He smiled. "You're going to be my old lady. A real laid back assignment, so to speak."
"Get real. What do you need an old lady for? You seem like the type of guy who'd rather work on his own."
"I am. But the leader of the group, Max, has a wife. They go to Mexico twice a month to get the stuff. He told me to find a woman. That he'd take me with him. I couldn't pick a woman just anywhere, because the risk would be too great. So, I called Ellen. Plus, I think some of the guys are beginning to wonder about me. I haven't really had a woman since I joined the club."
She found that a bit hard to believe. If he were cleaned up a little, she might even go for him herself. "But, don't they...I mean...aren't the women..."
"Turned out? Yeah, they used to be. But, believe it or not, since Aids came on the scene, even bikers are more careful. Most of them have established old ladies or wives. There are a few headhunters around all the time," he paused, and seeing the blank look on her face, continued, "women who trade sex for coke. Anyway, don't worry about that. They respect me in the group, so just stay with me," and now his tone grew possessive, "you're my old lady now."
She frowned. "We'll sleep in the same bed?"
His lips twitched. "Yeah. Most of the time. But don't worry. It's not a D.E.A. requirement that you have sex with me. I crash on the couch sometimes anyway. And besides, I'm fairly particular who I sleep with."
Her eyes narrowed. "So am I," she snapped, then realized she'd said the wrong thing, as he grinned at her. Ignoring the grin, she continued, "Now, what kind of clothes do I need? Something sleazy, I assume?"
He looked her up and down. "Mini-skirts, tight jeans, crop-tops, tight t-shirts, anything that will show your tits and your ass. Go change. I can't even tell if you have a decent body in that dress." He paused. "Nice color, though."
He'd fairly spat the word 'dress' and she grew angry again. "What, so I can parade around in front of you?"
"Yeah. Now you've got the picture. Biker women parade around a lot. Get used to it."
She rose quickly, still irritated, and breezed by him.
"By the way," he said, "I know what your nickname will be."
Pausing at the doorway, without looking back, she said, "What?"
"Legs."
"Yeah? Well you haven't seen the rest of me yet."
"I can't wait," he said dryly, "and take down your hair while you're in there."
Nick waited for her, and his gaze flitted around the room. The place was spotless, and he felt uncomfortable with it, like he'd felt uncomfortable with Chloe, earlier. And, not because of her, but because of him.
"I've been a biker too long," he muttered. He was almost becoming accustomed to the filth and profanity of the life-style, and he acted like an actual member of the gang more often than not. Now, he felt like he didn't belong in this place, her place, with its immaculate, designer furniture and oak bookshelves. Her air conditioner kicked on, with a hum, and he wondered how long he'd have to live without these civilized trappings.
Strolling to the picture of Chloe and the man, he wondered what happened to the two of them. They looked happy in the picture, and he felt jealousy pulling at him. Her hair was shorter then, and she had an impish grin on her heart-shaped face.
Hearing Chloe return to the room, he turned to look at her. But, in his wildest dreams, he hadn't expected this incredible transformation.
She wore skin-tight, tattered jeans, and a low-cut tank top. Her brown hair was loose and wild, fanning out from her face in curly abandon, and it almost reached her waist. She was heavily made-up now, and her big, brown eyes had an exotic look he hadn't noticed before, as did her red, slightly pouting mouth.
Ellen was right. She had the look. He tried to be objective, as he looked her over, but found himself desiring her. Big time.
He sniffed and said gruffly, "Your tits are nice size. That's good."
A seductive smile played on her lips, like the one she'd flashed him earlier in the bar, and he felt like she could sense his thoughts. Damn her!
Walking up to her, he touched her shoulders and turned her around. "Nice ass, too."
"So glad you approve. You'll never know how much it means to me. Never. Does that mean I pass inspection?"
"Maybe. Do you have boots?"
"Yes. I'll go get them on, so you can see my completed ensemble."
Watching her walk away, he realized he'd been holding his breath, and it came out now in a long, agonized sigh. She was a looker. This might be tougher than he thought.
