BAD BOY'S KISS: A Dark Bad Boy Mafia Romance

by Naomi West

  One and done is my usual motto… but this one is different.

  Taking her once won’t be enough.

  I need her screaming my name, obeying my commands… and carrying my baby.

  She looked like a fish out of water when she wandered into my town.

  Said she was new around here…

  But all I heard was “Take me, please.”

  Your wish is my command, princess.

  I’m the man who will ruin her for all others.

  Cocky as hell? Yeah.

  Hotter than that? Damn straight.

  And I’m more than ready to take this angel for a ride.

  But there’s more to this girl than meets the eye.

  Turns out she was the bait in a trap I never saw coming.

  I’m a lone wolf, not a breeding stallion.

  But her father has other ideas.

  And with a gun against my head, what other choice do I have?

  Sleeping with Katrin is just the beginning of things.

  Before I know it, there’s a wedding on the horizon.

  And my baby growing inside her belly.

  I guess this is what happens when you lose control.

  Chapter One

  “You’re killing me, Pistol.” The woman in the white tank top ran a hand through her thick, platinum blonde curls and stuck her ample chest out a little. “Sure you can’t just patch it?”

  Jax “Pistol” Wilson straightened to his full height of six-foot four inches, forcing his gaze up from the woman’s chest to her face again. He wiped his hands on a greasy rag and then flashed the woman — Peggy? Patty? Something with a P — a grin. “Gotta be replaced. That crack’s too deep and too wide. The whole thing could fall in on you if you so much as hit a pothole.”

  Her expression was exaggeratedly horrified. “Jesus. How much is it gonna run me?”

  Pistol leaned against the woman’s bright yellow Mustang, broad, tattooed arms folded across his chest. He glanced at the web of cracks in the windshield. “Depends. Anywhere from two hundred to a thousand.” He could feel Deion eyeing him. They’d never done a windshield replacement for more than four hundred.

  The woman sucked in a breath, and Pistol met her pretty blue eyes once more. He recalled a wild night last year — the two of them, half drunk, fully loaded, soaking her twelve hundred thread-count sheets in their mutual sweat. “Shit.”

  He tossed the rag aside. “Tell you what. I’ll try my damnedest to make sure you’re not looking at more than three hundred.”

  Peggy-Patty’s face positively lit up. “Omigod, Pistol, that would be incredible.” She had a hot smile—full lips stretching back to reveal gleaming white teeth. Pistol almost wished he could recall the details of their encounter. Had those straight, perfect teeth latched onto his skin? Had her long pink nails raked down his back? Had she screamed his name? Probably. They all did.

  She couldn’t seem to keep her gaze off his chest. His once-white sleeveless shirt was smeared with oil stains and clinging to him with the Texas humidity and was ripped in strategic places to show his ink.

  He heard Deion snort, and tossed the fucker a glare.

  He grinned back at the woman, unable to resist the temptation to flirt, even with a woman he’d already bedded. Hell, looking at her now, he was almost tempted to go in for round two. Except that wasn’t the way he played. And anyhow, she was a bit older than he liked them — had a kid who was in high school, he remembered suddenly, so she was likely in her late thirties. Still, she’d been a tiger in bed. Probably had some flabby-gutted loser of a husband who couldn’t give her an orgasm. Pistol was recalling more details—the way those firm, round breasts had bounced as she’d ridden him. Those legs that went on for days. His own deep growl as he came inside her…

  Shit, he really was hard up if he was thinking about pissing on the same tree twice. But he’d made it with every available woman in this town. If Rialto didn’t get some fresh blood soon, he was gonna have to start going back for seconds.

  “Pistol?”

  Shit, she’d been saying something, and he hadn’t been paying a lick of attention.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’d really like to say thank you for this.” She nodded at the Mustang. “Maybe a drink sometime?”

  Ah, shit. “Maybe sometime,” he agreed casually.

