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

by Cathryn Cade

  Con shrugged, still pouting as only a teen can. “I don’t know. I never meet any of them. And they sure don’t come over to the house and get all handsy.”

  “What about that redhead that came to your games last fall?” She really should shut up now, but she really was curious. The woman had looked perfect for Mac.

  “Nah, Dad said she’s with some other guy now.”

  Huh. So Mac was single now… interesting.

  Wait, no. She did not care about that. Not one teensy little bit.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  This is Now

  September 8, 2019

  Mac ‘Cooler’ Carson slouched in a chair at one of the tables in the main room of the Flyers’ clubhouse.

  Cooler instead of Cooter—just one of the many changes the years had incurred.

  He wasn’t sorry to lose his old club handle, not one bit. But the origins of his new handle were known only to a few, and he’d like to keep it that way.

  He scowled at the man across the table from him. Rocker Hayes, the club veep and at times an annoying pain in Mac’s ass. Now was one of those times.

  “All I said was,” he began, “Must be nice to have a good woman waiting for you at home.”

  Rocker held up a hand and preempted him.

  "I ain't one to judge a brother," Rocker said. "But, since you brought it up, I'll say my piece. You want a good woman, one who’ll stick with you, you best start acting like it. Ain't one of our old ladies wants to see her man drunk, sloppy, and with a sweet butt draped over him."

  Mac groaned. "How did I know this was gonna be bad?" he muttered to himself. He reached for his whiskey glass, realized it was empty, and started to reach for the bottle.

  Then, with a sigh, he dropped his hand to the table. Rocker was right, he had been drinking a lot lately. Pretty much every day he wasn’t at work as a paramedic with the Spokane Fire Department.

  Why, he wasn’t sure. Just that when he wasn’t busy at work on an emergency call or spending quality time with his son, Mac was bored. The minimal time he got with his daughter didn’t help, although at least with the new smart phones, they could share photos and shit and text on the regular.

  He loved both his kids, but when he was alone, he felt like his life, instead of being the ideal bachelor life, was just... empty.

  He sighed heavily. "Okay, Rock, you got a point. It ain't one I like… but, fuck me, it’s probably one I need to hear."

  Rocker tipped his head in ironic agreement.

  Mac reached up and scrubbed his hands through his hair, which come to think of it he hadn't washed in a few days. He scowled. "I can quit anytime I want, though," he pointed out. “Not like I’m an alcoholic.”

  Rocker shrugged. "You’re the only one who’d know. But kids watch their parents. Especially a boy with his dad—just the way it is. And he’ll either decide to be just like you, or be the opposite. Don't know which you’d prefer right now. You want him turning to the bottle when things get hard, or you want to lose him altogether?"

  Mac stared at the club veep, feeling as if the other man had punched him right in the gut—or maybe that was the whiskey churning.

  Either way, it didn't feel good.

  "Jesus, don't spare the hard words, will you?" he groused.

  But deep down, he knew Rocker was right.

  At 16, Con wanted a motorcycle of his own and had set out to prove this to Mac by helping him tinker on the Harley. And Mac loved sharing this with Con, but maybe he should be showing his boy there was more to life, too, than riding and partying.

  Rocker lifted a heavy, dark brow at him. "No, brother, I won't."

  Then he slapped a hand on the table and pushed to his feet. "But, you don't want to hear it from me… Ask someone who's got a woman’s point of view. Ask any of the old ladies—Billy, Lesa, Sara, Rissa, Shelle, Della, Manda—"

  "Yeah, yeah," Mac interrupted, lifting a hand, palm out. "Maybe I should just call them all over here. Have a fuckin' therapy session."

  Rocker chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder with a heavy hand. "You know, that's not a bad idea, brother. Now I'll see you later. Gotta get home to my sweet woman."

  Mac sat there for a long time after Rocker had walked away out the front door.

  He looked around him at the clubhouse—noting the changes that had taken place over the last several years, as more of the brothers claimed old ladies and those old ladies claimed the clubhouse as theirs to class up and clean up.

