The door opened and three girls came in with a guy. My heart slowed and my dick pulsed — it was girl’s night out, and one of them had brought her GBF. Her gay best friend.
Unlike wolves, ravens don’t have a strong sense of smell. Our gifts lie in our eyesight and hearing. We can see for miles, but our true talent is in spotting tiny movements and patterns. Those micro-expressions profilers use a slow-motion camera to see? I pick up on without even thinking about. I know when someone’s lying. When they’re happy, sad, conflicted.
And these four were happy. They talked about outfits, makeup, accessories, and the fact a local department store was having a big sale on shoes and purses the next day, and they had to get there early before the best stuff was gone.
The twink wore black, skintight jeans, a charcoal mesh shirt that showed his nipples as well as every beautiful muscle all the way down to the dangerously low jeans, and his black jacket reminded me of something Prince might’ve worn in the eighties. The boy also wore heavy motorcycle boots — the real thing, and they showed the wear and tear of a rider. Probably an homage to where they were going, but these weren’t the kind meant to just look good. Either he rode, or he’d picked them up at a secondhand store.
He was dressed straight out of the ‘looking for my new daddy’ fashion book, but fuck if it wasn’t exactly what this papa bear wanted.
I moved to the other side of the room and tried to ignore them, but it was only a matter of time before I had to rescue the boy from some drunk rednecks.
I saw things escalating and was on my way, but one of the girls stood and took a swing at the most threatening of the two rednecks and made solid contact. The twink stood to back his friend up, but the other redneck shoved the little guy backwards into the table and slammed his lower back across the top of the chair, and I wasn’t sure if it had hit the bottom of his rib cage or his kidneys. The twink rolled to the side, came to his feet, and managed to land a few punches of his own, but he also took yet another kidney punch because both rednecks focused on him and ignored his friend. I got to them as fast as I could, and since they weren’t far from the entrance, I tossed the rednecks out the door.
As the second one landed on the pavement in the parking lot, I wondered if maybe I should’ve escorted them rather than actually throwing them, but it was too late to back down. Viper gave me an odd look, but I needed to handle my job and all eyes were on me. I told the patrons, “We serve everyone here, s’long as they have manners. Those two seemed to have misplaced theirs.”
It’s RTMC policy to check in on people when we have to intercede, so I went to the twink’s table and asked if everyone was okay.
“Thanks to you, we’re just fine, big daddy. Can I buy you a drink?”
I wanted to pick him up and adjust him in my lap once I’d taken his seat, but I couldn’t. I touched one of the girls on the back of her arm. “Let me see your hand, sweetheart.”
“It’s okay.” She lifted it, and I saw red knuckles with a touch of swelling, but if her hand hurt, she wasn’t showing it. She’d popped the guy a good one to keep him away from her friend. I turned to Gonzo at the bar — he’d wait until the third night of the full moon so he could run with his wife. “Drinks on the house for the girlie, since she did part of my job for me before I could get to them.”
I looked at the twink, our gazes locked, and he knew. He’d already guessed, but now he was certain. I saw the smug look and the extra sparkle in his eyes, and my heart sank. I didn’t need this right now.
First things first though. I ignored his flirting and said, “I saw the kidney punch. This isn’t the time to play it cool. You okay?” He’d deflected most of the hits to his face — the rednecks had been sloppy with their punches. His kidney had taken two solid hits, though. His hand was a little scuffed from landing his own punches, but I didn’t comment on it.
Viper moved behind us and said what I’d known from the kid’s expression.
“No, he’s hurting.” Viper could smell his pain.
“Right.” I stepped back so I was beside Viper. “I’m not a doctor, but I’ve seen my share of fighting injuries. I can take you to the office and look it over for you. Figure out if it’s ribs or kidneys. Get you some ice.”
Viper snorted. “Razor used to be a paramedic. Go with him, kid. Let him look you over.”
As soon as the door closed and the sounds of the bar faded, the kid touched the center of my chest, cocked his hip out, and said, “You’re in the closet, Papa Bear.”
I sighed, pushed the hidden button in the doorframe to make sure we weren’t being watched or recorded by the control room, put my hands on the boy’s shoulders, and turned him towards the center of the room. “Just for a few more weeks. I’m new to town. Wanted to let them get to know me before I told them. Take the jacket and shirt off. What’s your name?”
“Matty.” He winced when he pulled the jacket off, and I helped him with his shirt so he didn’t have to lift his arms.
“Short for Matthew?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“None of that outside this room, boy. Not even once I’m outta the closet. How old are you?”
I poked around on his back, watched the muscles, saw the way the blood flow changed. I cataloged things a human would never be able to spot. It’d made me a good paramedic, before I’d joined the RTMC. The straight line of the chair’s back probably had his bottom ribs a little tender, and the punch had hit his kidney. Neither was too bad, but both of them together more than explained the wince when he’d twisted to take his jacket off.
“Twenty-three. About to graduate college.”
“What’re you majoring in?”
“Interior design, with a minor in graphic design.”
Kid was hitting all the stereotypes.
“You got a job?”
“Two of ‘em. I work at an advertising company and help out with their graphics after school during the week, and I work at a furniture store on the weekend.”
