“Are you Vargas’s girlfriend?”
“No,” she said, moistening her lips.
“He wants you.”
“Let’s talk about you, and what you want.”
His gaze dropped to the hem of her skirt. “Right now?”
“In the near future.”
“I want freedom,” he said, glancing out the window. “I want to take this chain off my leg and ride my bike somewhere far away.”
“Where would you go?”
“I don’t know.”
“You mentioned Mexico last time.”
“I’ve never been there. I’ve never been out of California.”
“No?”
He shook his head. “I went to Yosemite with my brother once. And Lake Havasu. That’s on the Arizona border.”
Mia thought of all the places she’d been with Philip. Mexico, Canada, Europe, the Carribean. They’d drive to Las Vegas on a lark for a weekend getaway. She’d never visited Yosemite or Lake Havasu. “Were you born in Indio?”
“No. I’m from Brawley.”
“What brought you here?”
“Bad luck. My dad lost his job at the gypsum mine when I was twelve, so my uncle offered him construction work.”
“How did it go?”
“Not very well. He got involved in meth dealing on the side. Both of my parents did.”
“Had they used drugs before?”
“They drank and smoked weed a little. I don’t know about meth. My uncle fired my dad for being high at the job site, and my mom couldn’t support us by herself. We lived in Slab City for a while.”
“Slab City?”
“You must not be from around here.”
She’d been born in East LA, so that wasn’t quite true. But she was from a world different from his. Her parents had been in their forties when she came along, and they’d doted on her. She’d never wanted for anything. Philip’s wealth had brought her more privileges.
“Slab City is like a big desert trailer park with no fees,” he said. “It’s off the grid. No running water and no services.”
“No law?”
“Not much.”
“Where are your parents now?”
“Arizona. My mom has a job at a hotel and my dad’s on disability. He got in a car accident and messed up his leg.”
“Do you still talk to them?”
“Sure,” he said, shrugging. “I saw them both at my brother’s funeral. They let me attend in my orange jumpsuit and shackles.”
Mia’s throat ached at the thought of Philip’s funeral—and her own. It was a double service. She wasn’t sure which was worse, being unable to attend the memorial for a loved one or going as a shackled inmate. “How did you feel while you were there?”
He hesitated before answering. At first she thought he was going to repeat his earlier claim that he didn’t feel anything. Then he said, “It was the worst moment of my life. I felt bad. Responsible.”
“Why?”
“Because he wanted to be like me. I should have encouraged him to stay in school. Instead I taught him to fight and protect himself. Not well enough, apparently.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his bent knees. “I wished I was dead. I still do sometimes. I’d have taken his place in a heartbeat.”
She’d felt the same way about Philip. He’d been so fun-loving, so charmingly egotistical. If she’d died, he would have mourned her. But he’d have moved on by now. “How have you been processing the loss?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you grieve?”
He glanced out the window again, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “I think I just pushed the sadness down. I was a ticking time bomb for a few weeks. One of the guys in the yard said my brother died choking on peckerwood.”
“Peckerwood?”
“That’s what they call a member of the Aryan Brotherhood.”
“What did you do?”
“I beat the fuck out of him.”
“Is that why they attacked you in the laundry room?”
“Yes.”
She studied his clenched fists and his scarred, tattooed knuckles. T-I-C-K T-O-C-K. “Do you often give in to violent impulses?”
“Not as often as I’d like.”
“Have you tried to make healthier choices?”
His eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Is that a serious question?”
“Yes.”
“Do I look like I’ve made healthy choices?”
He looked as if he jogged and lifted weights daily. “Have you done drugs?”
“Fuck yeah I’ve done drugs.”
“Meth?”
“You name it, I’ve done it.”
“You’re not worried about becoming an addict?”
“I’m more worried about getting shot.”
“How long have you been working for your uncle?”
“Since I was fifteen.”
“Did your brother work for him also?”
“He did.”
“Doing what?”
