by Chiah Wilder
They’d fallen in love too fast and too completely, and a year later, he’d asked her to be his old lady. He’d received his full colors a few months before, so he’d been ready to make her his forever. It’d been a snowy day; they sat by the fire, kissing and touching each other until he thought he’d burst. Then he’d asked her, and she’d cried while nodding enthusiastically.
That had been a great time for Throttle, and six months later, he’d sneaked away early from the bike rally in Kansas to go home. He’d missed her too much, and wanted to surprise her. When he arrived at their house, he spotted Pony’s—another brother—motorcycle in the driveway. He rushed in to the sounds his old lady and a fellow brother made while they fucked, filling the small house. Throttle’s homecoming had morphed into a goddamned cliché. Seeing red, he’d charged into the room and saw the love of his life bent over, her ass in the air, taking Pony’s cock. He’d nearly killed Pony that night. Mariah, in a panic, had phoned the club. If Banger and Hawk hadn’t pulled him off, Throttle would’ve had his ass in prison for a long stint. After the brothers had taken Pony’s beaten body away, Throttle told Mariah he never wanted to see her again. A block of ice had encased his heart that night, and he walked away from her without even a backward look.
At church the next day, the consensus had been that Pony didn’t deserve to wear the Insurgents’ colors. Fucking someone’s old lady was grounds for banishment, and that had been what the club had done; they stripped Pony of his colors and threw his ass out. He’d walked out, his head held down in shame. He and Mariah had married and left Pinewood Springs since he was no longer safe.
Throttle had moved to the clubhouse, where he still lived. He’d sworn he’d never let another woman near his heart. He decided love was overrated, and he’d lost himself in easy pussy and a hedonistic lifestyle for years. And it suited him perfectly until she crashed into his life. It’d taken him by surprise because she was unlike any woman he’d ever dated, fucked, or known. How was it that Kimber was the only woman he could think of?
“I figured we should stop eye-fucking each other and just get to it.” The woman from across the room leaned in close, her breath hot against his neck.
“I didn’t mean to stare. You reminded me of someone from my past.” He turned away.
“A good memory?” She scratched the back of his neck.
He craned his neck and fixed a hard look on her. “No. Believe me, sweetheart, you don’t want to go there. Find yourself another brother.” He stared ahead, seeing her surprised look reflected in the mirror behind the bar. There must have been something in his gaze that told her not to fuck with him, because she moved away and got lost in the crowd.
He finished his beer, slapped Rock on the back, who had his tongue halfway down the blonde’s throat, and left the great room. Taking the stairs two at a time, he reached his room, shut the door on all the noise, pulled out a bottle of Jack from his dresser, and lit a joint. That night, he planned to chase away the past and the present with booze.
Oblivion was his goal.
He poured a shot, letting the smooth fire slide down his throat.
The night was just beginning.
Chapter Thirteen
Deputy Sharon Manzik pulled into the station after her night shift. She and her partner, Bryan Wessels, had had a busy night of drunken brawls, domestic disturbances, DUIs, and a call from a freaked-out woman who told them someone had stolen her underwear from her dresser drawers. The dark-haired victim swore that the culprit stood outside her window watching as she’d made her discovery. When Deputy Wessels asked her to describe the man, the woman admitted that she hadn’t actually seen him, but she’d felt him staring at her, enjoying the fear that shrouded her upon discovering someone had invaded her safe space. The cop glanced at his partner, rolling his eyes before putting away his notepad.
Deputy Manzik knew Bryan was skeptical and probably thought the woman’s fear made her imagine a stranger in the shadows, but she believed the victim. As a police officer, she often went by what her instincts told her, even though her partner and the other male deputies would tease her about it. She also could relate to what the victim was saying. When she was relaying the series of events, a deep shiver had run through the deputy’s body. A few weeks before, Sharon had felt the same way as the victim, even though nothing had been missing or even overturned; she’d just known someone had been inside, in her bedroom. As hard as she tried, she hadn’t been able to shake the feeling.
