But, hey, at least he’d gotten off. Four times, if he recalled correctly.
Striding up to the bar, he took a seat on one of the ratty leather stools and made eye contact with Ginger behind the bar. “Hey, hot stuff, how’s it goin’?”
Somewhere in her mid-thirties, Ginger was a stunning redhead with a smile for everyone. She’d been raised in the life and had a special place in her heart—and between her legs—for every man in the club. If ever there was a caretaker among them, it was Ginger. She was the person the men came to with their personal shit, spilling their heart out along with their cum, and she was always good for patching them up quick and sending them on their way. She never got possessive, never slung around attitude, and never tried to tie anyone down.
Not even Quick. Blake was her first and only love. Not even her ex-husband, Hawke, held that honor. He was just a placeholder, and they all knew it. But now that Blake was wifed up with Gabby, his kid’s hot ass teacher, any hope she had of landing him was long and truly gone.
Every time Tucker rolled up on her, he saw the sadness in her eyes, but he never commented on it. It wasn’t his place.
“Hey, stranger.” Ginger flashed him that soft, alluring smile that made all the men’s hearts twist just a little. His own double-tapped his ribcage as she stepped up. “What’s your poison?”
“Just a couple bottles of water for the road.”
“Comin’ right up.”
While Tucker waited, he leaned into the counter, watching her ass sway as she took the couple of steps over to the mini fridge and bent down. Like he said, she made all their hearts do a little jig. She was a beautiful woman. A man would have to be dead below the belt not to be affected by her.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end an instant before the oversized body slid onto the stool next to his. The smell of leather tingled in his nose along with the unique spice of Repo’s cologne. Even though his muscles flinched, ready to fight or run at a moment’s notice, Tucker maintained an air of serenity. Confidence, in any situation, could mean the difference between getting your ass beat and…well, not. The latter of which was a possibility, since everyone also knew that Repo, the Spartan’s VP, had a definite thing for Ginger.
Both of the men eyed Ginger’s ample backside. From the corner of his eye, Tucker watched Repo run two calloused fingers over his white beard. It made him cringe inside. He’d be a liar if he said he didn’t have a healthy fear of the man. Any day of the week, the asshole was an intimidating fucker, but the snow-white hair and full-on beard, coupled with those piercing, otherworldly blue eyes gave him the heebie-jeebies.
“Like what you see?”
The gruff question was spoken without inflection, giving Tucker no indication of what his current mood was. Seeing as there was no right answer to be given, he said, “What’s not to like?”
Ginger turned back then and lined up two bottles of water in front of Tucker and a beer already cracked open and ready in front of Repo.
Repo lifted one ashy brow at her and she trilled a laugh. “Honey, you should know by now that any time you enter a room, I feel it.”
His grin was wide and alarming. Tucker had literally never seen the man smile. Goose bumps erupted down his arms.
Using the same sandpaper voice, Repo told her, “You know how to stroke a man’s ego.”
“And you know how to stroke a…” She glanced over at Tucker and winked, leaving her sentence hanging.
“Uh, yeah, that’s my cue, folks. Enjoy your…” he waved a bottle between them “whatever this is.”
A hand clamped down on his forearm, stopping him. Repo leaned in, slanted Ginger a meaningful look. She took the hint, turning away and busying herself with something under the bar. To Tucker Repo said, “As long as it’s only your eyes, you get to keep your balls, feel me?”
Tucker swallowed, then pasted on a bright, easy smile. “Yeah, I feel ya, boss.”
“Good, spread the word. Red’s on lock from here on.”
He didn’t figure Ginger knew that, which was probably why Repo had made sure to send her away first. If she had heard him issuing threats, warning the men off her, the whole clubhouse would feel her wrath. The woman knew her place, sure, but she wasn’t a pushover. If there was something she didn’t agree with going on that directly concerned her, they were going to hear about it.