  When he'd patched in, the clubhouse had been laid back in the extreme. It had also been a fucking mess, smelling and looking like the dirty bar room it was.

  Now, it still looked like bikers hung out here, but it was clean, it looked good, and smelled good—except for him, that is.

  Jesus, was he the only holdout from the old days?

  Even Snake had cleaned up his act lately, after a close call with death had caused his old lady Darlene to welcome him back.

  Bouncer hadn't changed, but then, it was likely he never would.

  Mac shuddered—did he really want to end up like Bounce? A dirty, old grouch who glowered at the world through whiskey glasses?

  Revulsion churning Mac’s gut again, he shoved to his feet and kicked his chair away from him so hard it slammed into those at the next table and then tipped onto its side, banging on the floor.

  Hell, no.

  By God, he'd show them all.

  He’d show his brothers, their old ladies, and most of all his ex, or whatever the hell she was, that he was no bottle–bound loser.

  He was Mac 'Cooler' Carson, Devil’s Flyer and a man to be reckoned with. And anyone who tried to write him off better watch their back.

  The first thing Mac did was ride home.

  Early September was one of his favorite times of year, still warm and mostly sunny in Eastern Washington, but no longer as hot as summer. The grasses were curing by the roadsides, and apples were beginning to ripen in the old orchard on the edge of town.

  At his trailer, he headed straight in for a shower—a long, hot one. Then he took his clothes, bedding and nearly every towel he owned, bundled them all into the back of his pickup, and took them all to the local laundromat.

  Sandwiched in by the local Heights motel, the Suds’n’Duds was a great place to people watch—people like him.

  People living life on the low end. People who didn't have a laundry room with their own washer and dryer. Some of them without too many changes of clothes from what he could see.

  As he waited for his things to wash and then dry, he chatted with Myrt Jones, the elderly widow who lived in the trailer next to his.

  But even at that, Myrt wasn't really alone. She pulled out her phone and showed him picture after picture of her grandkids and of her and her friends dressed up and wearing red hats, grinning ear to ear at some big lunch thing.

  And the young mom with a baby and a toddler, who Mac helped haul in baskets of clothing and blankets and the like, she wasn't alone either. She had her kids and likely a man at home and their lives ahead of them.

  He had his Flyer brothers, Connor and Cassie, and even his folks back home, of course. But Cassie still lived in the Tri, even though she’d moved out of her mom’s place. And it was Connor's week to spend with his mama, which meant when Mac got home, he'd be alone.

  And unlike Myrt, he was tired of this shit.

  In fact, if he was gonna be honest, like they told people to do when they wanted to pull back from the bottle, he was willing to change in order to stop being alone. To stop hiding from the fact that he hated it, and instead, do something about it.

  The trouble was, part of him had never quite gotten over RaeAnn—over the way they’d been together while she was first expecting Con, and his dream of the three of them as a real family.

  Until one day, out of the blue, she shot him down. And did it hard, so that the impact sent him into a tailspin of partying with his brothers and the women at the club, as he did his best to convince h
imself his life was fine without her.

  He needed to face the truth—either it was time to get the fuck over her, or it was time to get her back. Find out if that spark was still there somewhere… buried under the years of barbed politeness to each other.

  Because he wasn’t over her. Nope. Watching her with other men over the years had cut him, every damn time. Especially the guy who’d had a kid on Connor’s soccer team. A divorced banker, or some shit like that. All Mac cared about was the way he and Rae had looked at each other, like two people who’d fucked and wanted to do it again soon.

  Made Mac want to smash the guy’s face in, make him not so pretty.

  But instead, he’d flaunted a woman in Rae’s face. Rosalie was a pretty, fun redhead who liked motorcycles so much she had her own. They’d had some good times together, until she moved on to another biker, who wanted her to be his old lady.

  Over the years, Mac had watched his brothers, one after the other, claim old ladies. Classy, gorgeous women who looked after their men and cleaned up the clubhouse. Made it a place everyone wanted to be. Especially their men.

