Kristen Ashley - Motorcycle Man

“Chaos has a lot of members. All money earned is doled out equal. But, babe, you’ve accepted payments for our cars and bikes. Those fuckers cost a fuckin’ mint. The stores are all way in the black. The point of decades of buildin’ that shit was so my brothers wouldn’t take a hit when we pulled outta the other shit. They did but that don’t mean that hit was big. We all live easy.”

If he had a hundred grand to toss around, he must live easy.

“I think I need a raise,” I declared.

He blinked.

Then he smiled slowly and I enjoyed the show.

After it was done, he said quietly, “But thanks for the offer, darlin’.”

“You’re welcome, Kane.”

His brows went up. “You really tackle that bitch?”

“I have the battle scars to prove it,” I said by way of answer.

“Babe,” he muttered.

“She called me the c-word,” I offered in my defense.

That got me another smile.

It faded and he whispered, “She signs those papers, we’re done with her.”

Better news, Tabby was.

“Yeah,” I whispered back, lifting my hands to curl them around his neck.

“All is in motion with the Russians. That plan goes down good, we’re breathin’ easy.”

He said no more, I correctly took it that was all he was going to say and even if that niggle came back I didn’t push it. I just nodded.

But I asked, “You okay? About Naomi, I mean.”

“Gives me the shudders, thinkin’ a woman who’d essentially sell her kids was in my bed and worse, as long as she was. But if this means the back of her, yeah. I’m okay.”

“Good,” I replied on a squeeze of my fingers.

“You need antibiotic ointment on your elbows and knees.”

“That might stain my blouse and skirt.”

“Babe, I’m loaded. Dry clean.”

“Right,” I whispered.

“Though, bad news for you, your skirt and blouse are already stained with blood.”

Such was the life of an old lady.

“Well, whatever, it was worth it.”

Tack gave me another smile but through it ordered, “Kiss me then I’ll sort you out.”

I held his eyes looking deep to be sure he was okay. When I was sure, I did as he asked.

Then my old man sorted me out so I was okay.

“Shame,” Grigori Lescheva muttered, lounging in a chair opposite where I was tied to mine, duct tape over my mouth, his eyes on me. “You’re very attractive.”

I was breathing heavily through my nose. I had no idea how easy it was to breathe, having two choices to use to take in air. Now, only having one, it wasn’t so easy.

Not to mention, I was terrified out of my mind. It was hard to breathe when you were scared shitless.

“Such extraordinary hair,” he continued. “And so much of it.”

I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t. Even if I could, I wouldn’t.

“Auburn,” he whispered.

God, he was creeping me out.

“We could work something out, you and I,” he went on as I sucked in breath through my nose and my pulse spiked. “However, I think Mr. Allen needs a lesson.”

Oh God.

He tipped his eyes to the side then he tipped his chin up.

The man came toward me. My eyes darted his way and stayed glued to him as I panted through my nose, struggled against my bonds but it was no use.

He didn’t hesitate before he sunk the blade in my flesh.

Seven and a half hours earlier in a house in the foothills outside Morrison, Colorado…

“Stop scratchin’.”

“I can’t, it itches.”

“It itches because it’s healin’.”

“I know that, Kane.”

I found myself plucked out of bed then I found my scabby knees difficult to get to since they were planted in the bed on either side of Tack seeing as I was straddling him.

“You’ll scar, you keep scratchin’,” he informed me, fingers tight to my hips, head on the pillow, eyes aimed up to mine.

“It’s not a big deal,” I returned. “They’re almost gone.”

And they were. It’d been four days since I tackled Naomi and the scrapes weren’t that bad in the first place.

“Leave ‘em be,” Tack ordered on a finger squeeze.

My eyes drifted to the headboard and I muttered, “Oh, all right.”

My eyes rolled back when Tack ordered, “Grab the envelope on the nightstand.”

I looked to the nightstand to see an envelope there. I leaned into him, reaching out a hand and I nabbed it. I sat back as best I could because when I leaned, Tack’s hands slid up my sides and he was holding me closer.

“Open it,” he kept bossing. “Tell me what you think. You like it, I’ll get it started.”

