by Warren, Rie
“C’mon. We’ll kill some crims, put some baddies behind bars, fuck a few babes. Just like old times. Aren’t you bored playing house yet?” Walker wasn’t used to taking no for an answer.
Tough shit.
I hung up while he was still wheedling and strode outside.
Jack sat in the passenger seat of the black rimmed, black tinted, tank-sized Chevy Tahoe, and you better believe that fucker was bullet-proofed. I stashed my burn phone in the glove compartment alongside my second gun, locking it all up tight. I pointed to his car seat in the back until he scampered into it and buckled in.
“Can we practice baseball later?” He piped up from behind me.
“Anything you want, Jack. It’s your weekend.”
In the rearview mirror, I saw him clap his hands with a squeal. “Lollipops and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie!”
“I didn’t really mean that literally.” I adjusted my shades over my eyes.
Jack was undaunted with all the enthusiasm of a kid about to get his hit of bad movies and an over-the-top sugar dosage. Father of the Year? Maaaaybe not. But at least he was happy.
At IHOP, the same waitress greeted us. Her nametag said Wendy, and she served me a flash of cleavage and a lot of eyelash flutters from her pretty face. She was always extra patient with Jack who always ordered twice: first something new he swore over and over he was definitely going to eat, then two minutes later with a callback to Wendy he switched to his regular breakfast order of the Rooty Jr. with strawberries.
Wendy took it all in stride and even though she flirted continuously, she didn’t cross the line or write her phone number on the bill or make a general nuisance of herself. She may have been hot for me, but I hadn’t been able to get that sexy MC wench JB out of my head. I wondered if I’d pissed her off beyond redemption. If so, it would probably be in everyone’s best interests.
Jailbait. Jesus.
Lucky for me, Jack was a master distractor, especially when he insisted we make pizza from scratch together Saturday afternoon. That father-son experiment ended with smoke alarms going off and a call to Papa John’s. We left the house to air out and played catch while we waited for the pizza delivery.
He broke in his tiny tot-sized baseball glove, tossing the ball back and forth with me. Then I busted out the big gun, a miniature aluminum bat. Jack hit the ball with a loud crack on my fourth pitch. As it bounced across the grass, he stared at me with wide eyes.
“Whaddya waiting for? Start running!”
Grinning madly, eyes gleaming, little legs pumping, he rounded the make believe bases as I loped after him. When he hit home base—the front steps—I shouted, “Touchdown!”
He flew into my arms and I let him tackle me to the ground. “You’re silly, Daddy! It’s a homerun.”
“You sure, monster?” I held him against me, unleashing tickle warfare.
I couldn’t believe I’d missed so much with him. I’d spent too much of his early life out of the picture on the job. I didn’t want to be the kind of dad who just called it in. The sound of his laughter, the sight of his smile flip-flopped my heart in my chest.
Later in the evening, we hit the movies. Hands down, Raphael was the best ninja turtle, and yes, I let Jack have a couple lollipops, too, because I was the sucker.
On Sunday morning I drove him back to his mom’s. “We’re back, Mel,” I called out as I entered the house.
“Kitchen!” she answered.
She sat at the table with her checkbook out, surrounded by bills.
Jack jumped into her lap, and I leaned over to give her a quick kiss on the cheek. “That time of the month again?”
“Feels like all I ever do is pay bills and buy this scalawag new clothes because he keeps sprouting up.” She snuggled Jack in her arms.
Pretty as ever with her pert button nose, sky blue eyes, and shockingly straight, blonde, beach bunny hair, Mel smiled apologetically at me. She’d been a part-time bartender, part-time co-ed when I’d met her. Now she was a part-time medical transcriptionist and a full-time mom.
She’d never asked me for handouts, but then I’d always made sure she’d never had to. The thought of her or Jack going without caused a pang to my heart.
“I can give you more. Told you I would.”
“No, Hunter. I don’t want to—”
“Okay. I’ll put it like this: I’m going to send more money. We aren’t going to discuss it. You’re not going to feel guilty about it. And every year I’ll send more, because pretty soon the scalawag is gonna start eating you out of house and home.”
