Unbeautifully

CHAPTER FOUR

I stared at my reflection in the mirror.

Did I look different?

No. Still blonde. Still blue-eyed. I still looked like me. But I definitely felt…different.

I felt sore and used and…delicious.

And every time I closed my eyes…

My head fell back as he took my breast between his teeth and sucked it inside his mouth, sucking, pulling, biting. Then his hand was between my legs and one finger was up inside me, then two, then I was gripping his head, whimpering, rocking my body back and forth over his hand.

My sex clenched in response to my thoughts and I slumped backward against the wall, feeling the overwhelming urge to touch myself.

His hips were between my thighs and I could feel him, right where I’d wanted him, hard and ready, pushing inside of me. Grabbing his face, I kissed him, kissed him hard and deep, stroking my tongue against his, sucking and nipping his lips, pouring everything I had into it and…

It had been like nothing I’d ever experienced before, not that I’d experienced much, but this…this was something I’d never dreamed existed.

…we came together in a frantic rush of skin and limbs, my magnitude of need an all-consuming burn that I needed…needed…god, I just needed all of him, touching all of me.

I’d never felt like that before, the wanting, not to that magnitude—that incredible burning heat and desire. Maybe it had been the alcohol, maybe it had been Ripper. Ripper. I’d had sex with Ripper.

It was surreal, it was confusing, it was…

His hands were all over me, everywhere at once, making his way up and down my body. He was kneading, grabbing, and squeezing, making me cry out as he relentlessly pushed my limits of pain and pleasure, soothing my cries with sweet kisses and soft caresses and then more pain and more pleasure, and more pleasure, harder and faster, until my skin was burning, my muscles quivering, my insides clenching, and I was clawing at Ripper’s body while he clawed at mine, taking me hard and fast and harder and faster, until I forgot where I was, forgot who I was, and just felt…all of it.

It certainly hadn’t been anything like the one and only other time I’d had sex, junior year, with my one and only boyfriend that I’d had for one entire week before my father scared him off. Something he still denies doing. But during that week I’d managed to lose my virginity in the woods behind school, which had been horrible, and not just because I’d been lying on sticks and wet leaves but because he hadn’t known what he was doing either and…ugh.

But with Ripper…

Holy crap.

The ride home had been awkward. In fact, everything after I’d woken up had been awkward. He wouldn’t make direct eye contact with me and when he spoke, his sentences were short, his words clipped, not saying any more than he absolutely had to.

I knew he regretted it and probably wanted to forget it had ever happened, and I couldn’t blame him for that. If my father ever found out, Ripper would be in serious trouble and I would probably end up locked in the basement for the rest of my life.

But even knowing all of that, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

About him.

About how he’d felt…inside of me.

Sated, I was lying naked in the grass; beside me, sitting up, Ripper lit a cigarette. Glancing down, he jerked his chin upward and grinned at me. “Ready for round two?”

My breath left me even as I smiled.

“Please,” I whispered and his expression changed. Hardened, tightened with hunger the likes of which I’d never seen on a man before. At least, not on a man looking at me.

“Ain’t like I was actually gonna give you a choice,” he said, maneuvering himself between my already spread legs. His roughened hand ran up my body, pausing at my breasts to squeeze and roll, before it wrapped around my throat.

I’m not sure how long I stood there, with my hand pressed against my belly, my eyelids fluttering, breathing shallowly, just remembering the night before when—without warning—my bedroom door flew open and I jolted upright.

Flushing with mortification, I came face-to-face with my father.

“Where’s Eva?” he demanded.

I gaped at him. “Knock much? What if I’d been changing?”

He grunted. “You weren’t, so who cares? Where’s Eva?”

Exasperated, I threw my hands up in the air. “How should I know? I’m not her babysitter! She doesn’t tell me where she’s going!”

His eyes narrowed. “Did she come home last night?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

“I was at prom,” I bit out.

His eyebrows shot up. “Oh.”

Then his brows went back down and his eyes narrowed. “Wait, are you saying you didn’t come home at all?”

