Dude with a Cool Car (Concrete Angels MC Book 2)

by Siobhan Muir

  DUDE WITH A COOL CAR

  Bikers, Badge, and Backlog: Marshal DeVille always gets his man…and his karma.

  Cooper DeVille, US Marshal

  Being undercover has its perks. I get to do stuff the day-to-day me would never experience. Like infiltrating the Concrete Angels Motorcycle Club and meeting Karma, the gorgeous Enforcer of the MC. Being handcuffed to her bed is a dream, but that’s the problem with undercover work. Everything I’m doing here is only half true. The Concrete Angels—and Karma—are connected to Backlog, a shadow organization infiltrating law enforcement. The Fed undercover here before me was Backlog’s bitch, and now he’s dead. I have to determine which side of this fight the Concrete Angels are on… before Karma comes to bite me in ways I won’t enjoy.

  Karma, Concrete Angels’ Enforcer

  You bet your ass, I’m that karma, the one people pray never catches up to them. But my own karma has found me, seeing as the hunky P.I. who drove into the MC compound with his cool car is my Goddess-chosen true mate. But as my luck—and the Goddess’ sense of humor—would have it, Cooper’s an undercover US Marshal trying to ferret out our connection to a group called Backlog. Would’ve been nice to know before I took him to bed and discovered he’s the best damn submissive this Madam could want, because I don’t deal well with liars. And no one’s happy when Karma’s pissed. But Backlog has Cooper in its sights, and to survive… my mate might just have to die.

  Table of Contents

  DUDE WITH A COOL CAR

  Copyright © 2019 Siobhan Muir

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  Play List

  Excerpt

  About Siobhan Muir

  Other Books by Siobhan Muir

  DUDE WITH A COOL CAR

  Book 2 of Concrete Angels MC series

  Copyright © 2019 Siobhan Muir

  ISBN: 9780463465578

  Published by Three Lakes Books at Amazon.com

  Cover Design: Bianca Sommerland

  I’m No Angel Designs

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except for brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to any other book, or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  First Electronic Print, March 2019

  DEDICATION

  Dedicated to Maranda PA who read My Forever Cocky Biker Encounter in one day and asked me when the next one is coming. Here it is, Maranda. Thanks for loving my books.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing a book is never really a one-person job, and writing a series is especially difficult alone. Keeping track of details is so much easier when you have help, especially when you’re writing a series. Not only does it take a great deal of hard work, editing, and research on the part of the author to get things correct, but without my compatriots, there’d be a lot more mistakes. Any mistakes are my own.

  Great thanks to Paige Prince for editing and making sure I knew what these handguns looks like and how they work. Thanks to Bianca Sommerland for creating the pre-made cover that just made the story pop into my head and the plot bunnies run wild. And thanks to Mary Decker who reminded me that those old cars have specific colors. I only changed the Corvette, Mary.

  As always, great thanks to my readers for cheering me on. Seriously, y’all make my writing worth the detailed effort.

  Chapter One

  Cooper

  “This has got to be my bad karma coming back to haunt me.” I rubbed my eyes in frustration before putting the binocs back to them and squinting through the lenses. “And Backlog will be right behind it.”

  Or right behind me. I took a moment to glance over my shoulder at the wooded slopes around me. Ponderosa pine forests were far more open than those in temperate states, but they still offered a little cover. I relaxed when I heard birds chirping and caught sight of a chipmunk skittering to the top of a nearby rock.

  No predators here but me.

  I turned my attention to the compound below. I’d been up in the dry hills above Fort Collins for almost a week and I wasn’t any closer to answers than when I first arrived. I was investigating the disappearance of Agents Dirk Hopkins and Arnold Eisenburg, and everything pointed to Backlog, the shadowy organization I’d been tracking for two years. Both Hopkins and Eisenburg had been members as far as I could tell, but the tracks were subtle.

  “Hence why it’s called a ‘shadow organization,’ jackass.” Talking to myself made my isolation seem less lonely.

  My own investigation had to be shadowy because I suspected Backlog had infiltrated my agency, the Marshal Service. I didn’t know who to trust. Even my partner, Anna Fitzsimmons, had said some things that made me wonder if she’d been inducted into the organization.

  And that would really suck. I liked Anna. She was a damn good Marshal and, I’d thought, a pretty good friend.

  Only my supervisor knew what I was doing and why, and I’d vetted the hell out of him before I confided in him. He’d squared it so it appeared I was on extended leave for anyone checking on my absence, but he’d been sending me messages about impending scrutiny.

  I’d gone off the grid and purchased a burner phone to keep the technonuts from tracking me, but that would only last so long. I really needed some damn answers. Like why was Agent Eiseburg undercover in the Concrete Angels Motorcycle Club and what was his connection to Dirk Hopkins?

