Read Online Death Lords Motorcycle Club: Chelsea and Wrecker (The Motorcycle Clubs Series) by Ella Goode - Free Book Online Page A

voice. We all look up and Sara Ellerby’s brother is standing in front of us with an assessing look.
    “Step,” Grant says slowly, drawing the word out as if it has two syllables. “You’d know the difference if you hadn’t killed all your brain cells by shooting up every night.”
    He stretches his legs out and Sean is forced to move backward. Grant shifts again, almost imperceptibly pushing Sean even farther away.
    “Jealous that you weren’t able to do that because you were in the pen for the last three years?”
    Becca draws in a swift breath. Sean bares his teeth in some gruesome approximation of a grin. Even in the flickering firelight, the meth toll is evident. His teeth are blackening near the roots and his face is gaunt. There’s at least one sore above his pierced eyebrow. “Didn’t know you were sitting by a murderer, didja?” he directs toward Becca.
    She leans away from Grant and me and then pours her beer on the ground. “Beer’s warm. Think I’ll get a refill.”
    Sean sits down in her place and reaches up to run his dirty hand over my hair. Grant is on his feet and pulling me away before Sean’s hand can find its target. “Didn’t realize you were so hard up, you had to fuck your brother, Chelsea. Should’ve come to me. I’ve got what you need right here.” He jostles his package.
    Grant clenches his fist and winds up to introduce Sean’s face to his knuckles. Quickly I grab Grant’s biceps and haul him back. I don’t want him touching Sean, for one, and for another, he can’t get into a fight because an assault charge would revoke his parole. “Let’s go, please. Your parole,” I plead. He jerks forward but checks himself. With a visible effort, he tries shaking off his anger.
    “You keep your trap shut, Ellerby, or there won’t be a dealer within one hundred miles who’ll sell to you,” Grant spits out and then grabs my hand. The sweetness of the night has been poisoned and our walk back to the camp is in uncomfortable silence.

    W hen we get back to the campsite, Grant, well, he tries to fuck the fear out of me. He’s attentive and vigorous and it’s nice but I can’t lose myself. When I come, it’s short and not terribly fulfilling. Grant throws himself off my body, chest heaving and glistening with sweat. He pulls off the condom, ties it and throws it in the corner.
    “Sorry,” I mumble.
    He draws me in for a rough kiss. “Nothing to be sorry about.”
    “Do you think Sean Ellerby is living up here?” I ask.
    He heaves a sigh. “Dunno. Never gave it much thought.”
    He curls on his side, rubbing a hand over my bare breast, fondling the nipple. It tightens into a hard point. Despite my worries, my body never fails to respond to him.
    “Do you think he’ll tell anyone?”
    “He’s a fucked up meth head. Even if he is talking shit, no one is going to believe him.”
    “Aren’t you even a little concerned?”
    He jackknifes to his feet.
    “Where are you going?”
    “I’m going to find Sean Ellerby and let him know if he opens his mouth about you that he’ll be drinking his food out of a straw for the next six months.” He fumbles around for his clothes. The tent is small and low. It’s barely big enough for the two of us.
    “Grant,” I warn. “Grant, you can’t go.” He ignores me and finishes shoving his shorts on. He pushes things around, making a huge mess looking for his T-shirt. I grab his leg and shake it. “Your parole.” I sound like a fucking parrot who knows only one word.
    He throws one boot on the ground with a vicious curse. “I know. Goddammit.”
    Shaking off my hand, he tries to unzip the tent flap. It gets stuck halfway and he wrenches at it, making it worse. “This fucking zipper,” he curses. “It’s stuck. Fucking goddamn fucking piece of shit. How long have we had this? We should have stayed in a goddamned hotel.” He pulls and pulls; the muscles in his back are bunching up. I’m afraid for the tent. Afraid for him.