Honey to Burn (Sweet & Dirty BBW MC Romance Book 10)

by Cathryn Cade

  Rae hurried to swallow. “I love it,” she told him. “It’s so exciting. One thing we talked about today is health and heredity and how they affect hair. Did you know that hair loss patterns are hereditary through the mother? How weird is that?”

  “Huh. Did not know that. Got my ma’s hair color, now I gotta hope she didn’t have bald guys in her family.”

  She made a face. “At least you can find out. Don’t think my mom got much of a family history out of my sperm donor before he took off.”

  He reached to cover her hand with his, big and warm. “Babe. Sorry, but you’re healthy so far, right?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Some heart disease on my mom’s side, but grandpa smoked like a stove, so… “ she shrugged.

  “My family’s healthy too,” he said. “‘Cept for Uncle Igor… poor guy. He raises rats in the basement.” He laughed at her expression and shook his head. “Babe. You’re too easy. I’m just shinin’ you on.”

  “I knew that,” she said instantly and shoved some more fries in her mouth. They were delicious, hot and crispy and salty. “Mm-mm,” she approved throatily.

  When Mac stopped with his burger in mid-air, she winked at him. “Gotcha.”

  His jaw tightened, and he reached beneath the table with one hand. “Yeah, ‘cause apparently I’m easy, too.”

  RaeAnn blushed again, then started giggling nervously, and soon he was chuckling again. All in all, it was the best—not a date—but definitely the best meal she’d had in a long time.

  And at her house, where he’d left his truck, Mac saw her to her door, handed over her car keys, and leaned in to kiss her gently, this time on the lips.

  Rae nearly grabbed him and held on, wanting more. But he was already backing away. “Okay, g’night,” she said. “Thanks again for the tires.”

  “Thanks for the supper,” he said. “You drive careful tomorrow, and I’ll see you soon.” And with another smile, he turned away and climbed into his truck.

  Rae went inside and shut her front door behind her. And if she was pouting because he hadn’t wanted more than one quick kiss, well, that was her business and no one else’s.

  In February, RaeAnn’s pregnancy began to show. She was self-conscious about it, especially with no ring on her finger. But her classmates at beauty school seemed to think nothing of her unwed state, so there she could relax about it.

  And Mac certainly liked it.

  He came to her place on a sub-zero evening early in the month, having volunteered to be her guinea pig for a haircut.

  Rae had her scissors and razor laid out on the kitchen counter, along with a cape, and shampoo and conditioner.

  First, she washed his hair in the kitchen sink, then handed him a towel.

  Mac toweled his hair off and settled on one of her kitchen stools in the center of the tiny space, giving her a grin. “Don’t make me bald, okay? Not a good look for me.”

  She laughed. “How do you know?”

  “Football camp, senior year,” he said and shuddered theatrically. “We shaved our heads as a team solidarity thing. Big mistake—the girls were not impressed.”

  Rae ran her fingers through his hair, shivering with pleasure at the feel of the thick, silky strands on her skin. “Phht, high school girls—so shallow. But I like your hair too, so I’m definitely not cutting it all off. I’ll just even up the ends.”

  “Whatever,” he said, sitting relaxed with his hands clasped, eyes closed. “Grows fast, so have at it.”

  But when she started to put the cape around his shoulders, he balked. “Not wearing that, mama.”

  He reached behind his head, grasped his tee and hauled it off over his head, tossing it toward her sofa. Which left Rae with a visual banquet of hot, muscular Mac. She had to swallow the urge to drool a little.

  She blew out a breath and ordered her mind to just stop. She was here to practice her craft, not knock him onto the kitchen floor and have her way with him.

  Besides, she had no idea if he was even interested in her like that anymore. He’d been so sweet since she got pregnant, but he hadn’t made anymore sexual overtures. And she didn’t have the nerve to ask.

  RaeAnn had not really thought about a client enjoying her touch, so she was a little startled to realize that Mac liked her touching him as much as she did. He didn’t quite purr as she worked her fingers through his hair, judging the length in different areas, but he was as relaxed as the neighbors’ old tom when Rae stopped to pet him.