My head tipped to the side with curiosity but I opened the envelope, pulled out a piece of paper that at first glance looked like it had kickass doodles on it then my body went still when those doodles penetrated my brain.

“You see you?” Tack asked and I stared at the doodles harder.

Curlicues and spikes, lots of them, familiar.

I looked harder.

There it was.

My name hidden in the design. Tyra.

I held in my hand what would be me, inked permanently into Tack.

My breath left me and my eyes lifted to his.

“Had my guy draw it out,” Tack informed me then asked, “You like it?”

I didn’t have it in me even to be a little bit of a smartass.

I just answered, “Yes.”

“Right. I’ll give him a call. Get it set up.”

I clutched the sketch to my chest and fell forward, back curved, doing a face plant right under his throat.

One of his hands drifted up my spine and into my hair as he muttered, “Darlin’.”

I deep breathed.

“She really likes it,” he murmured.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Babe, you gotta get used to my sweet,” he declared.

“Never,” I kept whispering, “because you just keep getting sweeter.”

His other arm curved around me and held tight.

I let him hold me for a while, taking him in with as many senses as I could before one of my hands drifted out and my fingers skimmed the tattoo on his left shoulder.

“You never told me about this,” I said softly.

“Balance,” he stated immediately and I lifted my head to look at him.

“Balance?”

He nodded, his hand in my hair drifting to the side of my neck, taking my hair with it and his thumb moved out to stroke my jaw.

“Balance, baby,” he said softly. “Wind. Fire. Live free. Be wild. Raise hell. But stay safe. You don’t, the reaper’ll get you, one way or another.” He paused then finished, “That tat’s a reminder. Balance. Raise hell but stay safe.”

I nodded.

Then I lifted up a bit and put my sketch on the nightstand before turning back to Tack and sharing, “Honey, you know I’m going out with Elvira today. You don’t have a lot of time. You need to get down to business.”

Tack grinned. Then both his arms closed around me, he rolled me to my back, his mouth taking mine and he got down to business.

Gwen

Two hours later, Hawk and Gwen Delgado’s farmhouse, South Denver…

Standing at the sink in my countrified yet whimsical kitchen, I jumped as arms closed around me from behind and I felt lips on the skin behind my ear.

“You need to quit doing that,” I stated even though I hoped he wouldn’t, not ever.

I lost those lips, kind of. They moved to my ear.

“Doing what?”

I turned in Hawk’s arms and looked up at him. “Dematerializing and rematerializing without making a sound. I know you’re a superhero out there, honey, but in this house you’re just Cabe.”

“Babe, I walked through the door.”

“Right,” I muttered and he grinned, giving me the dimples.

Jeez. I freaking loved those dimples.

My thoughts left his dimples when he asked, “Wanna tell me what those four suitcases are in your office?”

“We’re going on vacation,” I told him something he already knew since he bought the first class tickets. Or, Elvira did, but he told her to do it.

“Uh, yeah,” he replied. “To a beach for two weeks. Two weeks on a beach does not equal four suitcases.”

“Yes it does,” I contradicted.

“Sweet Pea, you need bikinis and…” he paused then went on, “bikinis. That’s it. Bikinis don’t take up four suitcases.”

“You’re right, Hawk, I need bikinis and I have bikinis. Five of them. And each of them has its own matching pair of flip-flops and sarong and/or cover up as the case may be. And then we will eat and not just room service. And who knows where we’ll go? Casual. Fancy. Island chic. Plus –”

“Stop right there,” he cut me off. “I’ve lost interest in this conversation.”

“Fine. I’ll stop. Now are you going to quit giving me lip about suitcases?”

“Absolutely, if you promise you’ll never say the words ‘island chic’ to me again.”

I also loved it when he was funny in his commando way.

“Cross my heart,” I replied, sliding my arms around him.

“Excellent,” he muttered, dropped his head and touched his mouth to mine.

I further loved it when he touched his mouth to mine.

He was lifting his head when his phone rang. He let me go with one arm to pull out his phone. He looked at the display, took the call and put it to his ear.

“Talk to me,” he commanded.

Bossy and hot but more the latter than the former.