Filthy Devil (Dark Horse MC #6)

Chapter One

PARKER

I chew on my bottom lip as I stare at the supposedly calming blue wall ahead of me. It’s not calming at all. In fact, it makes me want to scream. Everything makes me want to scream lately, though. Which is why I’m here. Trying this… again.

I’m a nervous wreck.

Anxiety to the moon and back, but I’m here. I’ve never made it this far before. Last week, I walked to the door but couldn’t actually open it and come inside. All my previous therapies have been virtual.

Actually, walking into the building does something to me. It makes me feel sick to my stomach in a million different ways. But today, I came inside, and now I am seconds from standing up and walking out of the room, then the building. I don’t think I can go any farther.

Reaching across from me, I grab hold of the coffee table magazine and stare at the cover. It’s old, by at least ten years. If I were somewhere that didn’t make me feel like I wanted to scratch my skin off from the inside out, I might laugh at the fashion and beauty tips, all of which are so outdated it is actually hilarious.

My knee bounces, I’m unable to concentrate on the pages, and I jump to my feet.

Nope.

I can’t do this. Spinning around, I take a single step and realize I’m fleeing in the wrong direction just in time to run into a brick wall. Tilting my head back, I look up at the man who stares down at me.

I try to take a step back, but my legs slam into the little coffee table that’s covered with old magazines, and I fall backward, my ass landing on the top. I slide a little on the glossy magazines.

The man doesn’t reach for me to help me to my feet. Instead, he watches me, a smirk playing on his lips as if he finds my falling on my ass amusing, which I guess it is, but I don’t think it’s very kind to actually laugh about it.

I scrunch my nose, and my eyes find his. “I know it’s hilarious that I fell,” I mutter as I stand. “Such a gentleman.”

He snorts, then, without another word, walks past me and out of the room. Smoothing my hands down the front of my clothes, I hear the little bell over the door chime just as a soft voice calls out my name.

I blink, then my gaze focuses on the woman who is standing in the office doorway. She has a kind smile on her face. She’s probably in her early fifties. Her blonde hair is pulled up into a simple big bun on the top of her head, and she’s even wearing pearls. She looks distinguished.

She’s wearing a beautiful navy pantsuit and what I can assume is a white silk blouse underneath. On her feet are nude pumps that I can tell just by looking at them are designer. In fact, everything she’s wearing is designer and doesn’t have a single wrinkle.

“Parker Nichols?” she asks.

I brush my hands down the front of my jeans again, trying to wipe off the sweat from my palms. “That’s me,” I quip brightly in an attempt to appear cheerful and hide the absolute terror I’m feeling in this moment.

Her smile doesn’t waver, but I can tell she doesn’t believe my faux bright and cheery disposition. “I’m Doctor Brenda Hamilton. Please come in and sit down.”

What I want to do is turn around and run far, far away. I don’t do that, though. It’s almost as if she has a hold on me. I watch as she takes a step backward, a silent invitation into her office. Inhaling a deep breath, I hold it for a moment, then force my feet to move.

They don’t move quickly. Instead, they shuffle forward, and after what feels like a lifetime, I finally make my way into the office. There is a nice buttery deep-brown sofa on one side, a desk with a dark-teal rolling chair pushed in, and then two deep-gold chairs that face the sofa.

I love the style. It’s classically eclectic.

“You can sit wherever you like. There is no assigned seating,” she says, her tone soothing, and I wonder if this is how she gets people to open up to her because I’m instantly relaxed.

I sink down to my ass on the sofa, and although it’s more luxurious than anything else I’ve ever sat on in my life, it doesn’t keep my anxiety at bay. Now that I’m sitting in this room, facing this woman as she sinks down in one of the gold chairs, I want to do nothing more than run.

This is so different from virtual counseling. She can see my little tics and habits. She will definitely be able to read me better this way. She’ll know if I’m holding back. I don’t like it. I feel far too vulnerable.

“You don’t have to tell me anything deep and dark today. This is our first meeting. I’m good with whatever you feel like talking about.”

“I want to leave,” I whisper.

She doesn’t say anything in response. I’m not sure if she’s trying to read me, think about what to say, or if she’s attempting to get me to talk. None of it works. Staring at her, I tilt my head to the side and wonder if I should just get up and walk away or actually respond.

Instead of leaving, feeling like that would be rude, I shove my hands beneath my thighs, sucking in a deep breath, and I speak. I’m not sure what I’m going to say. I have nothing planned, so I just go for it.

“I dream a lot,” I blurt out.

“You do?” she asks, her voice almost a soothing song.

I nod, my teeth sinking into my lip, then I chew, my teeth scraping across to find a piece of dead skin and tug on it until it comes off. Then I do it all over again. I can feel a piece tear and begin to bleed, and only then do I speak.

“I do,” I whisper. “It’s always the same dream,” I confess. “I’m about six years old and asleep in bed. I feel something or someone watching me, so I open my eyes, and he’s there.”

“Who is there?” she asks, although I’m not sure if she’s curious or happy that I’m talking, so she wants me to continue.

I do anyway, no matter her reasoning. It doesn’t matter. It feels kind of good to tell someone this. Even if she doesn’t give a rat’s ass and only cares because she’s getting paid to care. Which I’m sure is part of the case anyway.

It doesn’t matter. I continue talking, whether it’s because I love this sofa or because she makes me feel comfortable. I know the words need to be said. They consume me, and they shouldn’t.

“It was a man. I’d never seen him before. He stood above me, wearing a nice black suit and sunglasses. I couldn’t see his eyes or anything. He had dark hair and just stood there. Watching me. Then he took a step backward, turned around, and walked away.”