“Whatever needed to get done.”
“Do you think your uncle uses his employees and discards them?”
“I know he does.”
“How does that make you feel?”
“It makes me feel like punching someone.”
She assumed that Cole’s uncle ran illegal businesses as well as legal ones. “Wild Bill” Shepherd had probably introduced Cole’s father to meth. Bill might have played a role in the death of Cole’s brother, as well.
Mia hadn’t expected to sympathize with Cole any more than she’d anticipated the stirrings of attraction. Both reactions were unwelcome. She didn’t want to want Cole, even if that made seducing him easier. She didn’t want to picture him at a funeral or care about his welfare. He was a convicted felon with dangerous connections, not a white knight. His club might not target women or children, but they weren’t heroes. Dirty Eleven was rumored to have a stake in methamphetamines, guns and bootleg liquor. The products they slung were deadly and the crimes they committed hurt people.
“Anger is a more easily accessible emotion for many people, but it can become a destructive force. If you’re not able to express a range of feelings, you run the risk of lashing out and losing control.”
He didn’t argue with her assessment. “I want to stay in control.”
“Good,” she said. “You’re on the right track.”
“How do you figure?”
“You’re here.”
“Not by choice.”
“You’re self-aware and articulate, which is hugely beneficial to this process. You’re cooperating by answering my questions. It can be difficult, even painful, to open up to others. But the emotional release is worth the effort.”
“Don’t give me too much credit,” he said bluntly. “I’ve been trying to look up your skirt for an hour.”
She flushed, shifting her legs.
“What are you wearing under there?”
“That’s none of your business. You’re deflecting.”
“I’d rather be fucking.”
She bit her tongue to hold her nervous laughter inside. He was funny, and wildly inappropriate. This conversation was so far over the line, she couldn’t even rate it. As she set aside her notepad, the bell tone on her phone sounded, ending the session. “We’ll pick this up on Tuesday,” she said. “Over the weekend, I want you to think about how you express other feelings besides anger.”
He wasn’t in as much of a hurry to leave this time. She stood first, smoothing her skirt self-consciously. He rose to his feet and grabbed his vest. Although Mia didn’t usually initiate contact with clients, she reached out to give his upper arm an encouraging squeeze. His tattoos weren’t the artistic kind. They weren’t colorful or beautiful, with fine lines and intricate detail. The workmanlike quality and bold lettering didn’t come from any reputable tattoo parlor. The muscles underneath didn’t come from an expensive gym, either. His triceps was rock hard against her fingertips, his
skin electric.
“Take care of yourself,” she said, letting him go. Her hand tingled from the contact, so she curled it into a tight fist. Goose bumps rose on her arms, and her nipples hardened against the lacy cups of her bra.
His gaze lowered to her breasts, covered by two thin layers of fabric. Her bra was delicate and her blouse clingy. She endured his perusal, standing very still. He stared for several seconds longer than was polite.
“I’m going to think about something else this weekend,” he muttered, and left the room.
When he was gone, she leaned against her desk, light-headed again. Her heart pounded with fear and desire and a dozen other emotions. They warred within her, needing release as much as the built-up anger in him.
A beat pulsed between her legs, heavy and hot. She was struck by an intense urge to touch herself, right here in the office. She wanted to squeeze her breasts and pinch her stiff nipples. If she was bolder, she’d remove her panties and sit on the desk with her thighs spread, fingering her slit.
She imagined him opening the door and catching her in the act.
Smothering a moan, she stared at the scratched surface of the desk. Her nails bit into the hard wood, which reminded her of the flooring in the guest room. She didn’t know how she’d find the nerve to seduce Cole, but she no longer doubted her ability to enjoy it. One touch had her trembling for more.
CHAPTER FIVE
VARGAS WASN’T LURKING outside the office.
Cole put on his cut and strode down the hallway, glancing around for his nemesis. At almost six, the building appeared deserted. He took the stairs to the lower level and continued across the parking lot. Heat lingered on the blacktop, soaking into the sun-weathered cracks and crevices.