  There were still party girls around—some strippers and a few sweetbutts, but they weren’t anything Mac wanted anymore.

  Christ, it had been months since he’d gotten up close with anyone but his own hand. And it wasn’t because he was getting old… it was because he was getting choosy.

  He wanted who he wanted—and that was Rae.

  Sitting alone as the laundromat’s washer swished, the dryers hummed, his neighbor went home to watch her shows, and the mom with little kids took off to feed them lunch, Mac realized how he should begin.

  He smiled to himself. Yep, his plan would work. He just had to put all the pieces in play.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  September 9th

  Sara Vanko, the first old lady of the Flyers, finished massaging face cream into her skin while she read a text message on her phone.

  She turned out the bathroom light.

  Walking—or rather waddling, because she was eight-and-a-half months pregnant with twins—across the master bedroom of their home, clad in a blush-pink nightgown and robe, the lovely, statuesque blonde held up her phone. “Wait till you hear this, Ivan.”

  Her husband lounged in their king-sized bed against a pile of pillows, the TV remote in his hand as he watched a football game. He hit the mute button, and leaned to pull back the covers on her side of the bed. “Da, krasivaya mamochka?”

  She snorted, one hand supporting her belly, as she rolled back against the pillows. “Beautiful mama, indeed. You are such a liar, Ivan. What’s big, fat mama in Russian?”

  He pulled the covers over her lap, and leaned to kiss her cheek. “I don’t remember, and why should I? I don’t know any fat mamas. I only know my beautiful wife, who is carrying my children, safe in her womb. And who will protect them and love them like a mother tigress once they are born, as she does our sons.”

  She gazed at him, her lips parted, eyes welling with tears. “Oh, Ivan. You’re so full of it, but you make me so happy.”

  He gave her a slow wink. “I know. Now what is on your phone?”

  She blinked, and swiped the tears from her eyes. She’d cried more while pregnant than in all the ten years before, she swore. “Oh, right. Get this—Cooler wants to meet with me and some of the other old ladies.”

  She held up her phone, in an ornate, pink-and-black case, and read the text aloud. “ ‘Sara, as first old lady of the Flyers, I need your help and guidance. As you know, Connor’s mama and I are separated. Fact is, this bothers both me and my boy. I’d like your help to get her back.’ ”

  Sara looked to her husband, her brows high. “After sixteen years? He’s dreaming. But there’s more. ‘Can we meet at the clubhouse tomorrow? You name the time, I’ll be there. PS, I’m inviting some of the other old ladies too.’ ”

  Stick raised his brows. “So, what will you do?”

  She laughed. “Show up, I guess. I mean, I’m curious. What on earth has he got up his sleeve this time?”

  “I’ll leave it in your hands, then,” he said and clicked the football game back on.

  She settled as comfortably as possible on the pillows beside him and texted Cooler back.

  ‘Two pm works for me. See you then.’

  Then she set her phone on the bedside table and turned over, scooting to lay her head on her husband’s broad, bare shoulder.

  “Mm-mm,” she crooned, stroking his hard chest. “I love the way you smell.”

  He wrapped a brawny arm around her and pressed a kiss on her hair. “Likewise, mamochka. I also miss your pussy.”

  She sighed. “I know. Wish the damn doctor hadn’t cut us off so soon. But you know… I still have hands, and my mouth.”

  He stiffened as she stroked her hand down the hard plain of his belly and into his pajama pants. “Da. Why don’t you show me what your clever hands and mouth can do?”

  Her fingers wrapped around the hot, silky, stiff girth of his cock, and she smiled. “Why don’t I?”

  And she did. And then her husband returned the favor.

  Across town, Rissa Gansett, wife of Andrew ‘Streak’ Gansett of the Devil’s Flyers, was reading a similar message.

  Beside her in their queen-sized bed, in the apartment over her Iris Salon in Airway Heights, her husband leaned his chin on her shoulder to peer at the screen. "What's got you stirred up?" he asked, a smile in his voice.