Tucker simply nodded again, turned, and walked out. Repo would find all that out soon enough. As far as Tucker was concerned, though, he had nothing to do with any of it.
Free bird.
With that thought in mind, he climbed onto his bike and hit the open road.
TWO
The clubhouse sat on a corner lot and took up half a block. Made of solid brick and surrounded by tall, chain-link fence topped with barbed wire, it was as intimidating as the men it sheltered. Holding the brand new Nikon up to her eye, Talia snapped off a few pictures. They were boring, same as yesterday. Nothing to see.
She grumbled to herself. SAC Ingram wasn’t going to be happy. He wanted results where none was forthcoming. Not for the first time, Talia entertained the idea of just getting out of the car and marching into the concrete jungle to demand answers, but that wasn’t how an investigation was done. No, she needed to exercise patience, especially when dealing with hardened criminals like the Spartans.
She’d read up on all the case files—which were surprisingly few for a band of men who were supposed to be ruthless, cutthroat killers—studied the lay of the land, their past business dealings, their known associations, and the like. All she’d found was a whole lot of nothing. As of roughly ten years ago, the Spartan Riders had kept their noses clean. As far as anyone could tell, they were on the straight and narrow.
That is¸ until the department got wind of a possible connection between them and the missing women in and around the area. With the rise in human trafficking spreading like a plague across the country, it was a very real possibility that the gang hadn’t so much cleaned up their act as they’d gotten better at hiding it.
The president, one Blake Mahone, was currently working construction as owner/operator. He was wealthy enough, and from the intel they’d managed to gather, he extended the wealth to his gang via job opportunities. Not all of them worked alongside him, though. Some worked retail, others odd jobs. One worked part-time in a family-owned deli on the main street, and a good number of the rest worked in a stereotypical bike shop located on the property. They filed their taxes every year and on-time, had families, volunteered at soup kitchens. Hell, one even coached goddamn little league baseball for the elementary school.
Talia was not convinced that they were the bad guys her SAC tried to sell them as, but she wasn’t convinced they weren’t either. She’d encountered many men over the years—including her own husband—who knew how to hide their truths well. Unfortunately, when it came to her job, the burden of proof was on her. And she would get it. There hadn’t been a case yet, in all her seven years with the FBI, that she hadn’t closed.
If these guys were kidnapping women and selling them into slavery, she was going to make sure they all spent the remainder of their years in an eight by eight prison cell with Bubba breathing down their neck.
Eying the gates, Talia lifted the camera once more, snapped off another couple of shots, then lowered it back to her lap. Her eyes narrowed. What was the point? She was getting paid to sit there and do nothing. To make matters worse, even with the windows rolled down, the sun was slowly baking her alive. She felt like a rotisserie, the sweat dripping down the back of her neck. She was tired, cranky, and parched. Water sounded amazing, but she’d left the company-supplied apartment without checking the weather that morning and brought a bottle of soda instead, and there was nothing worse than a bottle of warm soda.
Considering her options, which were admittedly few, Talia came to a decision that would likely lead to a suspension. Ingram was very clear on his rules, with the main one being to follow orders to the letter.
Talia had always marched to her own drumbeat.
Welp here goes nothin’. With camera in hand, she popped the door open and slung a leg out, ready to take action. Nerves made her stomach flip and flop. She didn’t have a script prepared, so she had no idea what she was going to say once she got up there, but she had to believe—and hope—that the words would come. Otherwise, Ingram might not get the pleasure of stripping her of her job, because she’d be buried somewhere in a shallow grave next to the rest of the Spartan mishaps.
Talia was busy giving herself a pep talk as she rose from the car when the screech of metal cut through her thoughts. She froze, eyes wide as she watched the gates slide open, the first movement she’s seen in days. Excitement flared in her chest, and Talia threw herself back into the driver’s seat, the camera up to her eye, and her finger poised over the button.