His bike rested next to a spindly acacia tree, half helmet dangling from the mirror. Cole donned the helmet and climbed on. Instead of revving the engine and getting the hell out of there, he drove across the street and waited for Mia to appear.
She wanted something from him. He didn’t know what, but he sensed her need. Maybe she had a savior complex and considered him a pet project. He’d known a few women like that. He doubted she was in cahoots with Vargas, judging by her reaction to his question about wiretapping. She didn’t seem insincere, just...interested.
In him. As a man.
The feeling was definitely mutual. He’d been drawn to her from the start, but that wasn’t surprising. She was smoking hot, and he’d been in prison. He was drawn to every attractive woman he saw. Even the not-so-attractive ones.
Maybe she had a death wish, not a savior complex. He believed the story about her husband. Some people did crazy, dangerous things after losing a loved one. Cole could relate. Self-destruct was his default mode.
It was also possible that he’d gone off the deep end, and this was all in his head. The stroking of his patches and his arm. Her sweet, sexy blushes. The hard nipples poking at the front of her blouse, which he could almost see through. None of it meant anything, except that he was fucking horny.
He hadn’t imagined her stockings, though. Those were real. She was wearing a garter belt, which sent a fuck signal straight to his cock. He’d been half-hard for most of the session, picturing her pretty lingerie and exposed pussy. The idea that she might not have any panties on drove him crazy. Just silky-smooth skin, lacy straps framing her classy little bush. Maybe no bush. He groaned at the thought.
She had to have been wearing panties. Any lady doctor who went bare-assed to a session with a recently released inmate was begging to get drilled.
He loitered in the shade for a few minutes, keeping his eye on the exit to the office building. She came out alone, glancing around the parking lot the way women did before they got into their cars. Keys clutched in her hand, she approached a sand-colored Prius and disengaged the alarm. Seconds later, she was gone.
He stared after her, lost in thought. She’d told him that she was a murder witness living under an assumed identity. That was unwise. He could follow her home and demonstrate how easy it was for a criminal to take advantage of that information. But he wouldn’t. His ankle monitor was tracking his locations, and she’d never counsel him again if he showed up at her house. Besides, he wanted to fuck her, not stalk her.
He could control his impulses. Sometimes.
It occurred to him that she might be playing some kind of game. Maybe she had a rough-sex fantasy, and she actually wanted him to follow her home. Or grab her in the stairwell and shove her up against the wall.
Damn. That would be hot.
He couldn’t just spring that sort of thing on her and hope she liked it, though. Her sexy lingerie and soft touch wasn’t an invitation for a mauling.
Shaking his head, he drove away from the office buildings and considered his options for the evening. He could go back to the club and hit up Tiffany again. Or he could head to one of those upscale bars on El Paseo and find another classy piece of ass, like Mia. There were rich women in this area. Trophy wives, divorcees and casino daughters. If they wanted to go slumming, he was ready.
But he was dog-tired, and he had to get up early. Drinking and carousing didn’t appeal to him as much as it used to. Working with a hangover was no picnic. Instead of seeking female companionship, he went to the hotel alone.
He opened the door to the jailhouse suite, noticing a dark-haired man in the pool with Cole’s little cousin Skye. Cole walked over to the fence and gripped the iron bars, smiling at the sound of her giggles.
Aaron “Ace” Clemmons, a former member of Dirty Eleven, was cruising Skye around the pool. She had her hands around his neck. He was grinning at her in delight. Cole had been friends with Ace almost twenty years. They’d met in Slab City when Cole was thirteen. Ace had grown up in the Slabs, so he’d shown Cole the ropes. Years of hard living had roughened Ace’s appearance. But right now he looked like a family man. A dad.