She dips her chin in a single nod, then clears her throat and shifts in her chair. “This bothers you. That you don’t know who he was, that he was watching you, or that he walked away without saying a word?”

“My parents were killed that night,” I whisper. “That’s what bothers me.”

I stare at her, watching her reaction. It’s genuine. She winces slightly, then straightens her composure and lets out a heavy sigh, though it’s not out of boredom, more like she’s trying to put everything together.

“And you think this man was involved?” she asks.

“I don’t,” I reply softly. “I don’t know why, but he didn’t scare me or anything. I just can’t get him out of my mind. He stood there, watching me, then he left. My parents were gone, and that was that.”

“Are you sure he was real?” she asks. “Maybe you were looking for answers?”

I hate how everything is a question because I don’t know the answers to any of them. I’ve always dreamed of him as if he were a living, breathing thing, a man who stood over me, who watched me. But it was the single worst traumatizing night of my life. What if he was just made up?

“I’m not,” I whisper. “Certain that he was real, that is,” I clarify.

She half smiles and dips her chin, her eyes searching my own before she speaks again. “Why don’t you tell me about your life now. Your parents are gone, but who do you live with? What do you do for fun?”

And that is how the session goes until the very end. She asks me questions that are superficial in an attempt to calm me down. I answer them, and by the end of the session, I feel much calmer, like maybe I can walk into this room again and do this another day… not tomorrow, but another day.

WELLS

Big green eyes.

The likes of which I’ve never seen before.

Of course, they belong to a patient of my mother’s. No perfectly normal and sane girl looks at a man that way. The way she stared up at me. She was beautiful, complex, and broken. I could see behind her eyes. They were far too open. She is far too vulnerable. Far too broken.

I’ve always gone for cheap, easy, and vacant. This woman was a far cry from all three of those things. In fact, she’s the exact opposite of every woman I’ve ever fucked. I want to know what haunts her, not because I want to fix her, but because I want it to be me.

Leaving the counseling office, I jog toward the car. Coleman is driving, waiting for me in the driver’s seat. I open the door and sink down in the passenger side as his fingers grip the steering wheel tightly. Slamming the door behind me, I jerk my chin in a silent order for him to go ahead.

“What happened?” I demand.

He doesn’t speak immediately. Instead, he shifts the car into Drive and slams his foot against the pedal before he throws us into traffic. I should probably be concerned. My brother doesn’t typically drive erratically. He’s one hundred percent the safe big brother. When in doubt, we can always rely on Coleman.

There is also the fact that he is a manager in the family. We are not allowed to do anything charged with emotion, and this definitely feels like that. It’s confusing, to say the least, and I can do nothing but watch him and wait for an explanation.

As soon as we’re out of the city and on the interstate, and he still hasn’t said anything, I turn toward him. My gaze flicks up and down his body, noticing just how rigid he is, and I tilt my head to the side. He isn’t going to tell me, so I’m going to have to bug the shit out of him about it.

“You want to talk about it?” I ask.

“No,” he says, his teeth gnashing together.

I hum, and he lifts his hand from the steering wheel long enough to flip me off, then replaces it quickly to ensure he doesn’t lose control of the half-a-million-dollar machine. A half-of-a-million-dollar car that was a gift when he became a leader. When we became managers, we were given a penthouse condo in downtown Dallas.

“Then you want to tell me what the fuck?” I ask, changing my tone and question.

“Dad,” he snorts. “Fucking asshole.”

Arching a brow, I don’t say anything, knowing he will continue shortly. Thankfully, he does. It’s nice that I’m not the one on Dad’s shit list today, so I’ll take joy in this drama over my own. He inhales deeply, then lets it out on a long, exhaled breath before he engages the cruise control and begins to move in and out of traffic with a much calmer ease.

“He found out about that girl I was fucking.”

Fucking is not what Coleman was doing. Coleman was falling in love with her. She was also the daughter of one of our father’s business associates.

Personally, I didn’t think it would be an issue. What if it worked out? Nothing wrong with mixing business with pleasure and intertwining the companies, but who knows why our father does anything, really?

It’s not like he ever explains himself.

Sure, he’s our father, but he’s also the director, and those two roles have a very fine line between them.

“So he wanted you to break it off?” I guess when he doesn’t continue.

Coleman snorts. “He wants me to marry her.”

His words come out sharp and bitter. I stare at him, unsure why he’s so fucking pissed off. He’s been practically crying over this bitch for weeks. Sounds like a good deal to me, plus he’s almost thirty. It’s about time.

“But you don’t want to marry her?” I guess.

He snorts again, and I’m about to jerk on the steering wheel and end this goddamn pained conversation for the both of us right fucking now. I am over this shit. I honestly don’t care what my brother does with his dick, but we have a job to do right now, and I need his head in the game.

“I like her,” he says, letting out a sigh. “She’s nice and all.” He pauses before he continues. “But I want what’s owed to me. That is not her.”

I hum, understanding finally washing over me at his words— what’s owed to me .

A virgin of his choosing.

Bound to him.

Promised to him.

Possessed by him.

His prize for dedicating his life to his family. I can understand my brother turning down that deal for the one he is owed. Especially if he truly was fucking her just to pass the time. He’s not really one to have dozens of one-night stands. He typically will keep someone around for a few months before he scrapes her off and finds another.

I just didn’t think this one was a plaything. He’s been with her for over six months. I assumed it was serious. Coleman doesn’t really talk about his feelings, so I can only go off his actions.

Apparently, I assumed wrong.