And, he knew the guys would be after her, at least the single ones, and possibly the married ones as well. But, as his old lady, she'd be protected. He'd make sure of it.
Chapter Two
Chloe found her black boots, pulled them on, and tried to prepare herself to return to the living room for further inspection. She didn't like this, but she knew she had to dress the part. Act the part. And be the woman. The type of woman she'd always despised.
Here she was, a Berkley graduate, working slowly towards her masters in Criminology, and she had to slink back in there for him. Three years in the D.E.A., with many cases closed to her credit, and she had to parade for Nick.
Trying to stifle her resentment, as she walked slowly back down the hallway, she composed her face in more placid lines. It was part of the job. That's all.
Nick's lips twitched, as he looked her over. "You'll do."
"Gee, thanks."
"Now," he said, gesturing to the sofa, "plant yourself. I need to lay down some ground rules. You may already know these things, but it pays to be safe."
They both sat on the couch, with Nick a small distance away from her. Curving his arm over the back, he leaned towards her. His eyes were even more intriguing close up, and she tried to concentrate on what he was saying. Yes, they were silver gray, with little blue flecks.
"First," he began, "don't ever write anything down. Don't use the phone at my place to call anywhere but the other bikers or their old ladies. If you need to contact Ellen, let me know, and we'll use a pay phone. And don't discuss the case at the house either. You never know. They might have bugged the place.
"Second, don't use big words. They'll know you're a fraud. Try to catch on to the language. You know, they have their own slang. Their old ladies are 'moms,' things like that. And don't use proper names for the drugs, use the slang.
"Third, act tough. If you don't, the other women will eat you alive. Don't take any shit from them, either, or they'll make your life hell.
"And, aside from all of that, we need to get our stories straight on where you come from. My story to Max is that you were my old girlfriend from The Scorpions, back East. I told him I was coming to Ventura to try to get you to go back with me. I told him we lived in Ventura for a while, then we broke up and I moved to L.A.. My cover is a bike shop in Culver City, and I fix Harleys. My house is in back of the shop."
Chloe couldn't help wondering what his house looked like. "Where do the other guys live?"
"They're scattered around Culver City. Max has a house by the ocean. The place looks like a fortress. He also has a place in Mazatlan. I've never seen it, but his wife, Tessie, says it's something else. Questions?"
His nearness was disconcerting, and she moved back a few inches. "How long were we together before? And what city were The Scorpions in?"
"Five years. Miami."
"Are your parents dead or alive?"
"Dead. Supposedly, they lived in Miami. That's what I told the guys, anyway. I'm actually from the Mid-West. And yours?"
"Alive. Mmm, we can say they still live in Miami. That sounds logical, if that's where we met. I'm from the East Coast, originally. Boston. Why did we leave The Scorpions? What did you tell them?"
"We didn't like the new leader. We were in the group for four years."
"And how long did we live in Ventura?"
"A year." He ran a hand through his hair. "Then, you went and found yourself someone else. But, obviously, it di
dn't work out. And why the hell do you keep pushing yourself back? You're almost to the edge of the couch."
"I hadn't noticed," she mumbled.
He sighed. "Listen, I know this isn't easy. But you have to pretend to like me. You know, hang on me. Watch the other women, and copy what they do. If this whole thing doesn't work for you, we can say you left me again or something. But I need you. Otherwise, I don't think he'll take me to Mexico. He doesn't take the single guys down there. I'm not sure why."
His eyes became intense, suddenly, and his face grew serious. Leaning towards her, he lifted her chin with his hand. "Above all, I want you to remember this. Don't get sentimental about any of these people. They're drug dealers and murderers. And they're all going down. Every last one of them."
She found herself almost afraid of him then. The savage look of his face and the hard glint in his eyes. Jerking her chin away, she said, "I know what I'm doing."
Sitting back again, he said, "You'd better, or we'll both be dead. Don't blow my cover, Legs, or I'll come back and haunt you."
