A few minutes later, as I threw the door open, Burdock glanced up, then, words abruptly ceasing from where he’d been on the phone, he quickly took in the rage on my face before muttering to the person on the other end of the line, "I’ll call ya back in a bit." Slowly, pushing the end button, he placed the cell on the desk in front of him, and peered at me.
Stepping across the room in three strides, I snarled, "You goddamn, sorry motherfucker, why the fuck did you bring her here?" Then rearing back, I swung out with a powerful undercut, slamming my fist into his jaw.
Burdock’s head snapped back at the blow, and his chair went sliding backwards, where, hitting the askew edge of a throw rug, the chair tipped over, landing Burdock on the floor with a loud thud.
Letting out a string of curse words, Burdock lifted himself off the floor, righted his chair, then, turning to face me as he rubbed at his jaw, he nodded once before muttering, "Okay, I’ll give you that one,” following the declaration with, "You are one of the best op’s I have ever seen, and you are fucking killing yourself. You have become a problem for the other members, and you damn well know it. I had to do something, Torin. I was losing you!"
**~Marlowe~**
Two days had passed since my introduction to the members of Rooks MC, and I was now trying to decide if I’d been dropped down Alice’s rabbit hole, or picked up by Dorothy’s tornado and carried to the land of OZ. The bar where I had been working, as well lived above, had caught fire and burned, while I’d been with Rook. The fire had been a threat against the Sons Of Morning Star—SOMS—from a rival gang, showing SOMS there wasn’t anyone they couldn’t reach, then not long after, the compound at SOMS had been attacked.
As a result SOMS had gone into hiding. Though Rook had sworn to me, he would never tell of my past, and under the circumstances of knowing who I was, he’d felt he’d needed to go to Burdock, and Burdock had then ordered I be put under the cubs protection, so…here I am, pondering about Alice and Dorothy. After few minutes of intense consideration, I decided that both descriptions pretty much summed up my situation. Just like poor Alice and Dorothy, I was in a world that had to be make-believe! No way in hell could the events that had been going on since I’d been dropped, blown into— or whatever the fuck had happened when I’d been introduced to this Looney-toons MC—be anything other than make believe, and I just wanted to get off the crazy train!
**~MARLOWE~**
As I’d sat in Burdock’s office, dawning clarity had blazed across my mind like Haley’s comet, and my eyes had rounded, becoming huge orbs in my face like Betty Boops. If they had this kind of information, they were not the unruly motorcycle gang I’d been led to believe they were, as such, I’d hissed, “Just who the fuck are you guys? That kind of information is just not handed out to other MCs!” I’d learned they were Special OPs, and when I’d finally stormed my way out of Burdock’s office an hour after having entered it, Rook had gotten one hell of an ear full when I’d seen him again!
Now, with the knowledge of who these men were circling around within my head, I settled on the fact that, without a doubt, I’d been punted straight down the rabbit hole. For three hours, I’d openly observed those within the walls of my, quote, unquote ‘new’ home, and I’d decided that Rook was the Cheshire cat, appearing and disappearing at will, and engaging me in his amusing, but sometimes perplexing conversations. Jax, the Hatter, was mad, quite literally disturbed. Burdock, or rather Prez, was the Caterpillar, strict and not very friendly, but always willing to listen and give advice. Then, of course, there was Satan, the Queen of Hearts*—violent, authoritative, dominant and a tyrant! As for the remaining team members…well, they all played their part, but for the life of me, I hadn’t been able to remember any of the other characters' names in the 1865 Lewis Caroll’s story book of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.
As I continued to absently gaze at the people around me, I’d tried to recall exactly how Alice had made her great escape.
The sudden chirping of my phone jolted me, and pulling it from my pocket, I frowned down at the unknown number. With a shrug, I brought up my message, my jaw dropping.
***Unknown***: Mills?
My real, last name practically jumped off the screen at me, and after a few seconds of indecision, I quickly typed.
***Me***: Who is this? How do you know my name?
Immediately a reply came back.
***Unknown***: Thank, fuck! Can’t talk now! Erase the messages and tell no one of them. I’ll be in contact again.
Within seconds, I shot one back at the unknown messenger.
***Me***: Who is this?
I stared at the screen, waiting, but after several seconds passed, I realized the person wasn’t going to respond to my inquiry.
Restless, and uneasy from the strange message, I didn’t know what to do with myself, so scooting the chair back, I headed toward the bar. *The devil you knew was better than the one you didn’t*.
Ginger was working behind the counter tonight, and as I had struck up a tentative friendship with the easy going red-head in the time I’d been here, I hoped she’d be willing to let me help her serve the bar.
Four hours later, I found myself fidgeting with the cloth in my hand as I wiped down the length of the bar’s countertop once again. I’d felt Satan’s eyes on me from the moment he’d walked in, and his stare hadn’t seemed to waiver all night. Now, I was beginning to lose it because I felt like an insect under a microscope beneath his penetrating gaze. It was hot and smoldering, but I didn’t feel it was an appreciative smolder. He’d sat in that damn, dark corner, the whole evening, and though I’d been unable to see his face clearly, I’d felt his eyes on me. His damn gaze had felt as if he’d been weighing and measuring me and I couldn’t help but feel I was coming up short.
**~SATAN~**
Holy Christ, when I’d walked into the bar earlier tonight, I’d been thankful I’d been standing near a table when I spotted Marlowe for I’d suddenly found my ass needing to sit down.
My pulse had accelerated and my hands had grown shaky. The tiny bit of denim she was wearing was supposed to be a pair of shorts, and the cropped tank baring her midriff was practically indecent—both, nothing but a prick tease. I’d known the clothing had come from one of the girls here in the clubhouse, which one, I didn’t know, and didn’t really care, but motherfucker if the ensemble hadn’t gotten my attention. As well, just about every other man’s in the room, and I’d found myself growling low in my throat, unhappy about the attention she was garnering. However, I hadn’t been able to do a damn thing about it!
For most of the evening, I’d watched her delectable ass from afar, as she moved about the room, serving drinks and chatting with the other men. Yet, I’d kept my distance, thankful that the area where I was sitting was in a darkened corner, for I was pretty damn certain the deadly looks I was giving each and every one of my team members would have gotten my ass pistol whipped.
Only three of the men in the unit were privy to what she meant to me, and those who weren’t part of that elite group, would definitely have a problem with the looks they’d been receiving from me. To them, she was fair game—a situation I didn’t like one fucking bit, but a dislike I had to keep to myself. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know these men, didn’t know, one word from me and she’d be avoided like the fucking plague, it was just how we rolled. Every man who made up our unit, had served in some branch of the service in one form or another, and every one of them had a set of skills that allowed them to handle just about any situation they were presented with. It was because of these skills we had been hand-picked to form a group within the Special Activities Division of the CIA.
We operated under the guise of a motorcycle club, The Sons of Morning Star, and we led high-threat military/covert operations with which the U.S. government didn’t wish to be overly associated with. As such, we didn’t carry any objects or clothing, which would associate us with the United States government, allowing them deniability if we were to become compromised.
Though deadly within our own craft, the dependability in the type of situations we found ourselves in when on assignment, had forced us to become more than just comrades, we’d become brothers. A necessary means of survival when faced with dangers that no ordinary man would willingly walk into. Not one of us would invade the other’s territory—if the territory were made known—but as I had to live with the promise I'd made, I couldn’t lay claim on Marlowe. So, I sat, grumpy as a bear who couldn’t have the honey-pot he so desired.