Broken Songbird (Vicious Games #2)

5. Chapter 5

“ W e should make grilled cheese sandwiches,” I announce, my words slurring slightly, as I drag myself up from one of the many couches and stumble back to the kitchen.

I hear Creed get up and follow. “I don’t think either of us should operate an open flame right now.”

I pout. “But I’m hungry.”

Creed snorts, shaking his head incredulously, but he continues to the kitchen.

We’ve spent the last two hours talking about nothing and drinking about everything. The world started spinning, so I pulled off Creed’s sweatshirt and my cardigan, and laid down on a grey loveseat twenty minutes ago, and Creed took a pillow and ended up sprawled out on the plush tan carpet. Now, I’m suddenly ravenous and apparently cheese is the answer to all my problems today.

I follow Creed into the kitchen and open random cupboards. To my absolute delight, I find a secret door to a walk-in pantry and step in. It’s long and narrow, running the length of the kitchen in front of it, and has a door on the other end so you can also access it from the dining area. Clever.

I clamber down the row of shiny metal shelves filled with food and kitchen appliances until I find a sandwich press and reach for it.

Creed’s hand darts out from behind me and gets it first, and I stumble back into him. God, he’s warm. He wraps an arm around my waist, pressing me firmer into him, and turns us toward the exit with the sandwich press firmly in hand.

His arm slides away, his hand dragging along my body achingly slow, and then his body heat disappears as he steps back. I focus on breathing normally and not panting as I walk back out of the pantry and directly to the fridge.

“You really are a cheese guy,” I mumble, pulling out sliced gruyere, aged cheddar, the half-eaten bag of shredded mozzarella we put back earlier, and a tub of butter.

“Those are actually Heartbreaker’s cheeses you’re commandeering.”

I place my hoard on the island bench next to the sandwich press, where Creed has set up two chopping boards and pulled out a loaf of sliced bread.

“Heartbreaker is part of your club?” I ask, sorting the ingredients and pulling out slices of bread.

Creed opens a drawer and pulls out a butter knife. “He’s our numbers guy, the Treasurer. Been with Savage almost as long as I have.”

“You’ve been a biker for a while?” I ask, opening packets of cheese.

“I became a prospect at nineteen, and a patched member just before I turned twenty-one.”

“How long have you been president?” I ask as I watch him butter the bread.

“I was twenty-four, so about four years.”

I frown. “That’s young, right?”

He hums affirmatively as he puts one buttered slice onto another, butter sides together, and slides it onto the chopping board in front of me.

“How did you end up president so young?”

He prepares more bread. “It’s a long story.”

I gesture at our food. “We have time.”

He pauses his buttering. “Are you not being missed elsewhere?”

I smile. “Nope.”

Those pretty, watchful eyes search my face. I ignore the prickling of my skin his attention triggers and focus on the task at hand.

“Do you know how Savage Wings makes most of our money?” Creed asks carefully.

I nod as I haphazardly stack different cheese slices on the bread.

“We weren’t always just dealers. Our last president ran one of the biggest productions of meth in the country. The club had been doing it for over a decade before I prospected.” He finishes the fourth pair of bread slices, then steps around and nudges me out of the way, fixing up my sloppy piles of cheese.

“Five years ago, the Pres, along with almost half of our club, went to one of the cookhouses on a tip that it was going to get raided. We thought it was the cops, but it turned out to be another club ambush.”

He opens the hot sandwich press and loads it with the prepared cheese and buttered bread stacks, then clamps the top down.

“The Cobras blew up the cookhouse. All the brothers that went there died that night, and the two that arrived just after got arrested on scene when the cops eventually showed up. I was an Enforcer at the time, the highest ranked patch left in the aftermath.”

I touch his arm gently. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugs, lifting the sandwich press, checking the sandwiches. “The club unanimously decided we would stop making meth after that, which pissed off the mother chapter who was getting a kickback from the profits. After they told us to sort our own shit out, and with our primary income gone, we bled money quickly. Especially with legal fees for the two brothers who got arrested. We started dealing for the Chinese soon after, which then put us on Herrington’s radar.”

The first time we met, Matteo tried to kill me.

I drop my hand from Creed and start packing away cheese, swallowing the pang of grief burning in my throat. “That’s how you came to work for them?”

He hums in confirmation as he reaches around me for the spatula flipper and opens the sandwich press, flipping the sandwiches.

I head for the dining area, collecting our bottles of liquor. Creed has plated the sandwiches and cut them diagonally as I put the bottles down and hoist myself back onto the island bench.

I slide over his gin, and he hands me a plate. I lift a gooey triangle and shove a corner in my mouth before I register it might be hot. Fuck it.

I bite off a huge chunk and groan, closing my eyes and appreciating the savoury heaven.

“Fucking love cheese,” I sigh around my mouthful, and open my eyes.

Creed’s watching me, a completely different kind of hunger burning in his eyes. My breath catches—I forgot what it was like to have Creed’s full attention.

My heart races as I force my gaze back to my sandwich before I’m dragged into Creed’s vortex and dutifully eat my food. Once I’m done, Creed takes my plate—his arm catches my eye.

I grab his elbow. “How’s your arm?”

“Good.” He puts the plates down by the sandwich press and lifts the sleeve of his T-shirt. “The scar is way thinner than I thought it would be. Your friend stitched me up really well.”

I pull him between my legs and lean in to inspect the scar. It slashes through black rose tattoos, but it is pretty thin, flat, and a pale pink.

I lean back. “You could probably get a tattoo artist to join the lines back together.”

His lips lift on one side, gracing me with a dimple. “Ink’s already offered.”

I smile. “I’m not surprised he’s an artist with the road name ‘Ink’.”

