by Chiah Wilder
“You mean you begin the job tonight.” Army threw back his shot of whiskey.
“I’ll start it, but Eagle and I will figure out the schedule.” Irritation pricked at his skin—he knew where Army was going with this.
“I saw the way you were checking that chick out last night. I don’t blame you. She’s fuckin’ hot, and there’s no damn way you’re not gonna take advantage of this. I would.”
“It doesn’t matter what she looks like. This is strictly business.” Sangre took a long pull on his beer.
“If you wanna believe that crock of shit, go ahead. We’ll see,” Army said.
“Yeah … we will. This is just business.” Annoyance laced his voice. Army always had his mind on tits and asses. He was being ridiculous. Sangre grabbed another beer. This is just a job. No fuckin’ big deal. So what if this Isla Rose chick is hot as hell. A lot of women are hot. I’m not a goddamn teenager.
“You coming with us?” Skull asked as he sidled up to the bar.
“Can’t. I’ve gotta meet my new client,” Sangre replied.
“Didn’t you meet her last night? My sister was over the fuckin’ moon that she got the chick’s autograph, and then promised her the rest of the band would sign it. I’ll admit I was blown away with the way she sang. Damn, that woman’s got a great pair of vocal chords.”
And tits. Fuck. Stop. Sangre pushed away from the bar. “The band was good. I wasn’t really expecting to like their music. All right, I’m outta here.” He lifted his fist in the air and added as he walked out, “Have a good ride. Next time, brothers.” The last thing he wanted was Skull talking about her. She was his client, and he had to act like a professional, and he definitely had to stop thinking about her tits, her full lips, her heart-shaped face, and how soft she felt when she fell against him the night before. Nope … he was a businessman and needed to act like one, no matter how sexy his client was.
Sangre pulled up in front of the club’s pool hall and went inside, jerking his head at Crow and Muerto as he sauntered over to the bar. Several groups of men played pool at the different tables. He was hoping to get in a game before meeting the singer, but it didn’t look like that was going to happen.
“Hey,” he said as he sat on a barstool. “You’re crowded today.”
“It’s Sunday. The men come here while their women do the church thing,” Crow said, wiping down the counter. “What’ll you have?”
“A shot of Jack and whatever you got on tap. I have to meet a client in a bit, so I’m just killing some time.”
Crow put the glass in front of him. “It’s a fuckin’ good day to go for a ride. I was planning to do just that, but one of the employees called in sick, so I’m stuck here instead of riding.”
“I know what you mean.” Sangre took a slug, loving the heat spreading around his mouth and throat. Being a biker meant that riding was everything, and every opportunity that came up to ride was taken. When riding was impossible, it was talked about. Motorcycles—Harleys in particular—were the favorite topic of conversation among bikers; it surpassed women by a long shot.
“I’m surprised you’re meeting with a client on a Sunday,” Muerto said as he came around the bar.
“It’s not the usual gig. The job’s for a bodyguard, and the client wants to start tonight.” Sangre finished off his beer.
“Is it that rocker girl?” Muerto asked.
“Yeah. She thinks someone’s out to get her.” He glanced over at the pool tables. Still occupied.
“And you don’t think so?” Crow said.
“With these drama divas, who knows? She’s paying us, so I’ll just do what she wants. But right now, I really want to play a game of pool.”
“You should’ve stayed at the clubhouse. It’ll be packed up until dinner time, then the dudes have to run home to their wives and kids. I’m so glad I’m single.” Crow chuckled.
“Me too. I’d hate to make excuses about wanting to hang with the brothers and to have a ball and chain around me twenty-four seven. Not for me.” Sangre took out a joint and lit it, inhaling deeply.
“It’s not like that,” Muerto said. “It’s fun to be with your woman and do shit together. I guess it depends on how she is. Raven isn’t clingy. She needs her time alone and gets that I need mine as well. It works good between us.”
“I’ll take your word for it, bro, but I don’t want to experience it,” Sangre replied.