Oh, so now he cared. After months and months of not giving a crap about where I was or what I was doing, he suddenly did.

I folded my arms across my chest and gave him an identical, narrow-eyed stare. “I came home pretty late,” I said. “I didn’t check to see if Eva was home.”

“What’s pretty late?” he growled.

Oh, that was it. I’d had it. He couldn’t just waltz in here after nine months of being both emotionally and physically absent and suddenly start demanding details of my life.

Marching up to him, I grabbed the edge of my door. “None of your business,” I spat out angrily and slammed it closed in his face.

I expected him to burst into a tirade. I waited for it, holding my breath, but he didn’t. After several moments of silence, I pressed my ear to the door and listened as his booted feet pounded the wooden floor, stomping further and further away.

With a heavy sigh, I sat down on my bed. My father, the one I knew and loved, would have gone all Incredible Hulk on me and busted down any door I slammed in his face. He would have cursed and yelled and acted like a big, blundering idiot. Then he would have apologized, hugged me, and told me he loved me. This man was not my father. He was broken and sad and I hated him.

Crap, now I was crying. I was so sick of crying.

• • •

Someone was pounding the fuck out of Ripper’s door. Someone who was about to die. Lying on his belly on his bed with his head facedown in his pillow, he reached out to his right, patting around on his nightstand…where was it…keys, no…pack of smokes, no…condoms, no…

His fingers curled around the grip of his nine.

“Hey, asshole!” Hawk bellowed. “You gonna leave your fuckin’ room sometime this century?”

“Go away!” he yelled back, his volume muffled by his face-plant in the pillow.

As the pounding continued, his thumb found the hammer.

Pulled it back.

Click.

Index finger over the trigger.

One more time, asshole…

“Ripper! Get your sorry ass—”

The bullet cracked across the room, in what direction, he didn’t know since he hadn’t even bothered to lift his head.

“DID YOU JUST SHOOT AT ME?”

Ripper grinned into his pillow. Even shit-faced drunk, blinded, his hands behind his back, he could still aim.

He let another round fly. Just for the fuck of it.

“Fuck!” Hawk roared. “I swear to god, asshole, you and—”

Another bullet cracked through the air.

“Fine! I’m gone! Happy, you miserable shit?”

Happy?

Ha-ha-fucking ha.

Despite the awesome mental image of Hawk—six foot two, two hundred and thirty pounds of ripped muscle, arms heavily tattooed, and usually sporting a three-inch Mohawk—doing a bullet dance in the hallway, he was far from happy.

He hadn’t been happy in…how long had it been since Frankie Deluva carved him up like a fucking jack-o’-lantern?

Four years? Five? Who knew? And really, who cared?

It didn’t matter how many years passed, he’d still be missing his right eye, still look like he’d gone ten or twenty rounds with a mountain lion and lost, and he’d still be damn miserable because of it.

And now…he’d fucked Danielle West and was waiting to die. He’d been waiting to die all day long and when a man knows he’s going to die but doesn’t know when or how, it makes for a very unpleasant wait.

He would know. This was the second time in his life he’d waited to die.

Groaning, cursing the sun and his life and his stupid cock, Ripper pulled his pillow out from underneath himself and used it to cover his head. Holy shit, he was an idiot.

And he hadn’t just fucked her, he’d been all up in that shit, mouth and hands everywhere, doing pretty much everything a man could do to a woman with the exception of a few choice activities.

He’d fucked Danielle West.

And he was going to die because of it.

He knew Danny, she was a fucking chatterbox. She was always rambling on and on about music and clothes and some asshat named Chan-a-something Tater Tots. She was going to spill to someone and then that someone would spill to someone else and then he’d be worm food.

Halfheartedly, he rolled his body over and swung his legs off the bed. As his boots hit the floor, he made a concerted effort to sit up. No go. He tried again; palming the mattress, he was able to shove himself into a standing position.

He was standing. Sweet.

Tequila – 0, Ripper – 1.