  She worked slowly and carefully, pulling his hair through her fingers the way she’d been taught, and snipping the ends carefully on the diagonal so there would be no sharp lines when it laid down. Not that Mac’s hair ever did that—he was the ideal candidate for a novice stylist, as his hair was full of body and wave.

  Finally, satisfied with the cut, she scrunched some styling lotion through his hair, and blew it dry with a style comb, moving around in front of him to view the results. She smiled happily. “Okay, you can wake up now.”

  When he opened his eyes, she burst out laughing, then clapped a hand to her mouth as his lazy look changed to one of wariness. “What the hell’d you do?” he demanded.

  “Nothing bad,” she said quickly. “It’s just… you look like David Beckham.” The handsome soccer star was famous for his smile and his hair, which was always in some new style. His current look was bleached platinum blond and longish, just like Mac’s.

  Mac groaned. “That dude?” He reached out and grabbed her hips, hauling her between his thighs. “You made me pretty?” He made a horrible face.

  Rae giggled, leaning into him and allowing her hands to settle on his shoulder, his skin warm and silky under her hands. “Handsome, not pretty.”

  He urged her down, and she settled on his thigh, holding onto him. His gaze turned hot. “You think I’m handsome, huh?”

  “Yes,” she breathed, swaying toward him, their gazes locked. “Of course I do.”

  “That’s good,” he murmured, leaning forward the last inch so his warm breath fanned her lips.

  Then he kissed her. His lips were warm and soft, clinging to hers, and sending pleasure pouring through her in a lazy stream. She parted her lips against his, and their tongues met in a slow, sweet dance.

  Until they both opened their eyes and pulled apart, grimacing. “Euww,” RaeAnn mumbled, fingers to her lips. “Hair.” Tiny ends from his haircut had clung to his face, and ended up in both their mouths.

  Mac spat into his hand. “Fuck, that’s gross.”

  They rose and went to the sink, spitting in unison, and cupping their hands for cool water to rinse their mouths. Mac washed his face as well and dried off.

  Dropping the towel on the counter, he gave her a heated look. “We could take this to the couch.”

  RaeAnn opened her mouth to say yes, please… and his phone rang on the kitchen counter.

  He muttered a curse and then reached to grab the phone. “Sorry, babe, I gotta take this.”

  He lifted the phone to his ear, listened, and then he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be there.”

  Shoving the phone into his jeans pocket, Mac gave her a look of regret. “Sorry, gotta go. I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

  Rae wanted to do some cussing herself as he turned away to grab his tee off the floor and don it, covering his muscular torso and arms. He grabbed his jacket and was gone into the winter night.

  Darn cell phones. Right now, she wished they’d never been invented.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Mac drove into downtown Spokane, cussing Rocker’s timing.

  Jesus, he’d been that close to getting RaeAnn over onto her sofa and getting her clothes off. Those sweet, soft curves in his hands and under his mouth… he wanted to howl with disappointment.

  His cock was not happy either. He shifted in his truck seat, adjusting himself in his jeans and scowling. Instead of sliding into her hot, wet pussy, he was left with a drive through the bitter cold night to Rocker’s place to ‘talk ov
er the situation’ with the Brave Boyz gang.

  Soon he pulled up outside Rocker’s building in the old section of downtown. The two-story, brick building had once been some kind of small manufacturing firm.

  Now it housed Rocker’s crash-pad and the office of his fledgling business, Rock Solid Security. The L-shaped building had a courtyard in front off the crumbling sidewalk. An older pickup, a sedan, and a white utility van labeled ‘Pete’s Pest Control-No Bug too Big’ were parked there.

  Mac eyed the white van, which looked an awful lot like Snake and Darlene’s.

  Inside Rocker’s building, the space was open, with brick walls exposed and an old wooden loft over a corner. It wasn’t much warmer than outside, despite the two big space-heaters glowing red-hot.

  Rocker, Bouncer, Snake, and Toro sat around a battered table, a bottle of whiskey and shot glasses before them.

  “Come sit,” Rocker told Mac by way of greeting.

  Mac did so, leaving his jacket on. Then he eyed the four men who were staring at him like he had a third eye. “What?”

  Rocker, who wore his long, black hair shoved behind his ears, smirked. “You takin’ up fashion modeling, prospect?”