For the next two hours, the brothers talked about motorcycles, Sturgis, and the possibility of building the strip mall. When the clock hit six, Sangre stretched out his legs then stood up. “I’ve gotta go.”
He walked out of the pool hall, straddled his Harley, and took off with a roar.
When Isla Rose entered his office, her face fell, and he had to bite his inner cheek to keep from busting up. It was fucking priceless.
“What are you doing here?” she asked as she sat on the chair he pulled out for her. Her perfume was a smoky, warm amber scent with a sexy touch of spiciness that made it a bit dark. Smelling it made him think of warm summer evenings riding through Chaco Canyon at sunset with Halestorm’s “I Get Off” swirling around him. Fuck.
“I asked you a question.” She pulled down her crop top but not before he caught a glimpse of dark, burgundy roses curling up her right side.
He snapped his eyes away and went behind the desk. There was no way he was going to think about how far up her tattoo went, or how he wanted to see all of it and all of her. Clearing his throat, he took out a pen and pad and gazed at her. The way the sun caught the neon blue streaks in her hair, and cast a subdued rose glow over her face, was beautiful.
“I own the company.”
She leaned forward, exposing more cleavage than he figured she was aware of, and pointed her finger at him. “You! Why the hell didn’t you tell me that last night? You knew who I was.”
“I thought about it but didn’t think it would be professional to talk about it at the venue.”
“And ogling me was supposed to be professional? Please.”
“You’re a pretty woman, and I’m a man. So there you have it.”
A pink flush colored her cheeks and chin. “That’s it?”
“I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. Did I?”
She glanced at her hands in her lap, squirming a bit in the chair. Sangre liked that she was nervous and that he was most probably the cause of it. She looked up and captured his gaze. “No, you didn’t. You should’ve just said something, that’s all.” Turning away, she dug through her large purse, took out a bunch of letters, and handed them to him. “These are what I’ve received just in the last week. I have to admit that I’m real spooked. I mean, I’ve received letters before from fans but never at this intensity or frequency. It’s just damn scary. People are so nuts nowadays.” As she chewed on the side of her thumb, all he wanted to do was to pull it away from her mouth and tug her to him, just to hold her close, stroke her hair, and tell her it’d be all right.
He looked at the letters. It seemed like they were all sent by the same person. Every one of them were written on notebook paper, and they all had a postmark of various towns in the surrounding area. Each of them had hearts next to the name, Your Best Fan.
“You never got these in LA?”
“I received a few in the last year that were very similar to these, but I didn’t think anything of them. I get fan mail, emails, tweets, and Facebook posts from people telling me they love me, think I’m great, and other things. I never got any bad feelings about them … but these”—she waved her hand over the letters—“are in a category all of their own. I know it’s the same person who wrote those few fan notes last year because the hearts are exactly the same.”
“Do you have those?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t bring them with me.”
“That’s convenient,” he mumbled under his breath.
“What? You think I’m making this shit up? Why the fuck would I do that? I’m not in t
he habit of throwing away my money.” She grabbed the letters and shoved them back into her purse. “I’ve made a mistake. I’ll just go to the cops.” As she stood up, he rushed over to her and placed his hand on her shoulder, gripping it.
“Calm the hell down. I didn’t mean anything by it. You’re overreacting.”
Staring hard at him, she unloosened each of his fingers then pushed his hand away from her. “Didn’t you know I’m a nut case? Yeah … I had a bona fide breakdown. So maybe I am imagining all of this. Oh … wait … maybe I’m the one writing the letters without knowing it. Yeah, a real wacko.” She sank down in the chair and put her hands over her face.
Sangre stood there watching her. Regret left a bitter taste in his mouth. He ran his hand over her hair; it was soft and silky. Why the fuck did I have to say that to her? “Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you,” he grumbled then went back behind the desk.
Isla Rose peeked through her fingers. “Do you think I’m imagining all this?”