  Especially because both of them are now dead.

  I focused the binocs on the yard below me again. Had Backlog cut its losses and had the agents killed? Or did they pay the Concrete Angels to take them out? Either way, I needed to know if the motorcycle club was part of Backlog’s arm or just an unwitting accomplice in the deaths of two federal officers.

  Frankly, I couldn’t care less about Hopkins’ and Eisenburg’s deaths. Both were less-than-stellar men. Hell, Hopkins had been indicted on rape, embezzlement, illegal wiretaps, and sexual harassment. Eisenburg’s arrest had been on the horizon when he turned up dead in the wake of a wildfire. The news reported that he’d burned to death, but the autopsy proved the gunshot to his head had squelched
his personal fire first. He’d been executed and left where the fire could obscure the evidence.

  The question was, who ordered the execution? Backlog or the Concrete Angels? Eisenburg was no prize and my investigation had found several accounts where money had been stored and then transferred away. Lots of money. So, had he been stealing from his undercover work or had he been paid by Backlog?

  Too many fuckin’ questions.

  And here was another one: why the hell did the Concrete Angels’ compound look like a cute, well-maintained mountain motel? While there was a big aluminum barn where they kept their vehicles and workshop, and another large building that appeared to be barracks, the higher-ranking members’ residences and the clubhouse were downright quaint. Each window sported a flowerbox full of marigolds, petunias, and some sort of white daisies. They reminded me of my grandmother’s garden back in western Washington, and I shook my head.

  What kind of a motorcycle club gives a shit about flowers?

  Apparently, the Concrete Angels had an honest-to-goddess grounds crew who lovingly took care of the landscaping. I had to admit I was pretty damn impressed.

  I shifted on the rocky ground between two juniper shrubs and scanned the yard again. A bunch of younger men and women, prospects to joining the club, lounged around the various buildings, though they avoided the cabins in between the clubhouse and the vehicle barn. The latter stood open to allow for the breeze to cool the interior while several CA guys worked on their bikes. The pool behind the clubhouse had a nice assortment of half-naked people lounging around or swimming, but no one I recognized as the top leadership.

  I was planning to swing back to the yard when a goddess of golden-brown skin, sleek lines, and an elegant Afro sauntered toward the diving board at the pool. She wore a two-piece suit I’d heard the ladies call a “tankini” in rust, rose, gold and black. The lines of the suit perfectly molded to her round ass and curved belly. The top had a V-neck and showed off her cleavage perfectly.

  A large handful each. Nice.

  My cock hardened at the sight and I had to squirm a bit to get my tightening shaft in a comfortable spot while lying on my belly. Not the easiest thing to do when I’m a “grower” rather than a “show-er.” I liked my women with boobs, belly, butt, and thighs, and she fit my fantasy chick to a T.

  I watched her strut onto the diving board, bounce a few times—and her tits bounced beautifully too—and cannonball into the pool with her knees against her chest. The other swimmers yelped and shouted at her when she came back up, but she grinned, unrepentant.

  Damn. That’s my kind of woman.

  Except I was supposed to be investigating her motorcycle club and she probably was some other guy’s old lady. The thought wilted my dick and I swore under my breath. It was stupid, but I didn’t want her to be attached to anyone.

  “You can’t always get what you want.”

  No, and I’d learned that the hard way at the Marshal’s Service. My boss’s boss singled me out more often than not to take on the shit jobs, the ones no one wanted, just to push my buttons. The funny thing was I became one of the best at closing cases, especially the difficult shit investigations no one wanted. I guess I had to thank him for that.

  Nah, he wouldn’t appreciate it.

  Not after I dragged his ass into custody after I exposed him and all his Backlog cronies. The jackass had tried to get me to quit. But instead, he created the very monster dogging his heels to bring him down. I never gave up or admitted defeat when it came to my investigations. And he was the first one I’d go after once I had enough evidence.

  Yeah, that’s the tricky part.

  And I’d get it. Come hell or high water, I always got my man. Marshal Cooper DeVille definitely scored in that department. And I’d get the assholes in Backlog, too.

  The goddess in the tankini finished her swim and toweled off in the shade of an ash tree. She laughed at a couple of the other women at the pool and flipped off one of the men making a snarky comment before sauntering her gorgeous ass into the clubhouse. I switched my view to the front doors to see if she’d come out and she didn’t disappoint.

  She’d put on a pair of small round sunglasses that reminded me of John Lennon, some flipflops, and wrapped the towel around her waist like a terrycloth skirt. It didn’t matter what she wore. This surveillance operation just got a lot more enjoyable with her sauntering around.

  She made her way down the line of cottages that served as the personal residences and stopped at one midway down the row. She dug out her keys then paused, as if listening to something. I adjusted the binocs to focus on her figure as she tilted her head, her brows creasing.

