. No, he was so confident it would be without incident, he was even counting down until he could reasonably leave. The Jailbreakers MC had proven themselves over the past months, eagerly meeting any Rebel demands, and more than once coming back with greater than expected results. Sparks, their president, had worked to ingratiate himself with Mason in a way which cemented the relations between the clubs. This party was supposed to be the celebration of Sparks and Mason coming to an agreement, and the result of that pact meant every Jailbreakers member present sported a shiny new support patch for the RWMC.

  Myron bent over and fished in an open cooler, coming up with a dripping bottle. He grinned, remembering the look on Sparks’ face as the Rebel prospects lugged in the beer this afternoon. If there were any inklings of trouble, the Rebels would have been only serving kegs or cans, and Sparks had known it. The expression on his face said he’d very much appreciated the implicit vote of confidence. Sometimes it’s the little things. Myron sighed as he twisted the cap off, tossing it into a nearby box of trash. Pretty full, he thought and tipped his head to catch the eye of a prospect. Wordlessly, he pointed and got a chin lift in response.

  “Brother,” he heard, that single word all the warning he got before a hand clapped on his shoulder, gripped hard and shoved him to the side before rocking him back. Twisting around, he ducked out from under the clasp and shook his head, looking up at Gunny. “We gotta get you a gal, Myron. Get Slate’s GeeMa lookin’ at the church socials again. Some of those e-mails were a fuckin’ riot.”

  Jesus, not this again. He didn’t let his dismay show, just kept a smile steady on his face as he demurred, the twin tactics of distraction and deflection second nature. “Yeah, a riot. Gunny…brother, I do all right. In fact, I feel the need to head back to Chicago soon.” The implication was he had a special piece of ass there, and when Gunny’s face lit with a grin, even though it had been his intent, he nearly groaned in response.