He didn’t know what to think. If he were being honest, at first he absolutely did; however, as he watched how upset she was, and after reading the content of the letters himself, he wasn’t so sure anymore. Before he answered, she put her hands back in her lap.
“No.” Of that he was certain. She didn’t strike him as a nut job, and he’d seen his fair share of those over the years. “I really don’t think you’re imagining any of it.” Now, whether she was just making the whole thing up for publicity … well, that was another story.
“I guess we got off on the wrong foot. I’m just really stressed today because recording didn’t go so well.”
“Are you recording at The Spots studio?”
She gave a weak smile. “Yeah. It’s a killer studio, and Terry Z is beyond awesome, but he’s a taskmaster, that’s for sure.”
“I’ve heard that,” Sangre replied. Located at the foot of the San Juan Mountains, The Spots Recording Studio was opened by Terry Z, the lead guitarist from one of the biggest bands of the 1980s. Musicians from all over the world came to record at his studio. “It’s cool that he agreed to record Iris Blue.”
“It’s actually a huge compliment, and we’re eternally grateful for the chance to work with him. It’s a major boost to our egos.” She took out a pill bottle and shook some out into the palm of her hand. “Do you have any water?”
“Sure.” He went over to the mini fridge and took out a bottle. “Here you go,” he said, handing it to her. She put the pills in her mouth, took a gulp, and threw her head back as she swallowed.
“So, how does this work?”
Looking into her eyes, he paused. In the sunlight, the color of her blue eyes were too vivid. Her fingers tapping on the desk drew him back to her question. “We provide twenty-four seven bodyguard service. That means we’re your shadow. When you’re recording, if you feel safe there and don’t want our man inside, then he’ll wait in the lobby. At your house, we’ll watch from outside unless you want us to be indoors with you. It’s imperative that you get an alarm system—”
“I already had one installed. I bought the house about five months ago. The rest of the band came out a couple of weeks ago to start recording. The letters started up about that time. I feel safe in my home, but knowing that one of your men is watching the house makes me feel a lot safer.”
“This guy may back way the hell off once he sees our presence. It happens like that a lot of the time. These jerks are bullies, and when they see someone challenging that, they ease off and move their attention to someone else.”
“I hope that happens in my case. It’s just a scary, vulnerable feeling to know someone is out there watching me, knowing my every move and making plans to strike, and I don’t have a damn clue when or where. He has all the power.”
“Now that you’ve hired us, his power has lessened.”
“I do feel safer. Who is going to be watching me?”
“I’ll do some of it, then it’ll rotate between Eagle, Cueball, and some other guys we have working for us.”
“Not that guy from last night I hope. What was his name?”
“Jon?” Sangre chuckled. “He’s a good guy. A bit odd, but an okay dude. I didn’t plan on using him for this job, so no worries.”
“Thanks. He just kind of gave me the willies. I don’t know. It’s probably not fair for me to say that.”
“You gotta go by your gut. I’ll be the one working tonight. I want to go over to your house and check out the locks on your doors and windows and see if there are any vulnerable points of entry into your home … Check your alarm … You know, standard stuff.”
“Okay. Will you be in the car all night?”
“Yeah. I’ll be watching and doing some rounds to make sure you’re good. Eagle will relieve me in the morning, at about eight.”
“When do we start?” Her too blue eyes seemed a little out of focus.
What the fuck did she take? “Now. I can follow you home.”
“Gage dropped me off. I told him I’d text him when I was ready.”
“No need. I’ll take you home since I’m going over there anyway.”
“Okay.”
Sangre walked around his desk and waited for her to stand. When she rose to her feet, she lost her balance, and he caught her. The scent of her perfume curled around him, and he was keenly aware of how soft her skin was since his hand rested on her rib cage. She was now steady on her feet, but he didn’t let go. He didn’t want to, and she didn’t push his hand away either.
Isla Rose tilted her head up, her gaze catching his own. The thin silver nose ring in her nostril gleamed in the sun’s rays, and the crystal silver bar in her eyebrow sparkled like a diamond. He dipped his head down, and the tip of her tongue darted out to wet her lips. How he wanted to capture it and suck it into his mouth.