“Hunter.” Mel sighed. She patted my arm, which I took as agreement to my offer. “You know, it’s too bad we never worked out.”
She was right about that.
I’d met Mel purely by chance seven years ago. I’d hopped a transport on a C-17 inbound for Charleston Air Force Base from one of the many hot zones overseas. I’d cruised into the first bar I’d come to and hit the drinks hard. Talking to the cute bartender, I’d let the bottomless drinks loosen me up.
I’d needed something that night—coming directly off one of the first missions I’d completed a little too easily, too efficiently for my own liking. There hadn’t been a shake in my hands or a glimmer of doubt in my mind when I took down the target. The target ran a brisk business in sex slave trading that completed a circle of black-market weapons and, everyone’s favorite, smack. During my recon of the mark, I’d also learned he appeared to be a doting husband, a loving father to four daughters and a son.
I always told myself I was doing the world a favor, ridding the human race of one nasty scumbag after another, but at that point I hadn’t been inured. During the aftermath, I questioned my moral integrity. Wondered if there was still a soul somewhere inside me.
Mel, the vivacious bartender, stopped me from getting too wasted and offered me something better instead: forgetfulness in a good fuck. Whenever faced with a choice between oblivion via a bottomless glass or a fucking hot ass, I always went with the latter. The only difference with Mel was she didn’t cry, cling, or throw things at me when I bugged out as soon as possible the next morning. She’d even offered to be my Mt. Pleasant honeypot if I was ever in the area again.
The sex had been really good.
Having a regular fuck buddy rather than going through the motions of flirting, seducing, dining, and dating conveniently meshed with my Ghost lifestyle. Whenever I’d managed to snag enough R & R, I’d hop to South Carolina for something that had more to do with a good old-fashioned romp on repeat than rest and relaxation. Mel was my first port of call until something went wrong—or a little too right.
Despite our precautions, Mel got pregnant, and ten months later, Jack was born. And I considered myself one lucky bastard because of him.
After finding out about the oops pregnancy, we’d decided no more sex, not if we wanted to make a decent go as parents. Unconventional we were, at the best of times. I’d kept in regular contact with Mel throughout her pregnancy as much as I could, even managed to be there for the week after Jack’s birth, if not exactly on time.
As fly-by-night lovers, Mel and I had only ever fitted one way—in bed. As friends, we rocked the parenting gig pretty damn good.
Mel believed I worked undercover for the government, not strictly a lie and not entirely the truth either. What she didn’t know about my perilous line of work definitely wouldn’t hurt her and would keep her and Jack uncompromised in the event anything should happen to me.
Jack was a gift, pure and simple. The one thing that made the whole mess of my life not only bearable but sometimes frigging magical.
Just then, my son, my precious precocious gift, slid to the floor and grabbed my hand. “Daddy! Daddy! Come look at my A, B, Gs I did at school!”
I laughed at his mispronunciation of the A, B, Cs, and pushed a finger in my ear to wiggle it around. “Okay, but can you turn the volume down first? I’m old but I ain’t deaf.”
“You ain’t old.” He
giggled.
I inspected the colorful school paper magneted to the fridge with a serious look. “Mm hmm. Ahh. I see.” I tousled his hair, “Good work. You like your teacher?”
“Miss Barnes is sooo nice. And she’s the prettiest teacher in the whole school!”
“My teachers used to be witches.”
“I wouldn’t like that.” His thin black eyebrows sandwiched together.
“I didn’t either.”
“You want to stay for lunch, Hunter?” Mel asked.
“Gotta head out. Bike run this afternoon.” I spun toward Jack and hunkered down on the balls of my feet. “And before you even ask when I’m gonna take you out on my motorcycle, the answer is maybe when you hit puberty. Now give me a hug so I don’t miss you too much.”
He burrowed into my arms, and I shut my eyes, breathing in his boyish scent.
“I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you too.” I released him after a final squeeze. “Be good for your momma.”
With a wave at Mel, I made for the front door.