Now, if only he could master the intricate art of walking.

And thus commenced his one-man stumbling circus show.

Tequila – 1, Ripper – 1.

When he finally managed to find his bathroom—which shouldn’t have been as hard as it had been in his meager nine-by-ten bedroom—and locate the toilet as well, he decided he was too drunk to piss standing up. Then he, a self-proclaimed drunken, gun-wielding, biker extraordinaire, plopped his ass down on the seat, tucked his dick between his legs, and pissed like a girl.

Tequila – 1, Ripper – 1.5.

Now, he had to stand up. Again.

Surprisingly, he made it to his feet but when the need for walking arose he fell forward, unable to bear his own weight, and went stumbling into the sink.

Gripping the edge of the counter, Ripper stared blurrily at his fucked-up reflection. Stared at the gaping hole where his right eye had been, the seven slashes across his right cheek, his mangled right arm, and…

“Why couldn’t you have just let me die?” he whispered to a god that obviously didn’t give two fucks about him.

He’d been ready to die.

But God hadn’t granted him peace; the fucker had given him hell on earth instead. And the face of a demon to match.

Ripper gasped as Frankie swiped his blade across his chest, tearing open his skin. Again.

Naked. Hog-tied on the floor of an old warehouse, bleeding from too many wounds to count, Ripper knew he was going to die and silently, albeit a little angrily, made his peace with God.

“Not lookin’ so pretty anymore, Horseman,” Frankie said, laughing. “Lookin’ pretty fuckin’ fucked-up.”

He blinked, trying to see through the blood and tears. “Fuck you,” he rasped. “Fuck you.”

“Sorry, fuckwad, you ain’t my type. But I’ll make a deal with you. You tell me what fuckin’ deal Deuce worked out with Bannon’s crew, how much profit he’s skimmin’, and I’ll let you jerk off before I slit yer fuckin’ throat.”

He choked back a sob. He didn’t want to die and he definitely didn’t want to die like this, at the hands of a madman who got off making people bleed and scream before he did them in. But there was no way in hell he would ever give up his club or his prez. No fucking way.

“Do your fuckin’ worst, you cock-suckin’ piece of shit,” he choked out, cringing as he said it. You don’t tell a man like Franklin “Crazy Frankie” Deluva to do his worst and then expect anything but his absolute worst and Frankie’s worst was…

Ripper screamed as Frankie’s blade pierced his eyeball.

Sitting on top of his bound body, stopping him from thrashing, Frankie slowly twisted his blade.

Pure.

Scalding.

Fire.

He screamed and sobbed until, thankfully, his brain chose that moment to shut the fuck down and he passed out cold.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t deserve what Frankie had done to him; he knew he did. When you’d taken as many lives as he had taken over the years, inflicted as much pain as he had, without giving what he’d been doing so much as a second thought…well then, you didn’t have a right to be surprised when God decided to let karma fuck you up the ass with a pitchfork.

But that didn’t mean he was happy about it.

In fact, with each passing year he was growing angrier, more and more miserable, unable to forget but desperately trying. He was drinking more, tapping into shit he shouldn’t, doing whatever or whoever he felt like because…really…who gave a fuck what he did?

Ripper didn’t have any family left, didn’t have a girlfriend he gave two fucks about, and if his brothers knew what had really happened with Frankie, the real reason he’d been able to get away, they’d lose all respect for him.

So, yeah, that amounted to him having a whole lot of jack-fucking-shit.

And now he could add Danny to the long list of fuckups he’d made in his life.

Danny.

Deuce’s fucking daughter.

He’d fucked Deuce’s fucking daughter.

He was fucked.

He was so fucking fucked.

Maybe this was how his miserable life was finally going to end: death by pussy.

Which, when he thought about it, made sense. It was because of pussy that you came screaming into this world; might as well be pussy that took you out of it.

Staring at his reflection, Ripper started laughing, because, what the fuck, this shit wasn’t real. This couldn’t be his life.

And then he had to look away, because what grown fucking man wanted to watch himself cry.