A black motorcycle crawled forward, its pipes giving off a sexy purr that danced down her spine and made her all tingly inside. The element of danger was ripe, causing her to sweat more. As the bike rolled up to the edge of the drive, Talia’s gaze traveled to the rider, soaking in the head-to-toe leather ensemble. His face, obscured by a solid black helmet, was stunningly beautiful, she just knew it. With limbs as long as his, that laid-back way in which he reclined in the seat, and the competence with which he handled such a fierce piece of machinery screamed come to momma.
She’d bet women fell all over themselves to get to him. Hell, she felt the urge herself, and she knew he was likely a sex trafficker and worse.
Shaking her head, Talia willed herself to focus on the job at hand and drew the camera back into position, ready to add him to her collection—the first interesting piece, bar none.
She didn’t get that far. Through the viewfinder, she took in the rider’s position, noting that he hadn’t moved an inch since pulling through the open gates.
And, even though she couldn’t see his eyes through the tinted visor, she could feel them.
He was staring right at her.
OMG.
Panic sliced through her like a knife, but Talia forced her finger down on the camera’s button, shooting a dozen or more pictures of the rebel outlaw in front of her.
If she was about to die, at least she’d leave behind evidence of who’d done it. Assuming they didn’t smash it up first.
Hell, she hadn’t thought this through as thoroughly as she’d thought. It was all those days of nothing, she decided, that’d made her sloppy. He still hadn’t made a move and, hoping to lessen the damage, Talia pulled her sunglasses down at the same time she lowered the camera and dropped it into the passenger seat. If there was one thing she’d learned during her training, it was that the eyes were everything. Without the eyes, the chances of recognition were drastically lowered.
They sat there, staring at one another through a few millimeters of laminated glass in what felt like a showdown. Except, this showdown didn’t end in a blaze of bullets. Instead, Talia watched on in amazement and with a profound sense of relief when all the biker did was coast down the drive and speed off down the road.
With a renewed sense of adventure and determination, Talia twisted the key in the ignition and pulled out after him. A smile creased her cheeks as she ripped the shitty wig off and thought of the pictures she was about to get.
Maybe she wasn’t going to get fired after all.
THREE
Tucker sat at the Rebel Rousers’ bar with a beer between his hands. He was slumped over, though not because he was drunk, but because he didn’t feel like being noticed. He wanted to be alone tonight, and if he got to looking around, someone, likely a female, was bound to bounce over and offer him up a piece.
Not that he’d turn it down. He wasn’t insane. It was just that he was in a mood, and entertaining someone wasn’t on his agenda for the night. Considering he always aimed to please, taking a woman to bed would only work against the phenomenal reputation he’d worked hard to achieve. So no, no women tonight. Not unless he came across a total giver whose only aim in life was to please him, and a woman like that simply did not exist.
None that he’d found anyway.
Lifting his beer, Tucker slugged back the last of the lager and held up the bottle, giving it a little shake. The bartender, some college kid that reminded him of Tom Cruise in Cocktail, jerked his chin up, retrieved a replacement, and slid it down the bar to Tucker’s waiting hand.
It was his third. No, fourth. Fifth? He was losing track. It might be time to slow down, sober up, he told himself. After this last one.
As he nursed his drink, his thoughts did a slow turn down memory lane, though they didn’t travel far. A few short hours ago, he’d spotted a car outside the Spartan compound. A woman, looking to be in her late twenties to mid-thirties, was watching him. Or maybe the club, he wasn’t certain. Her behavior, however, had been suspect. Why was she sitting there, alone, as if waiting for something to happen? Why the camera? Why the secrecy?
He recalled the blackout shades she’d strategically slid over her eyes to prevent him from figuring out who she was, which made him wonder if it was an old lover. But, despite all the women he’d spent time with, Tucker was certain he’d never been with what he’d assessed to be a five-foot-nothing blonde with a mane of fake-as-hell brunette locks that was most definitely a wig. Regardless, he’d have remembered playing with a fun-size female. Oh, the things he could do with a woman her size.