“I think we’re done here,” Bryan said.
Sharon went over and handed the victim a card with the name of the victim advocate. “If you feel that you need some help, please call Julie. She’s very nice, and she’s helped a lot of people get through the distress of being a victim. If you need anything, call me. Detective McCue is handling these cases, but you can call me anytime.” She smiled warmly at the shivering thirty-five-year-old woman. Trauma was written all over her face: white pallor, quivering lips, and vacant stare.
Sharon walked out into the bright sunlight. “McCue will want to see our report. I’m convinced this woman’s case is connected to the whack job who’s stealing underwear around this vicinity. What a fuckin’ pervert.”
After they both climbed in, Bryan pulled the police car away from the curb.
Detective McCue had been assigned to the Peeping Tom burglary cases. The Pinewood Springs Tribune had coined the pervert the “Lingerie Bandit,” a name that caught the public’s attention. She hated the way the media came up with titles for criminals. In her opinion, the names minimized the seriousness of the crime, and they probably boosted the ego of the criminal.
Sharon turned to Bryan. “The perp’s been at it for eight months, and we’re no closer to catching him than we were when he first started. He has to slip up sometime. The whole thing is degrading and humiliating. As a woman, knowing a man broke in your home and took your bra or panties, it would be awful. He violates the women each time he does it.”
“Yeah. This time, the victim was damn lucky she wasn’t home when he broke in. The perp’s a nut job. You going to the office picnic next weekend?”
“Maybe. I wish I had a guy to bring. I’m so damn busy I never have time to meet anyone.”
“What about Tyler? I’ve seen him checking you out when you weren’t looking.” Bryan laughed and pulled up at Ruthie’s Dinner. “Let’s get some lunch before we head back to finish up our reports.”
“Okay. By the way, women always know when a man is giving her the once-over, even if it looks like we’re unaware.” She slammed the car door. “Tyler, like some of the other guys, resents me being in the department.”
“I don’t.”
“You did at first. Remember how pissed you were when the sergeant assigned me to work with you? I thought you were going to burst a blood vessel.”
He chuckled. “I was an idiot. I didn’t know you, and all the asshole guys were razing me about it.” Bryan smiled. “I wouldn’t trade you for any of the guys.”
“Thanks, but you know me. No one else has wanted to really get to know me in the five years I’ve been on the force. Don’t think I care because I don’t. It’s just the way it is. I’ve accepted it.” She walked into the diner.
Deputy Manzik was the only female police officer on the small force in Pinewood Springs. Being a cop was something she had wanted to be ever since she could remember. Her parents had been against it even though her father had retired from the force, but she was determined and she held steadfast.
For the most part, her colleagues accepted her with quiet indifference, but there were a few who made it clear that they were not happy to have a female officer among them. There was one man in particular who didn’t think women belonged on the force and hated like hell that she was under his command—Sergeant Jay Stichler. She grimaced when she thought of him. The sergeant always made sure to give Sharon a hard time, and he’d made it very clear that he didn’t want to have to depend on her if he was in a jam. He�
They slid into the booth and Sharon ordered a large iced coffee; she was beat and needed the jolt of caffeine. Bryan took out his phone and called McCue to give him the heads-up on the victim. Sharon could hardly wait until she returned to the station, turned in her report, and went home. Her sixteen-hour shift was starting to get the best of her.
A few hours later, the dark-haired deputy unlocked her front door, anxious to hit her comfy bed and sleep. The minute she stepped into her air-conditioned house, she knew someone had been inside. Her body tensed; she could sense he’d been there again. She drew her gun and checked her three-bedroom home thoroughly. No one was there.