  Bouncer and Snake snickered.

  Mac’s face heated. “My baby mama’s in beauty school. She practiced on my hair tonight.”

  “You look good, hermanito,” Toro said with a huge grin on his face. “I’d date you.”

  Mac bit back a crude reply. “Yeah, thanks.”

  “All right,” Rocker said. “Let’s get to it. The Boyz didn’t take the hint about leavin’ local businesses alone. They came back to Danette Geary’s shop this evening and left her a message.”

  He pushed a paper toward Mac. It was a printed photo of a small business. Across the front wall was spray-painted ‘Pay or Play.’ The front window was smashed in, the door defaced with some substance.

  “Fuckin’ a,” Mac muttered. “‘Pay or play?’ That’s what they came up with?”

  Bouncer grunted. “Stupid little punks. But now we gotta answer back. Can’t let this go.”

  Mac nodded vehemently and waited.

  “Found out where they hang out,” Rocker said. “Old house north side of the river. Rented by a LaDonna Washington. Had eyes on her—she’s young, pretty. Figure her for a girlfriend. It’s a tough neighborhood, and what do you know, half the street lights don’t work—guess the city’s tired of replacing them when they get shot out.”

  “So we riding up there tonight?” Toro asked. “Mierde, I didn’t bring no firepower.”

  Rocker shook his head. “Wouldn’t let you bring it anyway. Weapons we’ll be using are special—no serial numbers. And we’ll all wear gloves. That way, we have to leave any weapons behind, they’re the Boyz’ problem.”

  He caught Mac’s eye and smiled crookedly. “Stop worrying, prospect. You’re coming as lookout. We’re not gonna shoot anyone tonight.”

  “Not unless they shoot first,” Bouncer added, waggling his shaggy brows.

  Rocker shrugged. “There is that. All right, let’s load up”

  The five of them piled into the van, Snake in the driver’s seat, which was when Mac remembered he’d seen the van at the Flyers’ clubhouse, without any markings.

  Pretty clever—if anyone noticed the van, they’d remember the logo, not the van itself.

  “Where’s T-Bear?” Bouncer asked as Snake started up the van. “Could use his muscle tonight.”

  “He’s down and out,” Rocker said. “Pukin’ his guts out over some bad chicken or something. Could hardly answer the phone.”

  Mac grimaced in sympathy. Food poisoning, that was bad. He’d check in on the big ginger when they were done tonight.

  With the van’s seats full, he had to perch in the back on a stack of plastic storage trunks, with nothing to hang onto but a strap hanging from the ceiling as Snake drove them north across the river.

  By the light of Mac’s pocket flashlight, the trunks were marked ‘Candles.’ Mac recognized the labels as the kind of shit his mom liked to keep around her house. That was fine, but in the back of the van, the smell was super-concentrated. The rig reeked of strong, flowery scents that made Mac want to open the back doors and leap out.

  “Tell your old lady to quit peddling this shit and sell jerky or something, hermano,” Toro advised Snake. “At least your van wouldn’t smell like a cheap whore-house.”

  “You don’t like it, you can walk,” Snake snarled.

  “Can’t exactly label the boxes ‘Weapons’,” Bouncer added dryly. “Although, that’d make it easier on your old buddies on the force, Rock.”

  He and Toro shared a laugh, until Rocker cut them off. “Let’s go over the plan. Toro knocks on the front door, claims to be lookin’ for a buddy. Snake and Bounce are in the shadows of the porch—once the door opens, they move in. I go around back, through the alley. I gather up any Boyz who try to sneak out that way.”

  “Solid,” Bouncer said.

  “What about me?” Mac asked Rocker. “I can come with you, help out.” Do something besides lose his chance to fuck Rae, just to play lookout again.

  “Let him help out,” Bounce said. “See if he’s got the balls for it.”

  Rocker thought for a moment, then turned in his seat to eye Mac. “You ready to bang heads?”

  “Hell, yeah,” Mac said, his heart thumping.

  “All right, then. You’re with me.”

  The van slowed and pulled up on the side of a street lined with old houses in various states of disrepair.