“Don’t forget you said you’d go to the parent-teacher conference Wednesday!” she called after me.
“I’m on it.”
* * *
I met up with the Retribution dudes at the North Charleston Coliseum parking lot for the 14th annual Toys for Tots run. I paid my registration and donated a couple cool toys in addition to the fee.
I kept one behind, stuffing it into the saddlebag of my Deus Grievous Angel. Sleek and sinister as a Grim Reaper, the motorcycle’s black hood and chromed pipes were a wet dream come to life. Make no mistake about it, my ride thrummed with raw power like a sexy women between my thighs. When I was on the Deus, I owned the road as much as the metal purring beneath me.
I’d had little more than two tarnished pennies to rub together growing up. Now that I had more than enough to line my bank account, I’d eased up on the guilt enough to enjoy a few new luxuries.
I didn’t need much. Just my bike, my place, and my son. Freedom from a past I didn’t want to serve any longer.
The US Marine Corps Reserve and Law Riders Motorcycle club sponsored the charity ride so I saw more than a few familiar faces in the crowd, including Bo Maverick. It certainly wasn’t common knowledge, but the tall dude with the military crew cut and dark auburn hair was former FORCECON.
We’d crossed paths more than once when shit went way south of sour and headed into FUBAR territory. Sometimes X-Ops and military Covert Ops collided. They couldn’t get out, we had to go in and salvage what remained of the mission and the men. When it worked out, all good. When it didn’t, toe tags and body bags were involved.
Thankfully my run-ins with Bo strongly lined up in the plus column. Without doubt the dude ate danger for breakfast, guzzled vodka instead of Earl fucking Grey tea in the a.m.
I sauntered over to him, making sure I didn’t approach him from the back or in his blind spot—that was never a good way to greet a killer dressed in civilian clothing. Men who risked their lives for man and country had lightning fast killer reflexes when caught unawares, and bad memories could sneak up and trick you in an instant.
“Bo, my man.” I stepped closer.
He stared at me for a second before awareness sharpened his features. “I’ll be goddamned. Hunter Sexton.” He snapped a fast salute then grabbed me in a quick hug. His voice lowered, “You’re still Hunter Sexton, right?”
“For the time being. Putting down some roots here. You?” I leaned back and squinted at him.
“Same. I think.” A flash of indecision flatlined his lips. “I haven’t been out too long.” He knocked his knuckles against his forehead. “Still working on getting this thing straightened out. Bad times. Bad times at the end.”
Pretty sure his farewell story could rival the bad ending of mine, I leaned closer. “Listen. I don’t want to overstep, but I know some good people. One in particular you could talk to. And if you’re looking for a solid MC, I got just the place for you. I can get you patched right through. Might help with the shakes, you know?”
“Yeah, maybe I’ll take you up on that.”
“Help you with the reentry into civilian world, as they say.” I smirked.
“If there’s one motherfucking phrase I hate.” Bo cupped his junk. “I’ve got some reentry right here.” He gave the old dirty laugh I remembered, before the shadows from his past chased it away.
His chuckle died out as the metallic and motor thunder rumbled the pavement. I looked toward the noise then doubled back for another take.
“Ho-lee shit,” I groaned.
“Who’s that?” Bo asked, his gaze following the babe handling the Ducati Diavel with fire engine red accents.
Just then JB lifted off her helmet and flipped those long chestnut curls back as she straddled the sexy street bike. And guess what? Her lips were fire engine red, too.
Red lipstick on my cock. Hello.
“Who’s that? Mine,” I stated, pure and simple.
“Good to know.” Bo slapped my back. “Better go get to her before someone else snaps her up.”
I made my way back to the Retribution and Redemption group. My palms were damp. My thighs shaky. I’d figured JB might show up but seeing her astride the Ducati? My mouth was agape, and possibly drooling.
Brodie stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. “Hunter, you are a dead man, my friend.” He glanced between JB and me. “I recognize that look from the mirror.”
“Shut it, jackass.” I shoved him away, intent on JB.