Narrowing her eyes, she looked over at him. But, his face wore the same calm expression she'd seen earlier. "How old are you, Nick?"
"Thirty. And you?"
"Twenty-five. Do you have a name in the group?"
"Yeah. I use Nick, my real first name. For a last name I use Duncan. But they do call me 'Action' sometimes."
"Really? Why is that?"
He grinned. She thought he really did have a nice grin, sort of sexy. Then he said, "Probably because I never want any, but the women hang all over me anyway. Used to hang, I should say. They won't anymore."
Her eyes narrowed again. "And if they do?"
"You'll handle it."
She wasn't sure she had his confidence. "But what do you do about the drugs?"
Looking past her, he said, "Sometimes it's unavoidable. I have to smoke pot with them, or they'd be suspicious. I drink beer. If they give me pills, I hold them in the side of my mouth, until I can get rid of them. That way, a minimum gets in my system. Sometimes I use placebos for show. Ellen had the lab make them for me. That's why you shouldn't touch any of my stash. Some is real, some not."
"Don't worry," she said dryly, "I won't rummage in your drawers. But, how about me?"
"What do you drink?"
"I prefer whiskey, but beer will do in a pinch."
He raised his eyebrows. "Can you hold your liquor, or am I going to have to keep track?"
"Don't worry about me. I'll do fine."
"I'm not sure what to tell you on the drugs. Some of the old ladies do stuff, some don't. You don't have to. If someone is suspicious, go ahead. But I'd say if you can drink instead, it would be better. Just don't get drunk and fall all over me. I hate that."
They were silent then she said, "Well, I guess that's it. When do I start?"
"Now."
"What? I haven't even packed yet!"
"Well, get busy, woman. I've got things to do."
Riding down Pacific Coast Highway, on the back of his Harley, she wondered whether she'd be able to pull off this biker chick thing. But she realized, as they sped along, that she loved motorcycles. The feeling of wind in her face, and the feeling of Nick. They weren't wearing helmets, though, and she wondered if they'd get stopped. She was leaning up against the sissy-bar now, and not holding on to him. It was comfortable, and his legs were warm against hers. Warm and hard.
He was solidly built, even more so than she'd thought originally. She'd found out when they hit a bump, and she grabbed him around the waist.
But the feeling she had as she rode behind him was a strange one. Almost like transference of power. As if some of his power was rubbing off on her. And, she liked it. She felt larger than life. The way Nick would seem, if he weren't so good at his role.
But, as they passed through Santa Monica, she dozed off momentarily, and felt herself sliding.
"Hold on, you idiot!" Nick yelled, looking back at her quickly.
Weaving her fingers under his jacket, she grabbed him, felt the warmth of his solid body, and leaned her head against the back of his jacket. His stomach muscles tightened, and she felt the rippling cords there, as her fingers moved and explored him.
"Cut it out!" he yelled, "I can't concentrate!"
She stifled a laugh, and wondered what time it was.
But then, as she held him and looked at the houses that whizzed by so quickly, she thought of her late husband, Pete. That made twice today she'd thought of him. And she tried not to think of Pete too often. He'd died of leukemia just two years after they married. It didn't ever seem fair to her that he'd been yanked away like that. Sometimes, she missed him so bad it hurt.
And, every time she thought of him, she'd get a big, ugly lump in her throat. Like right now. She didn't want to cry...she'd cried so much already...but something about being this close to Nick made it all the more intense for her. She tried to hold it in, but soon her body shook with sobs.
Nick felt her crying, and cursed under his breath. Jesus, if she couldn't take a little yelling...
He slowed and pulled the bike over to a deserted spot on the ocean side of the highway.
Thumping down the kickstand with his boot, he turned off the bike engine, and sat. The waves gently lapped the shoreline, and he looked out over the sparkling water. He could hear her sniffling, and she still held on to him. He raised both hands out. "What? What did I do?"
She let go, and leaned back on the sissy bar. He got off the bike slowly then sat on it again, facing her. He could tell she was trying to stop crying, but it just flowed from her. And he sensed it had nothing to do with him.