Licking his lips, Tucker brought the bottle up and slugged it back. Damn, now he was horny. That’s what he got for thinking dirty thoughts when he should have his head on other things—like Ricky fucking Cruiz.
That rat bastard had gotten under his skin, running off into the night like he had. It wasn’t often that someone got one over on him, but Cruiz had. Not for long, though. Tucker would have him under his boot like the cockroach he was soon enough.
It’d been nearly a month since the whole showdown at the Okay Corral took place, resulting in a shootout between Cruiz’s men and the Spartan brothers. Cruiz had lost a lot of manpower that night, but that’s what the shitstain got for kidnapping the Prez’s ol’ lady. Grievances like that did not go unanswered. Cruiz would learn that lesson very soon.
After moving the money that had set the wheels in motion in the first place, Blake put Tucker in charge of guarding the cash and using his SF background to dig up some answers. Since Cruiz was a fiend on his best day, cooking up meth here and trafficking women there, they were operating under the assumption that he would be back to claim what he thought to be his and to exact his revenge.
After all, a person didn’t cross an egotistical drug lord, kidnapping father killer and not expect repercussions.
So, yeah, Tucker had his work cut out for him. Although he’d always missed the thrill of the job, he was already longing for the days when all he had to worry about was putting enough gas in the tank to get him across state lines and back, and finding a ripe, juicy peach to sink into at the end of the day.
The simple things in life, donchaknow.
So back to the female. Tucker considered the possibility that the club was under surveillance, but what for? They hadn’t done one illegal thing before or since the massacre at that ranch. Of course, there had been enough bloodshed and drugs to tip off some major levels of government. The DEA came to mind. The woman could be an agent, but what were the odds, and why would they peg the Spartans for it?
Cruiz’s fingerprints had no doubt been all over that place. If the government was involved in any way, surely they’d know about Cruiz and his lackeys enough to know that’s where they should concentrate their efforts.
Of course, the woman could always be a crazy. That was a definite possibility. In today’s world, nothing could be ruled out. Especially with the often questionable tail the brothers brought home on a daily.
But enough drama for one evening. Tucker didn’t have the patience for it, not in reality and not in thought. The whole point of coming to Rebel’s tonight w
as to block it out. Not to mention, he was newly unattached. That was something to celebrate.
Then Tucker remembered his promise to himself to sober up. If he planned to ride home tonight on his own, he’d damn well better. Besides, the last thing he needed was to get so wasted that he had to call a prospect to come get his sloppy ass. The brothers would never let him live it down. They’d have all kinds of jokes. Jokes that went on for days. Lightweight. Pussy. Likening him to someone’s mom. Yeah, he didn’t need any of that.
Shoving aside the empty, Tucker ordered a coffee, black, then sat back and waited for it to arrive. No sooner than he’d lifted his iPhone from his pocket, preparing to scroll through his Little Black Book of fine ass bunnies who were always DTF, the seat next to him became occupied.
Tucker did not need to look up to notice the female sitting there. Nor did he need to look to see that she was watching him. He did, however, need to look up at the sound of that soft as velvet voice.
“Shame, a man drinking alone on a Friday night.”
Holy fucking hell. Her voice was pure phone sex operator. His dick swelled instantly, and Tucker shifted in his seat, his lips curling into a slow smile as he turned to face her head-on. “Nothin’ wrong with a man drinkin’ alone, sugar. Now, you on the other hand…” He made a show of eying every inch of her svelte frame. She was well-covered in a pair of tight black pants and black halter top laced with fringe, and even though he’d heard that black was supposed to give that slimming effect, he could tell the thickness of her thighs wasn’t just because she was short. The woman worked out.
Mmmm. Thick, solid thighs. She was sitting, so he couldn’t tell for sure, but Tucker would bet his left nut that she had an ass to match.
Mettle: (Spartan Riders #2) Page 2