  What? What does she hear?

  She turned her head and lifted her gaze until it met mine through the binocs.

  I froze and held my breath. The eerie feeling of having been discovered washed over me and I couldn’t stop staring through the lenses.

  Sweet glory, can she see me?

  She dipped her chin in a quick nod and I gasped. Holy shit, she does see me. But I couldn’t look away as she laughed, winked, and let herself into the cabin. The number on the door flashed across my view.

  Cabin number thirteen.

  Oh yeah, this job had bad karma written all over it.

  Chapter Two

  Karma

  Do you know how much I get blamed for everything? People would say, “Oh, that’s bad Karma.” Like I was some sort of unruly pet or spoiled food. Or they’d say, “I’ve done my good Karma today.” Like I was a project they had to complete.

  But people had rough things happen to them, particularly because of choices they’d made or actions they’d done, and wanted to blame me for them. “I guess it’s my Karma.”

  Or they used me as a threat. “I so want to be there when Karma catches up to him.”

  Don’t get me wrong. I was all about retribution and comeuppance, but I had standards and sometimes people did enough stupid shit that they naturally attracted consequences quickly. Like Roy, AKA Arnold Eisenburg, the undercover FBI agent who’d posed as a biker in the Concrete Angels Motorcycle Club. Turned out he was embezzling from both the FBI and the Concrete Angels, and Loki didn’t take too kindly to the theft. The FBI didn’t like it much either, but only Loki had the vagina to do anything about it.

  Definitely not “balls.” Balls were soft and squishy, and made a guy drop to his knees and vomit when barely brushed. Something that sensitive wasn’t an example of courage and gumption, in my opinion. A vagina, on the other hand, could take a pounding, give pleasure, and still be tight the next time. Bold as brass and twice as beautiful.

  Loki offered me an extra fifteen years of life in this world if I helped make Roy’s consequences come that much sooner. It was a no-brainer for me. The guy was a pig, an asshole, a liar, and a thief. I’d never liked him so fucking him up for screwing over others was just icing on the cake of life for me.

  No one messed with me, because I was Karma, and if anyone wanted shit done, they paid me in life years. Loki was immortal, so he had life years to spare. Humans had a lot less currency, but their passions burned brighter and they were greedy when it came to retribution. I was always happy to help if they could pay me.

  Loki wasn’t willing to pay me for Special Agent Dirk Hopkins, but I would’ve done him in for free. He raped my good friend Numbers when she was still at the FBI. He gave her more black moments than I’d seen in most horror flicks, and that wasn’t something I could just let go. But Loki said he’d take care of it and if the news report was anything to go by, it sounded like it worked.

  I caught the story on the TV behind the counter at the Gas ‘N Snacks while I was grabbing some of my favorite treats after filling up my bike. Our inhouse chef, Grub, was fantastic, but I had a craving for Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and those couldn’t be duplicated. Besides, I was still trying to get over the odd thing that had happened a few days before.

  There’d been a guy in the hills above the compound wat
ching us. Correction: Watching me. He’d used binoculars and wore drab clothing helping him blend in with the scrub, but I could see him. Supernatural beings had that going for them and I was nothing if not supernatural. Despite knowing he was there, I couldn’t see the details of his face or body. I had to give him credit. He’d hidden himself pretty well behind the juniper bushes, but I suspected Loki knew the guy had been snooping around, too.

  He’d jerked when I winked at him and that perversely made my day. Sometimes just the barest communication had a major effect and my good mood persisted. Good Karma for everyone! I laughed as I paid for my gas and goodies, and headed back out to my bike.

  I opened up one of my panniers and slid the snacks in just as someone pulled up to the pump behind me. The engine of the vehicle purred like a tiger, deep and throaty, and I shivered with pleasure. In addition to Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups, I had a soft spot for vintage cars, and this baby was totally vintage. A Pompeian Red 1962 Cadillac Coupe DeVille, its chrome mirror-clear, settled into the shade of the gas station and I drooled.

  The guy driving the Caddy wasn’t vintage at all. He slid from the driver’s seat in acid-washed black jeans and a black t-shirt under a red and black plaid flannel shirt. He was tall with broad shoulders, but he had an athletic rather than robust build. Best of all, his energy zinged along mine with a sizzle of recognition, as if I’d met it before.

  I raised my gaze to the guy’s face and let my Karmic Vision™ take over. Most people looked like opalescent figures with their auras transposing their life energy over an opaque white matrix. But this guy appeared like a peacock with brilliant emerald green swirling with hunter and teal. Deep royal blue tendrils mixed with royal purple and gold. Oh, glory to the Goddess, I wanted to soak him up and blend him with my own kaleidoscope of colors.