Gunnar A Motorcycle Club Romance - Nina Levine Page 0,65
that time. And while I was down with being caught with her yesterday, that was no hate fuck. That was pure fucking need. And what I need now is more of her. And that confuses the hell out of me.
“Gunnar,” Griff says, his tone causing my senses to kick right in. “We’ve got a situation.”
He’s already on his way out the door, and I follow him. His pace picks up and we jog past Chelsea to the fire exit stairs. Running down the two levels to the ground floor, we exit, and I follow Griff outside to the front of the hotel where I can see Hearst in a heated argument with two men who look like they stepped off the Sopranos set.
“Christ,” Griff mutters, slowing. “That’s what he’s tied up in.”
“This should be fun,” I say, drawing a shake of his head. Grinning, I say, “At least it gives us something to do other than fucking driving Hearst around.”
We join Hearst and his two security assholes who are useless as fuck. “There a problem here?” Griff asks.
The Sopranos dudes eye him. “Yeah, one that doesn’t fucking concern you.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Griff says. “If you have a problem with Hearst, you have a problem with us.”
“And who the fuck are you?” one of the guys snarls.
“Storm,” I say. “And we’re fucking ready to play if you are.”
“Fuck,” the guy says, glancing at his mate like he’s looking for confirmation they should continue.
His mate looks at me and I know it’s on. This one’s not fucking backing down, so I go in hard with a punch designed to knock him flat on his ass. He’s a fucking fridge of a motherfucker, too, so it takes some fucking force to achieve my goal, but I do.
The other guy is straight into it, throwing punches at Griff, who blocks them all. Hearst’s security guys take a step to get in on the action. I look at them and give a shake of my head, letting them know to leave this shit up to us.
The fridge gets himself up off the ground and comes at me with both fists flying.
“Come on, motherfucker,” I say, motioning with my hands for him to come at me. “Make it fucking hurt. I could do with the distraction from other shit.”
I let him get one punch in. On my cheek. The crack of his fist connecting with my bones settles in deep while the pain radiates through me. And then I deliver that pain ten-fucking-fold back to him.
I smash my fists into his face and body. He puts up a good fight, but I beat the utter shit out of him until he’s a bloody mess on the ground, curling his legs up, trying to defend himself from me.
Bending down, I yank his legs and arms out of the way and roll him onto his back. Standing over him, my feet either side of his body, I grip his face, squeezing hard. “Don’t fucking come back here. You won’t fucking like what you find.” I then smash my fist down onto his face one last time.
Straightening, I find Hearst watching me. I can’t see his eyes because they’re hidden behind his sunglasses. “What the fuck are you tied up in?” I demand, doing my best to tell myself I’m not asking because of Chelsea. That I’m not fucking worried for her safety.
His lips curl up in a snarl. “I pay you to do what you just did. I don’t fucking pay you to ask questions.”
I take a step towards him, but Griff pulls me back and says, “Should we expect more from them?”
Fuck. I’m fucking wired now, and Hearst throwing his bullshit at me only fills me with more angry energy I’ll need to work off.
“I don’t expect this will fix the situation,” Hearst says.
“So that’s a fucking yes, then?” I snap.
He shoots me a foul glare but doesn’t answer. The asshole thinks he’s fucking above answering to anyone. He stalks into the hotel without another word.
“Fucking hell,” I say, looking at Griff. “The sooner this job is done, the fucking better.”
He nods. “Right there with you, brother.”
I make it through the afternoon without taking to Hearst with my fists even though that’s exactly what I want to do. I have to drive him out to some fucking shitty town where I then have to spend two hours standing around in the heat while he sits in air conditioning inside. And I have to listen to him