After making sure all her windows and doors were secured, she took a quick shower, then went to her dresser to take out a nightshirt. And that’s when she noticed it—the top drawer wasn’t closed all the way. She grabbed a tissue and opened the drawer slowly, noticing her bras and panties had been rifled through. She sucked in a deep breath, picked up her cell phone, and placed a call to Detective McCue. She was positive the Lingerie Bandit had been in her house. The hairs on the back of her neck rose as a small tremor vibrated through her. Not wanting to touch anything, she glanced quickly over the contents of the drawer, realizing her fuchsia, laced boyshorts appeared to be missing.
Sitting at the edge of the bed, she sighed, knowing that her much-needed sleep would have to be delayed for a few hours more. She crossed her legs and waited for the detective and his team to arrive.
* * *
He breathed heavily as he looked at the pictures he’d taken of several of his victims. Taking out all the underwear he’d stolen over the course of eight months, he masturbated as he relived the moments of seeing the women for the first time, touching their soft panties, and taking pictures of some of them. The thrill he’d received when he broke into his first house had begun to wane, and his fetish and urges had required that he take it up a notch. So he made the women wear the soft French cuts, thongs, and bikinis while he posed them and took their pictures. Just thinking of pressing his erection against the lovely panties while they were still on the women made him come hard.
He’d been peeping in women’s windows since he was thirteen years old and caught Mrs. Donner’s silhouette against the white shade one breezy summer night. He’d been fascinated by how high her breasts were and how slim her waist was. She was nothing like his mother, aunts, and grandmother. From that moment on, he’d been hooked. He hadn’t done it all the time but in the past eight months, his urges were no longer satisfied by merely looking. He wanted to feel the silky panties between his hands. The peeping in the shadows no longer filled his craving, so he’d taken a bold step one autumn day and broken into the home of a beautiful young woman he’d been watching for a few weeks. That day and many weeks after, he’d slipped into the ladies’ houses and played with their sweet underthings, deeply breathing in their scent. He’d always take souvenirs for when his wife and children would be tucked snuggly in their beds upstairs, and he’d be alone in the basement in a locked room.
For months he’d been on a perpetual high; then he’d grown restless again, and his depravity required more stimulation. And he’d broken into his first house when his target was home. The first time he’d done it and ran his fingers down the soft skin of a luscious woman, he’d climaxed harder than he had in a very long time. He was hooked.
Right then, as he carefully folded and placed his silky treasures in a large trunk, he realized he needed more from his lovely victims. His craving dictated it. After he locked the trunk and then the door, he slowly climbed the stairs, his mind made up: when he went back out to hunt, he’d push his fulfillment to a new level. He had to.
“You all done?” his wife asked as she bustled about in the kitchen. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
“It smells good. What’re we having?”
“Roast chicken and mashed potatoes. Your favorite.” She smiled wide at him.
He came beside her and kissed her on the lips quickly. “You spoil me.”
“I know. Tell Aiden and Callie to wash up and come down. Dinner’s going on the table now.”
He shuffled out of the kitchen and climbed the stairs to round up the children for supper.
Chapter Fourteen
“Kimber, can you drop over to the clubhouse to pick up the work orders? I fuckin’ forgot ‘em when I left last night and I need them. I’d go, but one of my good customers is coming by to bring his grandfather’s old Harley. I’m fuckin’ excited to see it.”
“What year is it?” she asked.
“He thinks it’s a 1936 Knucklehead. He’s had it for a few years and wants me to restore it.”
“Wow. I’ve seen photos of the old bikes but never one up close and personal. I’d like to check it out when I get back from the clubhouse. If you need some help restoring it, I’d love to be a part of the team.” Kimber flushed when Hawk looked at her. Sometimes she wasn’t sure if she was overstepping the line between employer and employee. She wasn’t sure how Hawk really felt about a woman in his shop. She heard some of the brothers giving him a hard time when they came in to shoot the shit with him. Kimber suspected Hawk’s old lady had a lot to do with her getting the tech job, but she could be wrong. She just couldn’t read her boss; he usually had a scowl on his face, except when his old lady was around. “Maybe I spoke out of turn,” she mumbled. “I’ll go get the work papers. Be back soon.”
