Truly beautiful.
A work of goddamn art.
He cocked a brow at my prolonged stare, but I didn’t blush—I’d lost the ability around my stepfather years ago. His come-ons and insults had made me grow a thicker skin than most women usually had. “She shouldn’t have pulled my hair,” I stated calmly.
He cut a look at the slut who was only wearing a goddamn Gstring and a tee she’d knotted at the waist. In the fucking kitchen. Her stringy hair was showing all the extensions, and she had that in a loose topknot. Despite the fact she looked cheap as hell, she was beautiful. There was no evading that. Even with the blossoming bruise on her forehead, she had the face of a china doll, and there was no way in fuck she should have been selling herself to these guys for room and board.
My throat tightened as I likened my situation to her.
No way in hell would I sleep with any of these bastards.
No. Way. In. Hell.
“She didn’t answer me, Nyxy!” the bitch whined.
“Shut the fuck up, Kendra.” They might have sounded like it, but I knew those harsh words didn’t mean he was on my side.
He wasn’t.
That much was clear from his considering stare.
“That how you deal with people who ask who you are?”
“When they talk to me like I’m trash, then physically assault me?” I bared my teeth at him. “Yeah.” I jerked my thumb at her. “I remember all the snatch from the old days. If you let them get away with shit early on, then you’re fucked. I’m not an Old Lady, but I’m a brother’s daughter. Straightaway, that means that cunt over there shouldn’t even be talking to me, let alone—”
He didn’t let me carry on. “Your momma let you talk like that?”
Brows lifting, I laughed. “My momma taught me to talk like this. Especially around guys like you.”
He stared at me again, considering me again. “Kendra, get the fuck out of here.”
“What?” The whining bitch glowered at me. “It’s my turn to make lunch!”
“Yeah, well, it’s your lucky day. Someone else is here to do that. Now fuck off.”
Kendra pouted, and rather than look pleased at shedding the chore, she glared at me and trounced off.
Nyx, the bastard, took a second to watch her ass flounce off, but I couldn’t really blame him—she had a nice ass. I’d even go so far as to say that I wished mine looked like that in a G-string instead of cheese wire around a ball of mozzarella. With more dimples.
Folding my arms across my chest, I waited on the lecture. On the ‘if you can’t play nice, then get the hell out of here’ card, but when he’d stopped eyeballing her butt, instead of reaming me a new one, he turned to me and murmured, “You sure this is the right place for you?”
I cocked my hip against the counter which, surprisingly, was a damn fine piece of marble—hell, the rest of the kitchen was nice too. All of it stainless steel like a commercial kitchen in a restaurant or something—and inquired calmly, “Answer me this, would you allow someone to treat you like shit on the first day in a new place?”
“No,” he replied simply. His eyes would never be considered kind, but they weren’t mean either. So I took that to be a positive.
“Are you, or are you not, aware that sweetbutts are skanky-ass hoes with attitude problems? They’re all cats in a bag hissing and trying to fuck one another over.” I didn’t wait for him to answer, just steamrolled on. “If I gave her an inch, she’d take a mile. You know it, I know it.”
He tipped his head to the side. “You’ve caused yourself a whole heap of shit with the other girls. One and done with these bitches. You should remember that.”
I snorted at that. “I was always going to get shit from those witches. If you don’t believe that, then you’re naive.” My lips curved as I eyed him up and down. “One thing I doubt, Nyxy, is that you’re naive.”
His eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward, pressing his forearms onto the counter. As he did, his pecs bulged, making his Henley bunch up. Instead of focusing there, I looked at his throat, which was covered in a tattoo of a songbird with “Carly” inked there in a scroll font. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen it, but in the light of day, it was the first time I realized that the banner that streaked out from behind the vintage bird, housed a chick’s name.
Bikers only had one name on their bodies—their Old Lady’s. Did it sting that he’d evidently claimed a woman? Yup. And did I feel stupid for feeling stung? Yup.
I didn’t want him. He, like the rest of the brothers in the MC—mine included—were bad news, and that was the last thing I needed in my life. Or my bed. Still, he was hot.
And he fucking knew it.
Instead of hiding the fact that I’d been checking him out, I cocked a brow at him, stacked a smirk on my lips, and folded my arms across my belly in a way I knew had my boobs bulging. When his gaze dropped, just like I’d known it would, I murmured, “You got something to say, Nyxy?”
“Yeah.”
“What?” I prompted when he didn’t say another word.
“It’s Nyx.”
“Only people you’ve fucked can call you that, huh?”
He smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Actually, I’m fine as I am.” My sneer turned into a wry smile. I decided to drop the BS, and told him, “Look, I’m not here to cause any shit, but that doesn’t mean I won’t protect myself. I know how to handle any of the crap those bitches can throw my way—”
“They’re not all bitches,” he interrupted, his brow puckering at my statement.
“They are to anyone who isn’t like them. Even the Old Ladies.” Because dicks like him let the skanks get away with that.
His scowl deepened. “You say that like it’s my fault.”
I hitched a shoulder. “My mom left this place because my dad never put any of the sluts in line. Never said shit if they disrespected her, never did a fucking thing.” My mouth tightened. “I’m not about to let them treat me that way. Ever.”
My words held more emotion than I liked, but he didn’t call me out on it, instead, he just stared at me some more—and why wasn’t that irritating? Why wasn’t his regard annoying as hell?
If anything, it made me tingle, and that was not a good sign.
“You spoken to your father yet?”
The question surprised me. My eyes rounded for a second before I controlled my reaction—something he also took note of. But then, how could he understand how adept I’d become at hiding my expression from the world?
How could anyone, other than someone who’d been through the same shit as me, ever get it? And the bitch of it was, of course, that I was one of the lucky ones. I’d gotten away. But that didn’t mean I didn’t have scars.
“Why would I?” I replied easily, turning my back on him to look into the fridge once more. I’d already figured out what I was making for dinner—steaks. What other way was there to men’s stomachs? At least while I was trying to impress them enough to keep me around until I got my shit together and could leave this place with some funds in my bank account. The pasta puttanesca could be for another day. Steaks would reel them in, even if my signature dish was close to a masterpiece.