  “That’s the place,” Rocker said, indicating a one-story house across the street. It had been added onto at some point, and it had been a piss poor job. The front porch railing was broken, the walk a mess of crooked cement. “All right, prospect. You and I get out here. Toro, give us five minutes to get in position.”

  Rocker opened the back doors of the van and shone a penlight inside as he opened one of the candle trunks. Inside lay a layer of candles and pastel tissue paper. Rocker lifted this out.

  Mac’s gut clenched. Underneath were stacked a variety of lethal weapons. Not a single one had any shiny wood or metal on it.

  “These loaded?” Mac asked quietly.

  “Yes. Grab one,” Rocker said quietly, lifting out the shotgun. “You can use it to crack a skull if you need to.”

  Mac guessed that was better than wrecking his knuckles. But he sure as shit did not want to shoot anyone—he’d seen a few gunshot wounds, and they were ugly.

  Rocker picked up a plastic bag of something dark and sodden from the corner of the van and closed the back door.

  Mac followed Rocker along the side of the neighboring house and down a dark alley that stunk of garbage. They passed through a gate, already open, and into a small backyard that smelled even worse than the alley.

  “They got a dog?” he hissed to Rocker, as they paused in the shadow of an evergreen.

  “Yeah, a pit. Not attack-trained, though. I got somethin’ for it that should do the trick.”

  As if on cue, deep barking sounded from inside the house. A man yelled something, then the back door opened. He was skinny and young against the light.

  A squat dog barreled out toward Mac and Rocker, snarling ferociously.

  Mac had to stiffen his legs against the urge to scramble up into the tree.

  Something hit the ground with a splat, and the dog gave a last growl and was silent. “Good dog,” Rocker crooned under his breath. “Eat that all up and then take a nap.”

  “What is that?” Mac grimaced as a new smell reached them.

  “Old burger with a bit of ground up horse tranqs. Should hit him fast, but won’t last more than the night.”

  “Where’s the fuckin’ dog?” A second man appeared in the house doorway. “Jaws! Jaws—get in here, you stupid mutt.”

  When the dog did not move, busy licking the ground where his treat had lain, one of the guys stepped outside. “Puto perro, better not have run off.”

/>   Loud voices erupted inside the house. The two men both turned. “What’s going on? Damone! Quien está aquí? Who’s here?”

  “Come on,” Rocker hissed to Mac. Mac followed the bigger man past the busy dog, through the yard, and to the now empty back door. Rocker positioned himself on one side, Mac on the other.

  Mac lifted up enough to peer in the dirty window beside the door.

  One of the Boyz was in the small kitchen, a gun in his hand, peering through a door in the far wall toward the front of the house where someone was cursing and uttering loud threats.

  Short and skinny, this ganger’s dark head was shaved, and he had tattoos on his neck. Since he wore only a pair of workout pants, Mac could see his ink extended down his legs, too.

  A woman rushed through the door, eyes wide. She was young, pretty, and clad in a tight dress. Her skin was a warm brown, her long, dark hair streaked with blonde.

  “Hey, puta, stay here,” the ganger hissed at her.

  “Oscar, no. I’m getting out of here. Damone is acting crazy. Ven comigo.”

  “Fuck, no. Do what I tell you, puta, or I’ll mark you up.”

  Mac tensed—not on his watch the guy wouldn’t.

  Rocker signaled Mac to get down.

  “Hey,” he called, his voice pitched higher than usual. “Oscar! Get out here, man. I got one of them.”

  “The fuck?” When footsteps thudded toward the back door, Mac acted on instinct, squatting to shove his weapon out at ankle-level.

  With a grunt, the ganger flew horizontally out the door and landed on his face on the crumbling walk, skidding several inches before stopping. He moaned in pain.

  “Nice. Get him up and bring him in the house,” Rocker ordered and disappeared inside.

  Mac grabbed the ganger by one arm, and lifted him onto his feet. The guy stank of sweat, booze, and overpowering cologne. “You like to hurt women, huh?” Mac gritted, shoving the guy before him and into the kitchen. “Let’s see what she thinks of your face, asshole.”

  The kitchen stunk of old food and spilled liquor. Empty pizza and takeout boxes were piled on the floor and the sink was full of dirty dishes.