Chapter Three

Ice roughly shoved any and all thoughts of Christmas out of his mind; he hadn’t celebrated it since he was six, and he avoided anything and everything to do with it. The fact that it was just around the corner – just under a month away now – was yet another reason that he was feeling pressured and cornered and weirdly panicky. None of this was like him… he’d earned the name Ice fair and square, but right now, he was a melting iceberg.

Too much going on all at once – and no way for me to get any control over it. Goddammit.

He poured his third cup of coffee and went back to his chair. He sank down into the leather, saw that the stars had moved and dimmed a bit. Ice glanced over at the clock in the kitchen and was startled to see that it was now going on six-thirty. Time was going fast today, a bit too fast for his liking, because as much as he detested sitting here and fretting and stewing, he wasn’t at all ready for the day’s events. He hated weddings at the best of times, but considering everything that was happening, he was dreading hauling ass out to Open Skies Ranch to witness Scars and Zoe getting married. He was glad that they’d found each other, and he’d never let down his Acting-President, but he’d give a lot right now for an iron-clad reason to not have to be in the presence of love for hours and hours.

And now – as the first of the morning light lazily touched the mountain peaks, turning their icy caps pink and gold – yet another reason for Ice’s stress and disquiet came to mind. He’d been studiously ignoring it, forcing it out of his already brimming mind… but in the stillness of the glorious dawn, alone in his minimalist little apartment, downing his third coffee and pondering his worries for Wolf and his brothers, lying to himself about it any longer just seemed stupid. Stupid and weak.

So here she came in his mind’s eye, just walking on over to him, flashing those incredible firm thighs and curvy hips in a short skirt, her full breasts pushing up against her tight little t-shirt. Her long blonde hair fell over her slim shoulders like a shining waterfall, and her amazing dark eyes – a beautiful inky almost-black, a color that Ice had never seen on anyone except her – were bright with desire. She gave him a heart stopping smile, and all that Ice wanted was to take her in his arms, take her into the back room. Just take her.

Vix.

In Satan’s Bar, Victoria ‘Vixen’ Shaw was known as the MC’s favorite ride – and she was rumored to have been with every one of the guys, and multiple times, though Ice knew that to not be true, at all. What was true was that she had been the ultimate pass-around, the quintessential biker’s girl… and she owned that moniker, without shame. The woman was smokily and sexily hot, about that there was no doubt, and she had the brazen, aggressive, unpolished beauty of a wild creature. There was nothing demure or elegant or wallflower about Vix as she carried out her waitressing duties. She was, to her core, an MC bar back room toy, and she was proud of it.

Ice had never had an issue with Vix’s sexual activities, never saw her as anything cheap or low. How could he, when he’d been in those back rooms so often himself over the years? Ice was an asshole in more ways than he could count, but he wasn’t a hypocrite. Except that it turned out that he was worse than that: he was actually a bigger prick than even he knew.

The last words that he’d spoken to Vix came back to him now:

“The only useful part of you is between your legs, not between your ears. Keep your fucking inane thoughts to yourself, whore.”

God, the look on her beautiful face when he’d said that… he’d never seen her hurt before, but that was all he’d seen that day. He’d lashed out at Vix because he’d felt frustrated and impotent about Wolf going to Utah, and he’d taken it out on her. Just unloaded on a woman who didn’t deserve it, not even a little bit. He’d been utterly appalled at himself, shocked and disgusted with the uncalled-for name-calling. Worse than that, though, was the name that he’d actually used.

Whore.

The way that he’d said it, the tone and the vitriol, was an echo of someone else’s voice, a voice that still carried almost thirty years later. A man with Ice’s same blue eyes and cropped blond hair, and his height and strength. And rage.

Dear Christ, am I turning into him? Have I always been him?