“Kidney took a hit, but it isn’t likely bad enough you need a doc.” I met his gaze and let him see I meant business. “Any back or abdominal pain, blood in your piss, nausea, difficulty pissing, fever, or anything not right — you get to a doctor. Understood?”
He nodded, and I pulled my wallet out, retrieved a business card, and stuck it in his front pocket. “My personal email is the first part of the one on this card, but at gmail. Email me there, not at the one on the card. No phone calls, no texts to this number. It’s just for club business. Got it?”
“Yes, Sir.”
I helped him with his shirt and jacket. “You’ll be tender tomorrow, but it shouldn’t hurt worse than now. If it does, see a doctor.”
“I can give you my cell phone number, if you want to check up on me.”
I shook my head. “Email it to me before you go to bed. You live with someone, or alone?”
“With Micca, the girl who took a swing at the guy. She’s kind of my best friend.” He gave me a sideways, flirty look again. “I saw you when I walked in. You were looking at me.”
“What kind of bike you ride?”
“How do you know I ride a bike?”
“Those boots aren’t just for looks.”
He shrugged. “Ninja 1000 ABS. The racing team edition. I sold my old one last year and bought myself the newest model for Christmas. Figured if I was dating someone, I’d buy something for him and he’d buy something for me, so I cut out the middleman and bought myself something.”
I winced. “Lime green?”
He nodded and met my gaze. “And I’ll dust your ass on any Harley you want to pit me against. Any road. You pick it.”
“That’s a lot of bike for a little guy.” And I had no doubt he could handle it. He’d meant every word about winning a race. No bluster.
“My pop…” He shrugged. “I don’t do sports. He didn’t get my art — still doesn’t. We found mutual ground with bikes. I raced Motorcross for years. Had a sponsor. Did the circuit. Cou
ld still be doing it if I wanted. I have a dirt bike and I play around when I’m off on a weekend, but I don’t want to do it for a living anymore because it takes too much of my life. I know my kidney’ll be okay, and my ribs. I’ve taken enough hits to know the danger signs. Just came back here so I could talk to you.”
I couldn’t stay in this room with him another minute, or every scent-hound who walked in would know I was in here with a twink and had been horny as fuck. I touched his chin. “Good to know. Email me your number and other contact info. My hand print’s gonna look great decorating your ass when you’re a good boy.”
Blood rushed to the surface of his skin on every body part I could see. The color and size of his eyeballs changed. His nostrils opened a little more. “And when I’m bad?”
“My belt, at the very least. Let’s get you back to your friends. No flirting outside this room.”
“Okay, but I don’t live in the closet. It’s fine if you’re about to come out, but not if you want to stay in there.”
“Got it.”
The rest of the night went without incident. Viper shadowed the foursome to their car and saw them off, to make sure they were safe on RTMC property.
He came to stand beside me when he returned. “Anything I need to know?”
I’d known our scents were telling when we stepped out of the office. I’d reined mine in, but there wasn’t much I could do about Matty’s. “Not right now. It’s possible I need to talk to everyone at church.”
I can have sex with women and enjoy it. I prefer mouths and asses, but that isn’t a problem in the clubhouse, and my new brothers had all seen me fuck plenty of the sweetbutts — emphasis on the butt. I’m not interested in a relationship with a female, but one hole is as good as the next if you just want to get off.
But nothing does it for me like a twink.
Click to continue reading Razor
About the Author
Candace Blevins has published more than fifty books. She lives with her husband of twenty-two years and their two daughters. When not working or driving teens all over the place, she can be found reading, writing, meditating, or swimming. The family’s beloved, goofy, retired racing greyhounds are usually at her side as she writes, quietly keeping her company. Or, sometimes not so quietly.
Candace writes urban fantasy, paranormal romance, contemporary BDSM romance, and two kick-ass motorcycle club series.
Her urban fantasy series, Only Human, gives us a world where weredragons, werewolves, werelions, three different species of vampires, and a variety of other mythological beings exist.
Candace's two paranormal romance series, The Chattanooga Supernaturals and The Rolling Thunder Motorcycle Club, are both sister series to the Only Human series, and give some secondary characters their happily ever after.
Her Dark(ish) Faerie Tale series gives us a close-up and personal look at Queen Mab, and her Dark Underbelly series is, as you’d expect, dark and (if you’re a little twisted) oh-so-yummy.
Her contemporary Safeword series gives us characters who happen to have some extreme kinks. Relationships can be difficult enough without throwing power exchange into the mix, and her books show characters who care enough about each other to fight to make the relationship work. Each couple in the Safeword series gives the reader a different take on the lifestyle.
You can visit Candace on the web at candaceblevins.com and feel free to friend her on Facebook at facebook.com/candacesblevins and Goodreads at goodreads.com/CandaceBlevins. You can also join facebook.com/groups/CandacesKinksters to get sneak peeks into what she's writing now, images that inspire her, and the occasional juicy excerpt.
Stay up to date on Candace’s newest releases, and get exclusive excerpts by joining her mailing list!
Frost (Rolling Thunder MC Birmingham Book 3) Page 21