"Oh, shit," he said finally, "come here." As he gathered her in his arms, he noticed she smelled like jasmine, and her body felt fragile in his embrace.
"What is it?" he whispered in her ear, as waves lapped at the shoreline, "What is it, baby? Tell Nicky. What?"
Pulling back from him, her breath coming in shudders now, she leaned against the sissy-bar and wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said, "you didn't have to stop the bike."
Frowning, he said, "Yeah, I did. What's up?"
"I haven't cried about him in over a year. But something about tonight. I don't know. It happens, that's all."
"Your ex?"
"He's not my ex. He's dead. Died two years after we were married. I haven't been with anyone since."
His face was compassionate, as he asked, "How long?"
"Five years."
He nodded. "Did you love him a lot?"
"Yeah," she said softly, "I did." Her eyes welled up again, and her hands came to her face, trying to hide it from him.
He pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. His hand stroked her hair gently, as he said, "I'll be here, temporarily, at least. Maybe it will help."
"I have nightmares sometimes," her muffled voice said, "I hope I don't wake you up. I dream I can't find him. Anywhere. Then, I stumble on his grave."
"Shhh," he whispered, "if you do, I'll wake you up. I promise."
Nick thought her tears were making mincemeat out of his brain, as he had always been a sucker for a woman crying. She just seemed so vulnerable. So soft. He wanted to protect her somehow. And the thought of what they were heading into made him wonder if she could do it. Or even if he could for that matter.
But after a minute, she took a deep breath, and looked up at him. Tears still sparkled on her dark lashes, and her face held a soft glow in the moonlight. "Thanks," she whispered.
Before he even knew what he was doing, he was kissing her, tasting her, feeling her seductive, soft lips on his own. He groaned, as the kiss grew deeper and she did nothing to stop it.
Their lips parted briefly, and he teased her lips with his own, sucking first the bottom one, then the top. "Is that better?" he whispered. But he barely gave her time to answer, before he plundered her mouth with a second deeper kiss, one so sensual, he was almost shaking. He'd never had a woman kiss him like that before!
Breaking from her, he saw her eyes were still closed, and her mouth slightly parted. Teasing her mouth with his tongue, unable to resist the temptation, he finally whispered, "We better go, Chloe."
Rising reluctantly, he sat with his back to her again, turned on the engine, slammed the bike into gear, and took off.
Chloe gripped his waist tightly, not able to move, not even able to breathe, temporarily. She hadn't expected this. She found herself trembling, not from the cold, but from his kisses. They'd been so sweet and soft, yet so hard and passionate the next minute. Pete had never kissed her like that.
And she could tell that Nick was experienced. She found herself wondering what type of woman he liked. And just what types of women were hanging on him in the group. Where did he really live? Was he ever married before? Question after question came to her mind, and she wished they could go some place quiet to talk.
Gradually, she grew sleepy again, and her eyes closed, while she still clung to him. She felt his hand come over both of hers, and she knew she was safe.
The next thing she heard was the engine being turned off, the kickstand going down, and then Nick's voice. "Wake up, sleepy-head. We're here. Home sweet home."
Opening her eyes, she saw he'd pulled around the side of a large building, and in front of her was a low, squat, very small house.
"Home," she repeated groggily. It was still dark and as he pulled her overnight bag out of the saddlebags, she said, "What time is it?"
"Two o'clock. Still early, some of the guys might be over later."
"Early?" she said, as she followed him up the porch stairs. "Early. I can handle that. Maybe tomorrow."
But what she couldn't handle was the way Nick's house looked. The small kitchen to the left of her held stacks of dirty dishes. The tiny living room sported overflowing ashtrays, roach clips, beer cans and a couch and chair set that had definitely seen better days.
"My God," she breathed, "I think I'm going home."
He chuckled. "On the hog you rode in on or what? Give me a break. I haven't had an old lady."
Nicky's Fire Page 2