  “You still have my number?”

  Not a chance. “Sure. I’ll call you.”

  “All right.” She winked at him. “Looking forward to it.”

  He nodded, pulling a battered pack of Camels from the pocket of his worn jeans. He stuck a cigarette between his lips and tipped his head toward the car. “We’ll need a couple of days to replace that windshield. You got a ride home?”

  “A friend’s picking me up. Well … more of an acquaintance. My new neighbor has a daughter — lovely young lady. We just met yesterday when she was moving in. She agreed to pick me up if the car had to stay in the shop.”

  A lovely young lady, huh? How young we talkin’? He dug out his lighter and lit the cigarette.

  Pistol didn’t go in for barely legal, but twenty and over, and he’d have to figure out a way to meet this girl. “New in town? Or just new to your neighborhood?”

  “New in town. The father doesn’t say much, but he’s nice enough. The daughter — I get the impression she’s a bit lonely. Certainly was eager to talk to me.”

  “She in school?” A neutral enough question. If Peggy-Patty was like,Yes, she’s finishing her junior year at MacArthur High, Pistol would know to quit sniffing around. But if this ‘young lady’ was at the University … fair game.

  He got started on Peggy-Patty’s paperwork, trying to play nonchalant.

  She didn’t answer, and he glanced up to find her eyeing him. “She’s a nursing student. Good Lord, you got a one track mind.”

  He laughed and ashed his cigarette. “I didn’t say anything, ma’am. Just curious.”

  “Ma’am?” She shook her head. “You’re making me feel like an old lady. Listen, I knew all about your reputation before I screwed you, but this poor gal’s still getting her bearings. Don’t go pouncin’ on her like a horny tom cat, you hear?”

  Pistol wanted to ask what the girl looked like, but he had a feeling Peggy-Patty wasn’t about to give him measurements. “Fair enough.”

  She looked him up and down, and her gaze rested just a little too long on his crotch. She shook her head again, a little ruefully, but with an amused smile tugging her lips. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth, Pistol Wilson.”

  He grinned and dragged on the cigarette as he went back to work. He tried to keep an eye on Peggy-Patty so he could see when her ride came, but he got distracted doing some detail work on a Chrysler and trying to ignore Deion’s whispered jibes. Deion was his — well, it wasn’t like he had best friends; he wasn’t a fucking thirteen-year-oldgirl— but his closest pal. They were both members of the Blackened Souls Motorcycle Club, working at J&J Auto by day, going out on whatever missions Kong had assigned them by night.

  “You fucked her, didn’t you?” Deion whispered.

  “Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t,” Pistol muttered around the cigarette, trying not to smirk.

  “Aw hell. How old is she? Forty? Forty-five?”

  He pinched the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and blew out a stream of smoke. “Jesus, she’s thirty-two if she’s a day. Look at the rack on her.”

  “How was she? A screamer?”

  “They all are.”

  “You dog.” Deion laughed. “Seriously, you fuckin’ ass-sniffing, tit-humping old dog.”

  Pistol snickered and stubbed out the cigarette. “Shut up.”

  “Hey, man,” Deion said after another minute. “Did you think something was weird about Kong last night?”

  Pedro “Kong” Ortiz was the Blackened Souls’ president. A gruff old curmudgeon — hard to tell when something was up with him, since he always had a bug up his ass. But yeah, Pistol had notice
d the old man had been particularly grim last night when they’d all been over at the clubhouse shooting cans in the backyard.

  Pistol shrugged. “Dunno. Figured it was just the heat.”

  Deion rubbed the back of his neck. “You think it could be Jaws’s boys again?”

  “Better not be.” He glanced over at the woman, who was waiting by the curb. Kept his voice low, just in case she had good ears. Pistol and Deion tried not to discuss club business at work, but sometimes it was necessary. “We made it damn clear last time where the turf lines are.”

