Madeline Sheehan - Unattainable

Not Ellie.

Oh, fuck. He wanted to get off; he wanted it bad. He let the walls down, let the memories come, allowed them to take him over, spin wildly in his head. All the touching, groping, not being able to stop his erection even when he was crying, begging her to stop, and she was drunk and moaning, forcing him to touch her as she held him down and lowered herself down on his cock.

He grew harder just thinking about it, harder and sicker. What was wrong with him? He didn’t understand how something so vile, so motherfucking awful, had become something that perversely turned him on, made hurting women result in easing his sickness.

He had to come, he had to come, he had to fucking come. Worse, he had to think about his foster mother, about the sick and twisted shit she’d done to him, while he tried to come and to do it, to go through with this, he had to remind himself that the bitch passed out facedown on his bed was just that. A bitch. A useless fucking club whore who didn’t do shit with herself except pass her dirty pussy around to his brothers. All except him. But she would, she would fuck him willingly too if she knew what he actually looked like.

But he didn’t want her to want him. He didn’t want her to touch him. He just wanted to fuck, wipe out these fucking thoughts inside of him after a week-long buildup of jerking off…about things no man in their right mind would ever jerk off to.

But he wasn’t in his right mind, had never been. He’d been brutalized at such a young age he didn’t even know what it felt like not to feel fucked-up. Fucked-up was all he’d ever known.

Clenching his teeth, feeling the acidic rise of bile in the back of his throat, Dirty slid inside the whore. His first tear fell along with his first thrust, and then his second, and his third, and then he was silently yet openly crying, his tears landing on the tattooed back of the woman beneath him.

He didn’t care about her; she was just a whore and he didn’t care. Squeezing his eyes shut, he fucked her harder, envisioning his foster mother, envisioning what she had done to him and then…

Fuuuuuck. There it was, what he’d needed. The image, the memory that would send him over the edge.

Years later, after he’d finally gotten his shit somewhat together, he’d gone back to New York City and turned the tables on her.

His rich, bored, fucked-in-the head, piece-of-shit foster mother.

She hadn’t even recognized him. He’d been twenty-three years old, standing on her doorstep, and she’d looked down on him like he wasn’t of importance, like he was garbage. No, like he was worse than garbage, like he was nothing.

“What do you want?” she’d asked, frowning as she looked him up and down.

He hadn’t answered, he couldn’t. His head was spinning, his thoughts were clouding up, and his eyes began to water. Directly behind her, the wallpaper, the carpeting, the smell wafting into his nostrils, bourbon and Lysol, everything was exactly the same. Even her. She was still beautiful, still so regal, so put together.

And as she went to close the door in his face, his leg had shot out, his boot had slammed into the door, effectively throwing it wide open and catching the bitch off balance, sending her stumbling backward and sprawling on her backside. He’d stormed inside that house of horrors and the pain those four walls still held within them radiated out and triggered something he hadn’t felt in a very long time, something from deep down, from his childhood. Helplessness. Confusion. Fright. Anger.

All of those emotions, they had pulsed, roared, screamed, and shouted; pushing, punching, clawing, and digging their way out.

Before she could get to her feet, he was on her, and she screamed as he straddled her, forced her legs apart, and then pulled his piece and held his gun to her head.

“Shut up!” he roared and her mouth snapped closed as she trembled beneath him.

“Please,” she begged, her voice wavering. “Please, I have money.”

He stroked her cheek with the cool metal as he fumbled with the hem of her silky dress. “It’s okay,” he whispered, unzipping himself. “You’re going to like it, I promise you, I’m going to make you feel good.”

Her pretty hazel eyes went wide and her glossy lips parted. “Michael,” she breathed.

“Not anymore,” he hissed. “You made sure of that.”

Feeling dizzy with adrenaline, drunk on power, combined with the overwhelming need to make her hurt, he shoved the barrel of his gun in her mouth and a mere heartbeat later, his cock inside her.

And when he was done, he blew her fucking brains out.

Now he was attempting to feed Ellie and failing, when he heard her laughing. He stared at her, watched her pretty face alight with humor, and something shifted inside of him. It was such a pleasant sound, so light, so feminine, something he’d heard before but never directed toward him, never because of him. And…he liked it. It turned him on.

Being attracted to women for something other than physical traits was something completely foreign to him. He grew flustered and uncomfortable, his heart started pounding, and he broke out into a cold sweat.

The bag of popcorn fell from his hand and then he quickly crossed the living room, his jaw locked, his fists clenched, refusing to look at Ellie, refusing to breathe until he’d slammed the bathroom door behind him, locked it, and sank down to the floor, his hands already fumbling with his jeans, releasing himself.

With one arm slung across the closed toilet lid, he bent his head down, resting it on his forearm as he began to stroke himself. He focused on Ellie’s torn, bloodstained clothing lying in a small pile in the corner of the bathroom, and his cock surged forward.

Ellie’s sweet laughter echoed in his head, even as he pictured her half-naked, bleeding in the alleyway, and later, bruised and battered, standing naked before him, vulnerable, helpless, looking to him for things he could never offer her. Then he pictured her fully clothed, giggling over burnt popcorn.

And then pictured himself knocking her out, taking away her control, hurting her, listening to her scream, making her cry, fucking her.

His hand squeezed around his cock as he increased the speed of his strokes.

The dual images, the sounds of screams and laughter, continued to assault him. He tried to focus on just one thing, the pain or the…

He didn’t know…

In the end it was the sound of her screaming, crying, the look of fear on her beautiful face that finished him off.