Bo wasn’t wrong. Guys gathered around her, Cole among them. I cut him off at the pass after stopping to pick up something from my motorcycle, which I tucked inside my jacket pocket.
“Aw, man. Don’t tell me this is gonna be just like Brodie with Ashe,” he complained.
“Huh?”
“Bites off anyone’s hand who even comes close to touching the good detective?”
“Yeah. Sounds about right.”
“I don’t see your name on her.” Cole pointed toward JB.
“Gimme twenty-four hours.”
One more time I wished I had my Glock holstered. I’d shoot it into the air. Fuckwits would scatter, leaving JB all to me. Or maybe I could pull out my badge to clear the area . . .
Instead of going ninja cop, I shouldered my way to JB who sat on her bike, soaking up the attention like the clear November sun on her upturned face. Those amazing freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. I wondered if her shoulders and tits were freckled too, because then I’d just have to give in and take her. Too bad her leather jacket was zipped up, guarding against the cool fall day.
“So I was an ass.” I spread my hands before her.
Yeah, that was how I played it cool with the ladies.
“You were.” JB gazed over my shoulder, her remarkable nearly black irises hard and glinting.
“I should apologize.”
“Hmm.”
“The thing is, it’s still true. What I said.” I lowered my mouth to her neck. “I’m bad. No good. You’d be better off telling me to get lost.” My lips moved to her dainty earlobe. “But I’m already lost in you.”
Her hands wandered up my chest and into my hair, tugging sharply. “You give good non-apology, Hunter.”
Stepping back, I peered down at her. Soft midnight eyes looked up at me, those red lips puckered for a kiss, glossy and juicy.
“Not done with not saying sorry yet. I brought you something.” Fuck. This woman made me nervous. I thrust the stuffed animal into her hands, feeling like a pudwhacker. “I donated toys for the run and paid the fee too. But I bought this one for you.”
It was a stupid-ass stuffed teddy bear wearing a Santa hat decorated with hearts. I’d found the dumb huggable thing at the store even though it wasn’t even Thanksgiving yet.
Jesus Christ. I’d clearly never bought anything for a woman before. Hell, Mel hadn’t even gotten a ring out of me.
“That’s . . .” JB raised a hand to her mouth and hel
d the bear against her chest. “Thank you. That’s really cute of you.”
“Don’t let anyone else hear that.”
My rep is going in the crapper after this stunt.
She tucked the stuffed toy away. “I won’t. Your secret’s safe with me.”
I relaxed, taking in the vision of her on the ballsy bike. “Ducati, huh?” I was impressed, and hornier than ever for her.
“What’d you expect? A pink Huffy with a flowery handlebar basket?”
“Wouldn’t have expected any such thing from you, JB.” Every moment that passed, I drew closer and closer to her luscious lips.
“Where’s your Deus?” she asked, her fingers walking up my chest.
“Over there.” I waved behind me. “Somewhere.”
“Ohh!” she moaned when my lips finally settled over hers.
Just like before our kiss went from innocent touch to insane heat in zero seconds flat. Her tongue traipsed into my mouth, and mine curled around it. I gathered her to me, pushing my chest against her tits. Her soft noises spurring me on, I pulled her leg over the bike and up to my hip.
Moving from her lips with a soft, wet suck, I licked her neck, nibbling with light bites from my teeth. Her hips curled up to my erection with every wet touch of my tongue.
When my hands moved to toy with the zipper of her jacket, she stopped me. “Not here.”
Well, no. I didn’t suppose getting her naked on top of her Ducati in the middle of a crowd was a smart idea.
“Later. Maybe.” She brushed her palm over my cock. “Definitely later.”
“Ride next to me?”
Shaking out her hair, she looked me dead in the eye. “If you’ll let me ride you later.”
“That can definitely be arranged.” My voice was thick and my jeans way too damn tight all of a sudden.
We lined up at the starting point: Boomer, Brodie and Tucker/Friar Tuck at the start and the rest of us winged behind. Tucker, the gray-haired grandfather and all around-philosopher of Retribution reached back to knock me on the shoulder.