  “You know Jaws, though. Like a dog hurling itself against a chain. He’s gonna keep testing us.”

  “Well. If the dog keeps biting, we’ll have to put him down.”

  Deion shook his head and grabbed a socket wrench. “Any excuse to pull out the big guns, huh?” He got on a backboard and rolled himself elegantly under the F-150 he was working on.

  “What can I say? I like my toys.”

  They worked for another few minutes in silence before Deion spoke again, from under the truck. “Ought to go for a ride soon. Maybe next weekend. Up into Three Sisters.”

  “What for?”

  “What d’you mean? Just to ride.” Deion sounded surprised.

  “Not a bad idea,” Pistol agreed. “Who do we take?”

  “Ford, if he wants to come. Anyone who wants to come, really.” He paused. “Or it could be just you and me.”

  Man, he and Deion hadn’t gone off on one of their rides together in a couple of years. The Blackened Souls had gotten busy with local mission, and they’d let the more innocent aspects of the club fall by the wayside.

  “Let’s do it,” Pistol said. “We can leave the others a note.”

  Deion rolled out from under the truck and grinned. “Ran off together into the sunset.”

  “So long, suckers.”

  “We’ll send you a postcard.”

  Deion got up just as a baby blue Ford Camaro — 2004 or 2005, by the look of it — pulled up. Peggy-Patty got in. Pistol strained to see the driver but couldn’t around Peggy-Patty’s big blond curls. But as Peggy-Patty shifted forward, Pistol caught the briefest glimpse of long, dark hair.

  Deion barked twice. Pistol whipped him in the arm with a greasy rag.

  The Camaro pulled away.

  Chapter Two

  “So this horn dog,” Deion said, jerking his thumb at Pistol. “He’s mackin’ on this chick who’s like forty, right?”

  Pistol choked with laughter as he swigged his beer. “She’s not forty.” He wiped his mouth.

  “And I mean, yeah, she looks great. Tits out to here.” Deion gestured. “But he’s so hard up, he’s goin’ cougar hunting now.”

  Ford, the Blackened Souls’ Vice President, laughed so hard that beer nearly shot out of his nose. He slapped the seat of the booth. “Man, you’re a wild son of a bitch, ain’t you?” Ford was short, lean, and hungry looking. He seemed to exist in a perpetual fighter’s crouch. Ugly mug — scarred to hell from a knife fight when he was twenty — but actually a pretty cool guy. Little, needy for Pistol’s taste. The Souls all joked that Ford could nag and cling like a woman. Pistol preferred riding with Deion, who, for all that he gave Pistol a hard time, was loyal as hell, and as even-tempered as a tattooed biker could be expected to be.

  Pistol shrugged, trying for his usual cocky grin. “She’s got a set on her.”

  Kong shifted, looking unimpressed. He was built like his namesake — a hulking, hunched-shouldered, broad-armed man who was gruff but docile most of the time, yet he wouldn’t hesitate to beat his chest and roar when threatened. The furrows in his leathery brow deepened, and his dark eyes flashed. “My wife is fifty-five. Stunner. And you’re saying a forty-year-old woman’s too old to be a decent fuck?”

  “Naw!” Ford backtracked quickly. “Too old forPistol, I mean.”

  Kong didn’t answer. But when Pistol glanced down, he saw the old man was drumming his fingers rapidly against his thigh, the way he used to do sometimes when Pistol was younger and getting on his nerves.

  Deion apparently noticed it too. “What’s goin’ on, old man? You been acting weird since yesterday.”

  Kong shook his head.

  “Turf wars? Need us to move something? Bust a few heads? What?”

  Kong gave a half sigh, half grunt. “There might be some missions in the coming days. Nothing to concern yourselves with now.”

  Pistol’s heart beat faster. Just the thought of a mission could do that to him. Roaring down the open highways with his brothers, guns strapped to him, speeding toward his target. Nothing in his head but the roar of a dozen or more bikes. Dust in his teeth and coating hiss throat, gnats going kamikaze against his forehead. The stares they got as they blazed through town, the horizon opening up to them on those occasions where they left civilization and headed out into the desert.