Although Cole didn’t want to interrupt the visit, Ace saw him and nodded. Skye waved at him, so Cole waved back. Her rabbit was sitting in a chair near the edge of the pool, its single eye staring off into the distance. Shawnee emerged from the office in short shorts and high heels, carrying a beach towel. Cole opened the pool gate for her and followed her in.
“Time to get out,” Shawnee said, flapping the towel.
Skye didn’t protest. Ace set her on the coping and she scampered into Shawnee’s terry cloth embrace.
“We ordered pizza if you want to eat,” Shawnee said to Cole.
“I’m okay. Thanks.”
Shawnee didn’t extend the offer to Ace. Rubbing the towel over Skye’s damp hair, she lifted the girl up and started to walk away.
“Wait,” Cole said, grabbing the bunny off the chair.
Skye’s eyes brightened at the gesture. Cole handed it to her carefully.
“Say thank you,” Shawnee ordered.
Skye just stared at him.
With a flip of her long hair, Shawnee left with Skye in her arms. Her shorts barely covered her behind. Cole returned his attention to Ace, whose gaze had been in the same place. Ace was the only person Cole had told about his slipup with Shawnee. The secret hung between them, adding to the layers of tension.
Cole had a few bones to pick with Ace. The first was Ace’s bad romance with Courtney, who’d been like a little sister to Cole. While Cole was in prison, Ace had done drugs with her and knocked her up. Now she was dead, no thanks to him.
That was enough to put him on Cole’s shit list, but Ace had also left Dirty Eleven by choice. Quitting the club before retirement age was against the rules, and it meant that Ace was subject to random beat-downs by current members. Cole wasn’t going to fight him, though. Not in front of his child or anywhere else. Ace was a scary motherfucker, cut or no cut, and they had a long history of friendship.
Ace climbed out of the pool. He was wearing cargo shorts instead of swim trunks, and he had as many jailhouse tattoos as Cole, if not more. “I don’t want any trouble,” Ace said, draping a towel ar
ound his shoulders.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Here?”
“Somewhere private. I’ll meet you at the liquor store down the street.”
Ace nodded his agreement, and they headed in separate directions. Cole walked into his room and left through the back entrance. Climbing over the balcony, he jogged away from the hotel. Ace picked him up at the liquor store in an old work truck. They drove to a dilapidated trailer at the edge of town.
“Nice place,” Cole said.
“Reminds me of home.”
There were two lawn chairs by the front door. Cole took a seat while Ace went inside, returning with two frosty bottles.
“It’s nonalcoholic,” Ace said.
“What the fuck do you drink that for?”
Ace didn’t answer. He wasn’t a big talker. Maybe he’d passed that on to Skye. When they were kids, Ace’s favorite thing to do was stalk prey. He’d used these primitive hunting tools to kill rabbits. Not just for fun, either. He’d eaten them.
Cole accepted the bottle of near beer and took a swig. It was okay. Ace collapsed in the other lawn chair, still wearing his wet shorts and no shoes. When Ace lifted his bottle to toast, they clinked the necks together.
“Cheers to your freedom,” Ace said.
Cole smiled at his sarcasm.
“How did you celebrate?”
“I went to Vixen with the guys.”
“You get lucky?”
“Yeah.”
“With who?”
“One of the dancers.”
“Which one?”
Cole was surprised Ace cared enough to ask. “Have you been there?”
“Just tell me which one.”
“Tiffany.”
Ace’s shoulders relaxed. “Oh. Her.”
“Do you have a new old lady or what?”
Ace tilted up his bottle. “Nope.”
Cole didn’t press him for details. Ace was even more tight-lipped about women than other subjects. If Ace was dating one of the strippers, that was none of Cole’s business. “Why’d you leave Dirty E?”
“I want custody of Skye.”
Cole imagined Ace would have a hard time convincing the courts that he was a fit parent. Being an active member of an outlaw club wouldn’t help. Neither would this run-down trailer. “Does Shawnee know that?”
Riding Dirty Page 5