  She turned the screen so he could see it. "This," she said. What on earth do you think he wants?"

  "This is from Cooler?" Streak asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  ‘Rissa,’ he read aloud. ‘I could really use your help. Just trying to do something good for my boy and his mama. Can we meet tomorrow and talk? Clubhouse, two pm. I’ve asked a few other old ladies to come too.’

  "Huh, beats me,” he said. “Are you going to do it?"

  She sighed. "I guess so. I am not sure what he wants to talk to us all about, but I wouldn't mind filling his ears with a few things."

  Streak laughed, the deep sound sending a shiver of pleasure through her, as it always did. "Good for you," he said. "God knows all of you old ladies owe him some words."

  He lifted his bare, muscular arm and laid it around her shoulders. His voice dropped to a sexy murmur. "Now, what d’you say we forget him and turn out the lights. On second thought, leave 'em on. You are the sexiest mama-to-be I've ever seen, and I don't want to miss a single look."

  She giggled, her cheeks turning pink. “Good, ‘cause your chances of seeing it again are not good.”

  His dark brows shot together, and he gave her a look of comic consternation.

  She rolled her eyes at him. “No, you goof. I just mean I’m not getting pregnant ever, ever again. So look your fill this time.”

  He clapped a hand to his heart. “Thank fuck. Thought for a minute you were cuttin’ me off. And it’s way too soon for that.”

  “Psshh,” she scoffed, wriggling her shoulder so the spaghetti strap of her nightie slid down, exposing most of one breast. “As if I could. You’d tempt a nun, lawyer man.”

  He grinned, his handsome face creasing in the way she loved, and nuzzled her breast with his face. “Just as long as I tempt you, I’m happy.”

  She giggled again as his hand slipped between her bare thighs and upward. “Ooh, keep doing that and I’ll be happy.”

  He kissed her soft lips and cupped her bare mons in his big hand. “Mm-hmm, I plan to make you—and me—very, very happy.”

  And he did.

  Similar texting scenarios played out in the homes of other Flyer brothers and their old ladies.

  Mac ‘Cooler’ Carson was up to something, and they all wanted to know what it might be.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  September 12th

  RaeAnn had promised herself years ago that Connor's father might belong to a motorcycle club, and call their clubhouse his second home, and occasionally take Connor
there, but she would certainly never set foot inside the place.

  Staring at the clubhouse through the windshield of her Chevy Equinox SUV on this sunny September day, she sighed.

  So much for saying never. Today would be her second visit here.

  Might as well get it over with. She dropped her keys in her purse, opened her door, and stepped out into the parking lot. At least it was paved now, so she wasn't stepping into dusty ruts.

  Some things hadn't changed though. The old plane propeller still hung over the front doors.

  But security cameras had been installed above. Evidently the bars on every window weren’t enough.

  She walked to the front doors and pushed experimentally. The right hand door opened, so she walked in.

  Okay, this was a big change.

  The interior now resembled more of a family restaurant with bar, rather than the old grimy, shoddy bar room she remembered. The floor underfoot was actually clean, so were the tables and chairs. And the sturdy oak furniture actually looked as if someone polished it once in a while.

  Also, there were no scantily clad women strutting around.

  "You about through critiquing the place?" a familiar voice drawled. "Or you want to take a few more minutes—maybe do the white glove test?"

  She turned sharply.

  Mac ‘Cooler’ Carson lounged on a stool at the bar, a glass in hand and looking like a sexy bad boy in snug jeans and a western shirt.

  Just like the night they’d first met.

  And just like that night, he was watching her in that way he had, with a slight smirk like she amused him, for reasons he'd never share.

  Not that she wanted to know. She was long over her stupid crush on the man. Lo-ong over it.

  Even though he was aging the way some men did, getting more attractive as he did so, like he was completely comfortable in his skin.

  The only reason she’d dressed in her own sexiest ensemble, black skinny jeans and her off-white sweater that clung in all the right places and skimmed over the rest, was because she wanted to show him she was fine without him.