Unwilling Protector (Steel Vipers MC)

It started off nice. There was an attraction there because apparently psychos can still look hot. He keeps his crazy hid really well—or at least he did in the beginning. Slowly, small things began to show. It was enough to keep the warning bells going off. I never slept with him, so maybe something always told me he was dangerous. I don’t really know, but I’m thankful. He beat me the first time I turned him down and knocked me unconscious. When I came to, he was gone. I got red roses for a solid week after that at work. Then, he showed up at work and trapped me in the corner until I yelled for one of the bouncers. They dragged him out, but the entire time he was shouting I’d be sorry and that he would get even with me.

Those words chilled me to the bone. I didn’t know what he meant, but I packed up that night and moved to North Carolina. I used to work with a girl that moved here, and when I called her, she told me she could get me a job and get me settled. I’m still not sure how Lenny found me, but I think his best friend, Jed, probably helped him because he’s a cop. To prove to me that he could get to me anytime, he surprised me in the parking lot at work and beat the hell out of me to punish me for dancing for men. He probably would have taken me with him if G hadn’t shown up. G saved me that night, but he paid dearly for it. Fear blooms inside of me as I think of Jack being so close by.

I can’t let him get hurt. I’ve got to handle this on my own… and quick.

“Lenny, you need to leave. Mickey finds you here, he’ll call the law,” I warn him, but I know it’s impossible to try and reason with the loon.

“They’re already looking for me, Drucilla.”

God, I hate that name. My mother had an unnatural obsession with Buffy the Vampire Slayer and thought it would be cool to name me Drucilla. I mean, seriously. She could have named me Buffy, Willow—hell, I would have been happy with Cordelia—anything but what she gave me.

“You shot my brother. You had to know what would happen,” I tell him, looking over my dressing table. I keep my knife in it while I’m working. G gave it to me after training me to defend myself. If I can keep him talking and distracted long enough to get it—but not so long that Jack comes in and gets hurt—maybe I can take him out.

Jesus, when did life get so complicated?

“It doesn’t matter. Where we’re going, they will never find us.”

That doesn’t sound good.

“We aren’t going anywhere together,” I murmur, wishing I hadn’t moved away from my dressing table after Lenny came inside. I slowly take a couple of steps toward it but keep eye contact with the asshole.

“Shut up, Drucilla. Grab your coat. We’re leaving before your latest toy gets back.”

“I need my wallet. It’s the drawer,” I mutter, getting a couple more steps closer to my goal. I can practically touch the damn drawer.

“You don’t need shit. You just need to get moving. Let’s go,” he says, motioning toward the door.

“I’m not going anywhere with you, Lenny,” I snap, backing up so my hand is on my table. He doesn’t have a gun showing, but he definitely used one on G, so I have to assume he’s packing.

“You act like you have a choice, Drucilla. You don’t.”

“I hate you. Plus, you shot my brother, Lenny. If you think I’m going anywhere with you, you’re even crazier than I thought you were, and believe me that’s almost impossible.”

“Dru—”

“Stop calling me that,” I scream. “I hate that fucking name. I told you a million times to stop using it!” While I’m screaming, my hand has found the knife. I lunge at Lenny, blade in hand and aiming for his throat—just like my brother taught me.

I don’t hit him like I want. The blade doesn’t stab into him, but it slices along the side of his neck. Blood begins to seep from the wound. It’s enough to scare Lenny as he falls backwards grabbing his throat. I should try again, but he fell backwards and I’m standing. The knife is still in my hand. I don’t want to get on the ground with Lenny because, like this, I have the advantage. So, I begin kicking him between the legs, glad that I have my boots on—although the stilettos might have impaled him. As I connect with my target, I grind my foot down, praying I ruin him for life. He’s yelling, begging me to stop. He’s crying like the weak asshole he is.