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He eyed me for a hot minute before speaking. Maybe it was pity for a pathetic scrawny kid, or maybe he saw something in me that I hadn’t yet seen in myself, because he opened the door and let me in. “Cain,” he introduced himself. “Know your way around a bike kid?”
1
Bou
Cradling the airbrush, I appraised the details of my latest work, some trashy art on another V-twin motorcycle tank. The red pouty lips on a curvy blonde woman, really not much more than a girl, were the only fantasy men in this tiny town seemed to be able to imagine. Per Luke’s demands, the image of Kitty, as he’d named her, had half-lidded eyes and a blush on her cheeks as if she’d just had the best ride of her life. He had issued the instructions with a hip thrust, because I clearly couldn’t get the picture for myself. Fuck, how I hated when new blood came to The Ridge.
The tiny triangles barely covering the girl’s nipples were painted in bright red to absolute perfection. “It’ll do.” I nodded, shut off the airbrush motor, and balanced the brush so the paint remaining in the reservoir didn’t spill.
The artwork was satisfactory enough to sign my name, even if it remained the most clichéd sexist thing between The Ridge and the Mississippi. Given that this nowhere town, Park Ridge was on the western side of Arizona, almost to Cali, that was a pretty wide space.
I couldn’t count the number of times I’d heard the same line in one way or another: I wanna touch my girl’s round ass as I ride down the open road.... Make it so I can imagine those red lips wrapped around my cock.... Bike’s already got kickin’ curves, just wanna give her a little eye candy.... What man wouldn’t want a sexy little body between his legs all fucking day?
Kitty wasn’t the first mostly naked woman I’d painted on a bike. Wouldn’t be the last either. I had improved my technique over the years, and it paid the bills—not that there were many expenses in the deserted gas station–turned–body shop and tiny apartment. My pops had purchased the building outright just after he’d moved the family out from Minneapolis. I didn’t remember much from those days. Mom disappeared before I had much memory, so I spent most of my childhood in the shop, learning all about engines and body work from Pops. After he died, my brother and I didn’t have much else. I wouldn’t call Park Ridge the lap of luxury, but I could keep Pops’ memory alive in the shop.
I peeled the rubber gloves from my hand, aimed, and released. With a snap, they sailed into the trash. I swiped my forehead. The AC in the shop couldn’t handle the hundred-plus temp outside. Sweat dripped between my breasts and down my back, soaking right through my white tank. The paint job would take forever to dry in this heat, so I turned on the fans to keep the air moving. Done, I needed a drink.
I went to the kitchenette in the back of my shop. I’d just slid my hand into the fridge, past the beer, to pull out a water bottle when the bells above the shop door chimed. I swallowed several healthy gulps and returned to the front to see who’d decided to pay an unexpected and even less-wanted visit.
Luke stood next to my bench, appraising the work.
Wonderful. The door swung shut behind me, fanning my back. I cleared my throat.
Luke turned. His eyes were glassy enough to hint at how many drugs the idiot had already taken this early in the day.
“She’s pretty hot,” he drawled—probably the only compliment he had in him. “But nada compared to your tight little ass.”
I rolled my eyes and went to the workbench where I’d been creating my latest Van Gogh.
Luke sauntered closer. He leaned over my shoulder and kissed my neck. I turned my head and let it happen, fighting the urge not to shimmy away in disgust. He smelled of sweat and stale cigarettes—couldn’t get much more repulsive. At least he wasn’t old enough or drug-worn enough to have yellowing teeth and rancid breath. But I still wasn’t interested. The kid was a decade my junior and had a hard-on for anything with tits. Sure, his body was cut enough to consider for a quickie, but I’d been done with the local boys and men—Ridge Rats, I liked to call them—for years. The last few times I’d tried on one of the young ones for size, they’d tailed me for months like I was the goddamn Pied Piper. I didn’t mind rough men, but for one to win me over, he needed more than drugs or T and A driving his cockstands.
Luke grabbed me around the waist, fingers digging into my sides just above my hip bones. “C’mon, sexy. You’re making me ache so hard.”
He dipped his head back into my shoulder, going for a little more slobber up my neck. I reached under the counter, palmed my Glock, and slid it right up under his nose. He stepped back, his hands slowly reaching above his head. Maybe a little bit of smart crept into his mite-sized brain, but his mouth still worked to find words to push past his barely post-pubescent goatee.
“What’s the matter, Luke?” I mocked coyness. Feet planted square, I smiled sweetly. “Not used to a real woman? One who wants a man rather than a boy? One who can hold her own with any one of the dozens of guns littered around her shop?”
Luke’s Adam’s apple bobbed like a horned lizard’s throat.
“I told you your bike would be ready this weekend. Now. Get. The. Fuck. Out. Don’t come back ’til Saturday.” I waved the Glock toward the tank. “And make sure you have cash in hand for my latest masterpiece.”
2
Wilde
The night was young, barely dark outside, and there were plenty of hours left to ride. I threw two changes of clothes and a wad of cash into the motorcycle bag and pulled the zipper. The sound ripped through the sparsely furnished bedroom. At the warehouse—the heart of the business—my rooms consisted of an office, a place to crash, and a shitter. Angel, my second in command, had been waiting in my office and giving me lip about my plan to hit the road alone, without an explanation. Sliding my phone into a back pocket, I angled my head toward the door and yelled, “Fuckin’ A, man. I’m not dragging you into this shit. Stop asking so many questions and take care of the house while I’m away.”
I scanned the bedroom. I’d spent eighteen years earning the Diablo MC president’s rooms. “Back soon,” I whispered, knocked on the wall once, and flipped off the lights. In my office, I dropped the bag and sat behind the desk. Angel lounged casually in the guest chair, packing a one-hitter pipe. The man I’d known since puberty, my brother in every sense that I could understand the word, held my stare as if I’d just told him the sky was blue or the grass was green.
“I feel you.” Angel pulled his hair back and tied it, showing off the pure white streak that normally lay hidden under his curtain of blue-black shoulder length hair. “But if you’re leaving me in charge, you’re sure as shit gonna give me a little insight.”
“Cut the BS. You know the biz.” I sat, leaned back in the chair, and propped my shitkickers on the desk.
He chewed a toothpick, not swayed in the least by my pathetic attempt at deflection. “Yeah, I got the routine. But routine’s not what’s got you jumpy.”
He stared at me without uttering another word, but his eyes said everything. He waited, his scarred brow raised—two perfect lines he’d cut himself. My brother had a penchant for pain and had marked his mug to announce it to the goddamn world. The man was scary as hell, and even I started twitching under the intensity of his gaze. Good thing he was on my team.
“Fuck. All right,” I finally said.
