Page 457 of Devil’s Disciples

Fueled by a glimmer of hope that Reno had the solution to our combined survival, I pulled the door open. “What do you mean?”

His biceps flared as he maneuvered the motorcycle past me. He guided it into the door’s opening and hesitated. After fidgeting with the handlebars and spouting a few choice cusswords, he pushed it onto the sidewalk.

“Are you going to tell me what you’re talking about?” I asked.

He situated the motorcycle and kicked the stand down. He wiped his palms on his worn jeans and faced me.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” he said dryly.

“Why not?”

“Because.”

He sat on the motorcycle and draped his muscular arms over the handlebars. “The less you know, the better off everyone will be.”

He looked remarkably attractive for four in the morning. Nevertheless, I didn’t agree with his desire to keep me in the dark, and I planned to tell him about it.

“I’m wrapped up in the middle of this mess,” I argued. “I should know what’s going on, especially if my continued existence is dependent upon Angel not knowing that I played a part in the death of his men and the disappearance of his drugs. I have no idea how long El Pollo has been watching me, or what Angel knows or doesn’t know. The more I know about what’s going on, the better off we’ll both be.”

I exhaled dramatically and waited for his favorable response.

He gave me a quick once-over. His mouth twisted into a faint smirk. “You don’t talk like a Mexican.”

Either my ears were deceiving me, or Reno was a damned fool. I cocked my hip. “Do you spout random racist comments from time to time, or are you just stupid?”

He seemed offended. “Excuse me?”

“That comment you made,” I snapped. “I don’t talk like a Mexican.”

“You don’t.”

“That’s the most stereotypical racist shit I’ve ever heard.” I looked him over and then met his wide-eyed gaze. “Oh, wow. You’re not rich and pretentious like most white guys. What’s up with that? I thought all white guys were pretentious pricks.”

Now, he really seemed offended. He lifted his leg over his motorcycle and stood between it and me.

His eyes narrowed. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing.” I took a step back and shrugged. “It’s just that most white people in Southern California are rich and pretentious. You know what that means, don’t you? Pretentious? Probably not, because you’re a biker, and most bikers are uneducated drunks. It means being ostentatious or showy. Exaggerating your talents or knowledge to make yourself seem more important than you are.”

His glare went cold.

“Oh, sorry,” I said. “Did I speak over your head? Want me to dumb it down?”

In a flash, he pushed me against the door. While I was trying to figure out what the hell happened, he reached beneath my skirt. Before I could object, the web of his hand bumped against my crotch.

I sucked an uneven breath. It felt sooo good to have his hand against my pussy.

Seeming satisfied with the positioning of his hand, he looked me up and down. “You’re a sexy little bitch.”

My past experiences with being pushed around sexually always left me ripped apart both physically and emotionally. I was dazed that Reno’s forceful touch flipped a switch of sensuality in me I had no idea existed.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

“Unless you object, we’re going to copulate right here on the sidewalk.” He tugged against the crotch of my panties. “Do you know what that means, or do you want me to dumb it down?”

Too shocked to respond, I stared back at him like a confused child.

His unshaven cheek pressed against mine. “Cop-u-late,” he breathed into my ear. “It means I’m going to stuff my cock in here.”