Zeke (Book 2) by Zoey Parker

Author:Zoey Parker
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mc romance, motorcycle club romance, biker romance, wedding and pregnancy romance, marriage mistake romance, new adult contemporary romance, romantic suspense, dark romance
Publisher: Sopris Page Press
Published: 2019-10-16T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 4

Zeke

Fury swells up in me like a tide, rushing through my limbs and turning my skin hot. I’ve been shot at more times than I can count tonight, but it’s the sight of Bailey kissing Stinger that tears at my insides and ricochets around my head.

I back away from the door and turn to head up the stairs. I’m frayed and stressed from getting shot at and trying to track down hostages. I can’t trust my reactions, so I head for the sanctuary of my office. I want to break something with my bare hands. Maybe Stinger’s face. Maybe I would, if he hadn’t been goddamn shot earlier today.

I can’t believe Bailey would do this. We made no promises to each other beyond her breathy moans and my fingers inside her, but decency dictates that she might at least wait until I got back from rescuing her friends to give me an in-person kiss off. And Stinger, of all people. Was that why she came with us in the car earlier? Because she was sweet on him? And if that’s the case, why did she fucking beg for me? I don’t understand a damn thing about tonight—not the Bandidos, and now not even Bailey.

I hear someone calling my name behind me, but I ignore it and take the stairs up to my office two at a time. It’s satisfying to slam the door shut behind me. The door rattles in its frame, but it’s too solid to break under the weight of my anger. I throw the lock; I can’t have any of my men see me when I’m anything less than controlled, especially not when we’re staring down a war with the Bandidos.

There’s a boxing bag I keep in the corner for just this purpose. Dragging it out knocks my desk chair over, but I ignore it. I don’t even bother to tape my hands; I just lay into it barehanded in punishing sets of six. My body screams at me, wrecked from a night of brutal adrenaline surges. I hit harder. Exhaustion’s made my technique sloppy, but this isn’t about finesse. This is about rage. My anger surges up through me and snaps out through my fists. I give it all up in these brutal blows, letting the bag take every ounce of fury in me. I beat on the bag until my arms hurt and then stop hurting, until my heart hammers from exertion, not from fear, and sweat sticks my shirt to my chest.

I finally step back for a second to catch my breath. That’s when I hear an insistent knocking at the door. I consider yelling at whoever it is to fuck off, but with the way this night has gone, maybe it’s someone with news of the apocalypse.

It’s not, but it’s close enough. On the other side of the door is Bailey. The last time we were alone here, she was flushed and panting with pleasure. There’s no sign of that on her anymore.

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