Then the phone rang, playing out a heavy hitting tune, and shattered the moment. He let go of her, then she dug around in her purse, finally taking out a neon-yellow phone.
“I’m still at the security place. The guy wants to check out my house.” She played with her purse strap, and it seemed like she didn’t want to look at him. “I’m not hungry. You guys go on ahead. I’m going to crash tonight. I’ll see you in the morning.” Another pause. Now she had the purse strap so tightly wound around her finger that it was turning blood red. “Nothing’s wrong. I don’t want to talk about it right now. The guy’s here.” The strap wound tighter. “I’m not going to step out and talk. I have to go. I told you he’s waiting to check out my house.” The strap broke. She glanced down at it, a frown creasing her forehead. “I’ve gotta go. Bye.” She put the phone in her purse and stared at the strap.
“You ready to go?”
Holding the satchel from the bottom, she nodded.
“Let’s go then.” He switched off the lights and opened the door, gesturing her to pass through.
When they came out into the sunlight, she groaned, again digging through her bag. Pulling out a pair of sunglasses, she looked around the parking lot. “Where’s your car?”
Pointing to a metallic bronze Harley with a chrome skull emblazoned on the side, he held back his chuckle. “There.”
“A motorcycle? This is going to be fucking awesome!” She rushed over to it, running her hands over the leather seat and slick handlebars. “I love it. Harleys are the best.”
She’s a biker chick? That surprises me. “You ride?”
Shaking her head, she knelt down and traced the skull’s features. “No, but I’ve ridden on the back of motorcycles a lot. I used to date a biker in LA when I was still in college. He was badass, kind of like you. Now, your attitude makes sense.” She stood up and lifted up her leg, falling against the Harley. “See,” she said, pointing at her left ankle, “I’ve got a skull that looks a lot like your bike’s skull.”
He bent down and grasped her sandaled foot in his hands. A ghoulish watercolored skull surrounded by a half arch of red roses grinned at him. Running his thumb over it, he sa
w her skin pebble. “Nice tat.” He gently placed her foot on the ground. “What club did your ex belong to?”
“Club? Oh you mean like the Mongols or the Insurgents?” He nodded. “He didn’t belong to any club. Just a lone biker who loved to ride. He’d go to rallies and a bunch of motorcycle expos. You know, stuff like that. Do you belong to a club?”
“The Night Rebels,” he said abruptly then added, “We better get going.” He jumped on the bike, and she climbed on behind him; her arms wrapped around his waist, holding him tight. The Harley roared to life and they sped out of the parking lot. The feel of her warm body pressed against his back made his dick twitch, and he tried to focus on what he had to do to make sure her home was safe. It didn’t work. The scent of her sensuous perfume, her arms around him, her silky tendrils sweeping across his cheeks in the wind, and her tits right against him made for an uncomfortable ride. Never had he wanted to get off his Harley as much as he did now.
When he pulled into her driveway, he killed the engine and straddled his bike. She got off like a pro and started toward the front porch. Looking over her shoulder, she placed her hand over her eyes as if to shield them from the sun. “Aren’t you coming?”
“In a minute. I want to get the feel of the neighborhood. I’ll meet you inside.” He watched her enter her house. He’d be damned if he’d let her see him sporting a hard-on just from their short ride. She got him all worked up, and she hadn’t even done anything. Not even an accidental slip of her hand on his crotch, yet his dick was as hard as a damn hammer.
I’m gonna have to keep my distance from her. This is just a job. Just a fucking job. She’s got to stop wearing that damn perfume.
She came back out on the porch. “Did you want a beer or something?”
“No, I’m good.” She went back inside. Alcohol and Isla Rose were a dangerous combination. He had to keep his head clear and level.
He got off his bike and walked up the brick sidewalk. Remember. This is a job. She’s a client.
Opening the screen door, he went inside.