“How’s your cut?” he asks, darting down to my chest.

I release his arm and unfasten the first couple of buttons of my blouse, revealing my blush-pink bralette and sternum. “If you squint, you can see the tiniest scar.”

Creed places his hands on the bench on either side of my legs and leans toward my chest. I stop breathing.

“You can only see it in direct light,” he muses, his breath across my skin raising goosebumps.

I want him. More than I should.

I squirm under his gaze, letting out little huffs of air, my thighs squeezing his sides. I reach over and pop another button on my shirt. His head lifts from my chest to my face, those honey-brown irises burning again with hunger.

“Scarlett.” I shiver—my name on Creed’s lips, in that tone, sounds good .

“Creed.”

“Put your clothes back on.” It’s a warning.

“Why?” I breathe.

“Because…” he trails off, following my fingers popping buttons until the silk falls open.

“Because?” I purr, fingers trailing up my body, Creed’s eyes following with singular focus. I trace over my lace bralette, then push my blouse off my shoulders.

“Because I’m drunk,” he chokes out, pulling back slightly.

“So am I.”

“Exactly,” he breathes. He closes his eyes, his hands balling into fists on the bench.

“First time we fucked, I was high,” I remind him. “Do you remember what I said?”

His eyes snap open, a muscle in his jaw ticks.

“I’m not incoherent tonight, either.”

“We can’t,” he grits out.

“Why?”

He blows out a frustrated breath as he paces.

“Do you not want me?” I ask.

He laughs incredulously. “ That’s not the issue.”

“So there is an issue.”

“Yes.”

“Which is?”

He pauses and looks at me. “Were you not at the same church I was in earlier today?”

I slide off the bench. “If you didn’t want to fuck me, you could say that without using Matteo as a cop-out.”

“So you can say his name.”

I stumble back, then drop my gaze, buttoning my blouse clumsily, eyes filling with tears. “I’m going to go.”

He moves closer to me. “Scar—”

I step back, keeping my eyes down. “No, no. I’m clearly not wanted here, so I’m going.”

“Scar—”

I close my eyes and let out a breathy laugh, ignoring that I sound a little hysterical. “You know, I thought maybe forgetting for a bit might be good for both of us, but apparently I was way off the mark.”

“Scarlett,” Creed demands. “Eyes, princess.”

My head snaps up, and I lunge forward, shoving Creed’s chest. “Don’t fucking start that shit. You have no right .”

He grabs my forearms when I go to shove him again, his honey eyes blazing. “Yeah, exactly. I have no right. We just said goodbye to Matteo. It wouldn’t be right.”

I frown. What the fuck is he even on about? It’s not like me and Matteo—

Creed’s meaning finally registers, and I try to shove him again, anger burning in my chest. “God, is this some bro-code shit? I was never with Matteo. Not like that.”

“Matteo didn’t see it that way.”

Those words stoke my fury as I pull out of Creed’s hold and step back, containing my intense urge to brawl with him.

“You knew Matteo, more than I did. He was erratic, and he changed his mind every five minutes about everything . The car he liked, the weapons he used, the women he wanted, and me—”

“His mind never changed about you,” Creed declares. He pulls the tie out of his hair, raking his fingers through it, sending his locks into disarray as he paces again. “He wanted you.”

“I was a challenge,” I bite out. “Something entertaining. He wanted to own me.”

Creed pivots sharply and crosses to me, his body colliding with mine as his hand grips the back of my neck, desire glowing in his eyes. “And you don’t think I want to do the same?”

“Then why don’t you?” I ask, my chest heaving along with his. “For tonight.”

“I can’t .”

“Because you think I’m Matteo’s sloppy seconds?”

Outrage flashes in his honey gaze. “Is that really how you think I see this situation? How I see you ?”

“You haven’t given me any other reason.”

Creed blinks, hurt in his eyes as he releases me and steps back. “I will never see you like that, Scarlett. Never. But I can’t give you what you want.”

“Tell me why,” I ask softly. “Please.”

He shakes his head, his hands raking through his hair again.

I step up to him and place a hand on his chest. “I just want to forget. Just for tonight.”

“I can’t do just tonight,” he confesses.

“Not tonight, or not at all?”

His eyes search my face as he says nothing, but that pretty honey-brown gaze begs me to understand. But I don’t know what to understand.

So many things sit heavy in my gut. The sorrow of the day, the hurt of this rejection, the shame I even fucking assumed that he…that we…

I swallow a few times, suppressing the urge to puke and back away from Creed. Stupid. I’m stupid for having hope that I might escape this chasm of emptiness and feel anything other than pain.

Creed plants both palms on the bench and hangs his head in defeat, a deep sigh expelling from his chest. I don’t want to leave like this. He’s one of my few connections I have left of Matteo, one of the few people in the world that understands.

And if I’m truly honest with myself, I feel a connection to Creed. It’s just a little trickle of something, a kernel of warmth that I don’t want to snuff out just yet.

As I reach the end of the island, I spy a stack of papers on the opposite bench with a pen on top of it, and an idea forms. I grab the pen and return to Creed’s side.

I take his right wrist, inspecting his forearm. He has so many tattoos that it takes me a second to find a sliver of free skin up near the crease of his elbow.

I write a message in perfect, clear cursive on his arm, curving around a snake tattoo.

“Written so you can read it,” I mumble.

Scarlett is yours.

Creed looks at his arm, surprise or maybe confusion knitted into his brows.

I put the pen down on the bench and step back. “Maybe one day I’ll be worth your time.”

His head snaps up, his eyes flashing with a dangerous heat. A calloused hand grips my throat, the warm steel of his rings biting into my flesh, and I’m jerked forward, knocking into Creed, then his lips crash into mine.