  Kong looked away from them. If he didn’t want to talk, it was best not to press him.

  Kong’s personal history was still something of a mystery to the Blackened Souls. Pistol gathered that the man had been raised in San Antonio. That he’d spent at least part of his youth on the streets. That he’d been married, once upon a time. There’d been a stay in prison, which Pedro never gave details about. The guy had scars — long, thin, ropy bands running from his upper chest along his right arm. Hell, all of ’em had scars, somewhere or another. But Kong’s and Ford’s were the most obvious.

  Pistol glanced at the door. He was antsy tonight too, for some reason. Normally he loved hanging out here at Hammered and Nailed, shooting the shit with the guys. But tonight, he was distracted. Maybe it was having Peggy or Patty or whatever the hell her name was show up at the shop. Maybe it was news of the new girl in town — Pistol hadn’t even gotten her name. Maybe it was the fact that something was definitely weird about Kong.

  “Pistol!” Deion snapped his fingers. “Earth to Pistol. We’re talkin’ about the bike Ford’s getting. Once he’s rich.”

  “When pigs fly, in other words,” Kong said drily. Everyone knew that whatever cut of the profits Ford got from club business, he spent it all on weed and porn subscriptions. And bells and whistles for his current bike, a scuffed up Yamaha that sounded like a dying cat when it started.

  Ford laughed. “Hey, I’m well on my way, all right? One more shakedown…”

  “What’re you getting?” Pistol asked.

  “Low rider S. Dark red. Silver trim.”

  Deion grinned, taking a gulp of beer. “You’ll look like you’re riding a giant candy cane.”

  “Hell no. They come in blue now. I’m gonna—” He stopped dead, gaze on the front of the door. “Ho-lyfuck.”

  Pistol turned. A woman had just walked into the bar. A young brunette, with pale, smooth skin and carefully shaped black brows. She had full lips, wide, dark eyes, and a hint of a flush in her cheeks visible even in the dim bar light. Her rich brown hair was twisted up and pinned, but a couple of long, dark curls spilled down and brushed her slim neck. And damn, if she wasn’t just Pistol’s type — short, but not too short, with curves in all the right places. She was wearing a high-cut, sleeveless burgundy dress that hugged her breasts and ass, and black strappy heels. That ass — she turned around anddamn, Pistol would’ve gone to his knees for that ass.

  She wasn’t that fake kind of beautiful like a lot of Texas girls, with their poofy, dyed blond hair and silicone tits. She was a natural beauty, with a gentle air about her that made Pistol forget how to speak. Probably a first.

  Deion whistled softly. “Pistol, there’s your new girl in town, I’m guessing.”

  Kong had turned in his seat and was eyeing the young woman almost suspiciously. He turned back to the group. “That’s Katrin Smith. Her father bought up the general goods store on DeWitt.”

  “You’re like some little old porch lady, you know,” Deion said. “Keepin’ tabs on everyone in town.”

  Kong grunted. “Can’t get a read on him.”

  “Who care
s about a read onhim?” Ford asked. “I wanna readher all night long.”

  Deion snorted. “That makes no sense, dude.”

  “She’s a ten, man. No, fuck that — she’s like a fifteen.”

  Pistol was staring at Katrin again. She was up at the bar, scanning the beer list on the chalkboard.

  Deion clapped him on the shoulder. “What the hell? Why aren’t you up there buying her a drinkyesterday?”

  Pistol’s heart thudded.Seriously, what the hell?He’d never been fuckingnervous around a girl before. But Katrin Smith really was a fifteen. She didn’t ooze sexual energy like most of the girls Pistol went for. In fact, she seemed reserved — the kind of girl who was just waiting for someone to unleash her inner freak.