Breathing hard, shaking, Dirty lifted his head and looked down at his lap. And promptly threw up.

Seated at the far end of the dining room table, I watched Cage stomp into the kitchen, past the island that separated the cooking area from the dining area, and grab the closest chair, next to Cox. Fuming, he sat down hard and slumped backward, his thick arms folded across his chest. I knew that look, had seen it a million times on his face growing up alongside him. And if I hadn’t already heard Deuce laying into him, as if everybody in the house hadn’t, I would have already known that was exactly what had happened.

I actually caught my emotions start to lean toward him in sympathy and the urge to touch him, to comfort him arose, the strong feeling every bit as familiar to me, as natural to me as when we were children.

Before he’d—

Oh no, I wasn’t going to feel bad for him like I used to. No way. Cage was a slut and dumbass, and it wasn’t my fault Deuce liked to remind him of that every other second.

Deuce was next to storm into the kitchen, giving out glares as freely as he breathed. As much as I appreciated all the man had done for me financially, he had such a serious caveman complex that I was loath to comprehend what Eva saw in a man that was just so…

I glanced back at Cage, then again to Deuce, and shut down my line of thought. I knew exactly what Eva saw in Deuce. It was the same thing I saw in Cage. It was the reason I kept sleeping with ZZ. They were all just so…

Men. They were fucking men. Hard-core, badass, live by their own set of rules…men.

Goddamn, I was such an idiot.

Taking his seat at the head of the table, Deuce gave everyone his signature once-over, then he growled, “Eat.”

And eating commenced.

I rolled my eyes.

“Tegen?”

I glanced to my right where Kami was offering me a large bowl of mixed vegetables, looking more like a vegetable model than a mother of two, a wife of a heavily tattooed biker just passing a dish full of food. Tall, waif-like, blonde, blue-eyed, and beautiful, Kami was a runway’s wet dream.

She smiled at me. “It’s nice to see you at dinner, T. You should come home more often.”

Forcing a smile, I accepted the bowl. Avoiding all carrots, I took a small helping before dishing my brother out an equally small, carrot-free helping, and then passed it to Danny.

“Carrots are good for little kids,” Danny said, frowning at Christopher’s plate.

“Carrots are fucking disgusting,” I retorted, my bad mood rearing its ugly head.

“Carrots are fucking disgusting,” Christopher mimicked and Cox burst out laughing.

“See,” I said, smiling sweetly at Danny. “He agrees.”

Danny glared at me, her icy blue eyes narrowed in annoyance. “Oh, shut up,” she said, sounding every inch like the valley girl she resembled.

“Momma!” Harley cried, looking properly horrified. “You said shut up is a bad word!”

“Mommy tells Daddy to shut up all the time,” Diesel said, pointing at Kami.

“She tells him way worse than that,” Devin muttered.

Ripper started laughing, only stopping when the fork Kami threw at him nearly hit him in the face.

“Hey!” Danny snapped.

“Damn, Ripper,” Cox said, snorting. “You’re so pussywhipped you need your old lady defendin’ you?”

“Cox, don’t speak,” Kami said. “It makes you less hot.”

“Shut up isn’t a bad word,” Ivy said matter-of-factly. “Goddammit is a bad word.”

“It is a bad word!” Harley insisted.

“It is not!” Ivy screamed.

“Stop it,” Deuce growled, looking at his youngest daughter. “You don’t need to be sayin’ it either.”

Ivy’s face contorted into what I liked to refer to as Danny’s prissy angry face. “You like her better than me!” she screamed. “You wish Harley was your daughter and not me!”

Harley grinned at Ivy. “Papa loves me best,” she said, her tiny voice sugary sweet.

Eva closed her eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. “Nobody loves anybody more than anybody else. Everybody loves everyone the same.”

Cage snorted and Deuce turned his glare on him while Ivy stuck her tongue out at Harley, who scowled back at her.

“Fuck me,” Deuce muttered, picking up his beer and taking a long swallow. Setting it down, he looked at Eva and pointed his beer toward her stomach. “That kid in there better not be a girl. And will someone give me the motherfuckin’ salt?”

“You put enough salt on already!” Eva yelled.

I tuned out after that, listening but not really, pushing my food around on my plate as the bickering continued much the way it always had. Nothing had changed, not even with the latest wave of bikers and old ladies-to-be.

Just another generation of aspiring criminals and the sad, pathetic women who will love them despite their inability to keep their dicks in their pants.

Halfway through the horrible ordeal, my endurance nearly shot, the doorbell rang. Ivy shot out of her chair and raced through the kitchen, screaming, “I’ll get it! I’ll get it!”

My head started pounding.

“Hawk is here!” came the high-pitched scream from the foyer. “Hawk is heeeeere!”

The pounding in my head worsened.

Hearing his father’s name, Christopher’s green eyes widened. “Daddy!” he shrieked, jumping up to a standing position in his chair.

Ivy came skidding back through the kitchen, Hawk’s booted feet pounding the linoleum behind her. Surprisingly he was freshly shaven, his mohawk trimmed, and not wearing his usual leathers but instead a clean pair of jeans, a plain black T-shirt, and his Horsemen cut.

“Brothers,” he said gruffly, nodding toward Cage and Cox, then Ripper. He stopped next to Deuce and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Prez,” he said, his voice less stony, his face suddenly full of emotion and something else I couldn’t quite place.