A Fucking Wreck

~Valerie~

My face is pressed against the cold tile, and I’m pretty sure I look like a fucking wreck.

The chill of the floor should be helping, should be cooling the fire under my skin, but it isn’t. Every time I close my eyes, I see those gray eyes, darker than the smoke in the bar, colder than the winter air he carries around.

He knew.

He didn’t have to say a word. The way his nose flared, the way his gaze dropped to the mess I’d made of myself... he smelled me. He smelled my need, my sin, my absolute pathetic desperation for him.

And then he just walked away.

“Fuck,” I whisper into the dust on the floor. My voice is thrashed, scratchy.

I’m nineteen. I’m supposed to be in control. I’m supposed to be the one pulling the strings, walking in here and claiming his space, but one grunt. One, “Valerie,” from his throat, and I’m a puddle. Literally.

I roll over, my back hitting the crates of alcohol. A bottle of bourbon clinks against my shoulder, mocking me. Wipe the dust, Valerie. Do your job, Valerie.

How am I supposed to wipe bottles when my hands are still shaking? When my thighs feel like steel and my chest is still tight?

I drag my shorts back up. It’s a struggle. My skin is tacky, the denim sticking to me in a way that’s annoying and satisfying all at once. I look at the stool. The towel. The crates.

Gunnar is right outside. Rikky is waiting. And Ronan... Ronan is probably sitting upstairs in his office right now, acting like I don't exist. Like I didn't just scream his name in a dusty room while he was ten feet away.

I grab the towel. My knuckles are white as I grip it.

I’m not leaving. I’m not going back to being the innocent ward he checks on out of some fucked-up duty to my dead dad.

I stand up, my heels clicking sharply, the sound echoing in the tiny room. My legs are weak, but I force them to hold. I’ll clean his bottles. I’ll serve his beer. I’ll be the perfect little waitress until the moment I can get him alone again.

And next time, I won't be behind a closed door.

I reach for the first bottle, my heart still thudding a ragged rhythm against my ribs.

I'm coming for you, Alpha.

Just wait and see.

I stand up, my black stilettos clicking like a death knell on the tile. My legs are still a little weak, a little shaky from the two orgasms I just forced out of my body, but I lock my knees. I fix my top, making sure my tits are sitting high and heavy, my nipples still poking through the thin fabric like they’re screaming for attention. I grab the crates, my muscles straining, and I haul them toward the door.

I’m done hiding.

I push through the door and the wall of noise hits me. The bar is a hive of activity, the afternoon light fading as the red neon signs hum to life.

"There she is! The ghost of the storeroom," a voice calls out.

I turn to see a group of women standing by the stage area. They’re the dancers, the strippers who keep this place breathing. One of them, a tall blonde with legs that go on for miles and a waist so small it looks like it would snap, sashays over to me. Her name tag says Candy, but the way she looks at me is anything but sweet.

"Honey, with a body like that, why are you hauling crates?" Candy asks, her eyes raking over my curves. She reaches out, her long, manicured nails trailing down my arm before she cups her own breast, squeezing it until it spills over her lace bra. "Those tits... that ass. You’re wasted on the floor. Come backstage. One night on the pole and you’d have these bikers selling their souls to lick the sweat off your heels."

I let out a short, sharp laugh, feeling a new surge of boldness. "Maybe another time, Candy. Right now, I’ve got drinks to serve."

"Suit yourself, gorgeous," she purrs, winking as she walks away, her hips swaying in a way that makes every man in the room turn their head. "But if you ever want to see how much a knotting really costs, you know where to find me."

The club opens officially at seven, and the floodgates break. It’s a blur of leather, denim, and the smell of stale beer. I’m moving, weaving through the crowded tables, taking orders, dodging wandering hands with a sharp glare that says don't fucking touch. I’m getting the hang of it, the sound of the chaos, until I see Rikky.

She’s coming out of the back hallway, the one leading to the offices. Her hair is a mess, her lipstick is smeared, and her eyes are glazed in that unmistakable way.

I catch her by the arm as she nears the bar. "Rikky? What the hell happened to you? You look like you’ve been thoroughly fucked into the mattress."

Rikky’s eyes widen, her face flushing a deep, guilty red. She tries to smooth her hair, but her hands are shaking. "Val! Shh! What are you talking about?"

I lean in, my voice a teasing whisper. "Don't bullshit me. Your neck has a hickey the size of a half-dollar, and you’re walking like your pussy is sore. I thought Gunnar said no fucking on the clock? We’re waitresses, not the talents."

Rikky bites her lip, a small, devious smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Yeah, well... the rules don't apply when the manager is the one doing the drilling, do they? Gunnar’s got a tongue like a god, Val. I couldn't say no."

I snort, shaking my head. "You’re a menace. Get some powder on that face before someone notices."

"Pot calling the kettle black," she teases, poking my side before disappearing into the crowd of the west wing.

I head back toward the main bar counter, my tray balanced on one hand. The music is pulsing, a heavy, loud throb that matches the ache still lingering between my legs. Then, over the bass, comes a sound that cuts through everything.

The roar of motorcycles. Deep, guttural, and loud enough to vibrate the glasses on the shelves.

The front doors of the club swing open, the cold night air rushing in. Three men stride inside, their leather vests heavy with patches, their boots thudding on the floor like a heartbeat. The crowd parts for them instinctively. They’re bikers, but they aren't just members. They carry an air of absolute, terrifying authority.

I stop dead in my tracks. My heart skips a beat, then starts to hammer so hard I can hear it in my ears.

The man in the middle.

He’s tall, taller than the others, with lean, hard muscles that look like they’re coiled for violence. His hair is dark, his jawline sharp enough to draw blood. But it’s his eyes that stop my breath, cold, amber, and wicked.

I know him.

He’s the man who came to my house with Ronan over a year ago. The one who sat in our living room and looked at me once, just once, and made me wet my panties before I even knew what an orgasm was. I’d spent months dreaming about him, wondering if I’d ever see that dangerous face again.

And here he is. Walking into the center of Ronan’s world like he owns the ground he walks on.

He’s nothing like Ronan. Ronan is a storm, heavy and brooding. This man is a blade, sharp, cold, and designed to ruin you.

As he walks past the bar, his head turns. Those amber eyes lock onto mine.

My breath hitches. My nipples harden instantly, straining against my top until it hurts. My pussy clenches, a fresh wave of heat pooling in my core, slick and heavy. The ghost of my earlier release is suddenly eclipsed by a new, more violent hunger.

Does he remember me?

My body is screaming for him. My skin is prickling, my heart racing until I feel dizzy.

Ronan was the plan. Ronan was the obsession. But as this man watches me, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his lips, I realize one thing.

I’m in so much fucking trouble.

"Would you like me to take your order?" I manage to whisper, though I'm not sure if the words even leave my throat.

He stops, his presence overshadowing everything else in the room. He leans over the bar, the scent of leather, expensive tobacco, and raw Alpha pheromones hitting me like a physical blow.

"I think," he says, his voice a low, silky crawl that makes my pussy throb, "I’d like a lot more than just a drink, Valerie Rowe."

Oh fuck.

He remembers.