“I was gonna ask you if you wanted to help me restore the Harley. You’re a top-notch mechanic. I could use your help.”
A rush of adrenaline rushed through her body, and she bounced from foot to foot. “Cool. Awesome. Like over-the-top awesome.” She beamed.
He nodded. “You better get going. I need the work orders. The directions to the clubhouse are up at the front counter.” He dismissed her by turning his attention to the computer. She slipped out of his office.
Rereading the directions one more time, she started her bike and drove to the Insurgents’ club. When she arrived, the prospect who stood by the tall chain-linked and barbed wire fence waved her in. Surmising that Hawk must have called ahead, she rode through the checkpoint and parked in the shade under an aspen tree. She opened the heavy door and entered a large room, pausing until her eyes adjusted to the dim light. The smell of weed, whiskey, and pussy enveloped her and took her back to the days when she’d meet up with her ex at the Demon Riders clubhouse. Looking around, she spotted several men smoking joints, their beers in front of them, as they watched the car races on TV. A few men and women were banging noisily on the couches that lined the back walls. Yep, just like I remembered it. Glad it’s behind me.
Normally, every guy in the place would check out the new chick, but since she wore her coveralls, the men didn’t pay much attention to her. With her hair wrapped up under a skull bandana, they probably thought she was a dude. Happy not to be accosted by a bunch of bikers, she walked over to the bar and tapped on it. A large tatted man ambled over.
“Where’s Hawk’s office? I have to pick up some work orders to take to him at the shop.”
The burly man frowned at her. “You a chick? He said a chick was coming.”
She squinted and whipped off her bandana, her black hair cascading down her back. “Now where’s the fuckin’ office?”
The bartender balked, then pointed to a hallway. ���It’s the third door on the left.”
She lifted her chin, aware that a few of the guys stirred, seeing she was a woman after all. Normally, she would’ve ignored the glowering biker’s comment, but she was so sick and tired of all the attitude. Working in a man’s field was damn exhausting. The work itself was hard, and fending off the comments, insults, and resentment sometimes proved to be too much.
From behind her, someone said, “Fuck, that’s a good shot.” Throttle’s smooth-as-whiskey voice slid over her and caught her attention. Slowly she pivoted, her gaze drawn to the back of the room. And there he was, bent down with a pool cue in his hand, a joint dangling out of the corner of his mouth. A busty, pretty blonde ran her fingernails down his back as he sank a ball into the far right pocket. A few of the guys watching yelled, “Way to go,” or “Fuckin’ good shot.”
Even though Kimber knew she had to get the work orders and get back to the shop stat, she couldn’t take her eyes off Throttle. The way his biceps bulged against his tanned arms when he slid the cue stick made her feel funny between her legs. His sleeveless T-shirt showed off his toned arms perfectly, and she had a strong urge to curl her hands around them and trace his hot tattoos with the tip of her tongue. As he lowered his head, his dark hair gleamed under the light from the fixture over the pool table. Dangling silver earrings moved fluidly as he tilted his head. The muscles rippling under his tank top quickened her pulse. He was gorgeous, and her body ached for his touch.
Just before his shot, he glanced up, as if sensing her; his dark orbs met her blue ones, his burning intensity holding her still. As they held each other in a smoldering gaze, it was as if no one else in the room existed. The ever-present tension and longing between them pulled them together in that one stare. With a smirk playing around the corners of his mouth, he struck the ball and it slammed into two more, pocketing all of them. The blonde beside him squealed and rubbed her big breasts against his outstretched arm before she bent down and planted a kiss on his cheek. Tucking her fingers under his chin, she tried to turn his face toward her. He shook her off, laid down the pool cue, stubbed out his joint, and headed toward Kimber, his gaze never leaving hers.
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