Riding Dirty

by Jill Sorenson

  “Yes.”

  Cole didn’t envy Ace this battle. Shawnee resented Ace for taking her only daughter away. She’d fight tooth and nail to keep Skye, and she’d probably win. Unless his uncle Bill got arrested and Shawnee was implicated in the crime.

  Ace rose to grab a pack of cigarettes from his truck.

  “Are those non-nicotine?” Cole asked.

  “They’re the real deal.”

  “Give me one. I haven’t smoked in years.”

  Ace handed him a cigarette and a lighter before he sat down. “Knock yourself out.”

  Cole set the beer aside and lit up. His lungs filled with smoke and he coughed, expelling the noxious cloud.

  Ace smirked at his rookie move. “How’s it taste?”

  “Like ass.”

  “Ass tastes pretty nice, if I remember correctly.”

  “You don’t.”

  “It’s been a while,” Ace said.

  For Cole also. What he really missed was the taste of pussy, but he wasn’t averse to ass. There was no place on the female body he wouldn’t kiss. His slam-bam with Tiffany hadn’t even put a dent in his desires. He thought about Mia again, her ass bare except for lacy garters. Yeah, he’d eat that ass like a banquet.

  “I have to ask you about Roach,” Cole said, passing the cigarette to Ace. It was making him light-headed.

  Ace’s eyes became shuttered. “Okay.”

  Cole suspected that Ace knew why Rylan, aka “Roach,” had been stabbed in the badlands. Ace, Cole and Rylan had always been thick as thieves. The other Dirty Eleven guys said they hadn’t been in on the job. Rylan wouldn’t have worked with the Aryan Brotherhood on his own, without backup he could trust.

  Rising from the chair, Cole found a five-gallon bucket in the back of Ace’s truck. There was a water spigot across the street. He filled the bucket with water and set it down next to the lawn chair. Then he removed his right boot and sock, rolling his jeans up to the knee. Yesterday, he’d cut the leg off an old wetsuit he’d bought at a thrift shop. He pulled it tight over his ankle monitor to muffle any sounds. This quick fix was okay for casual conversations at the clubhouse, even his sessions with Mia. But what they were about to discuss might be life-in-prison shit.

  Cole wanted answers for himself, not the cops. He stuck his foot in the bucket. Between the wetsuit fabric and the water, any sound would be insulated. “My uncle thinks the ankle monitor could have a listening device.”

  “Can they do that?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m not taking any chances.”

  Ace pinched off his cigarette and stared into the distance. The trailer park was rustic, but it had a decent view of the Coachella Valley. “No good can come of this, Shank.”

  “That’s fine. I’ve got no good left in me.”

  “I have a daughter to consider.”

  “And I have a dead brother.”

  Ace finished his near beer and set it aside, reluctant.

  “I won’t repeat anything you say. Especially not to my uncle.”

  “How can I be sure?”

  “You’ll just have to trust me, as a friend.”

  “We’re not friends.”

  Cole just stared at him. They’d had a falling out over Courtney before Cole’s second stint in prison. Cole had asked Ace to stay away from her, but Courtney usually got what she wanted, and she’d wanted Ace. She’d been a lot like her mother. Needy, demanding, prone to excess. Ace couldn’t keep her happy, but he couldn’t seem to cut her loose, either.

  “Someone approached your uncle about the ransom job,” Ace said finally. “This guy already had a crew and everything planned. He wanted local facilitators who were familiar with the badlands. Roach and I were supposed to do a simple transfer. Pick up the cash from the kidnappers and deliver it to a third party.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “Wild Bill decided they needed a babysitter, so Roach joined the crew. It turned into a total clusterfuck. The girl they took had a kid with her, along with her bodyguard. Somehow they all got away. Roach had to follow them, and you know he was a good tracker. I think the bodyguard spotted him and doubled back to attack.”

  Cole had seen the bodyguard’s picture in the news. He was former Aryan Brotherhood, a bad guy turned hero. Like the assassins in The Dirty Dozen. Cole couldn’t blame the bodyguard for acting in defense of a woman and a child, even if Rylan had meant them no harm. His brother had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “Fuck,” Cole said, rubbing a hand down his face. “Why would my uncle get mixed up in that kind of crime?”

  “The money was good.”

  “Is that the reason you did it?”

  “No,” Ace said, glancing away. “Bill promised he’d convince Shawnee to give up Skye. But he didn’t follow through.”

  “He blamed you for Rylan?”

  “Either that, or he’s just a fucking liar.”

  “Do you know who was he collaborating with?”

  Ace hesitated.

  “Was it a member of AB?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Who else would it be?”

  “I heard he was doing side jobs with another MC.”

  It wasn’t unusual for two clubs to pair up for a common goal. There was power in alliances and money to be made. “Which one?”

  Ace didn’t speak, but Cole read the answer in his friend’s cold blue eyes. They were the same eyes Ace shared with Skye, sort of eerie in contrast with his ink-black hair, and too fine for the rest of his weathered face.

  There was only one group Cole hated more than the Aryan Brotherhood. They were bitter rivals of Dirty Eleven, known for hard drugs, home invasion robberies and human trafficking.

  Cole had earned his nickname by shanking one of them.

  White Lightning.

  CHAPTER SIX

  MIA ARRIVED EARLY to sabotage the air-conditioning.

  She’d thought about Cole all weekend. Wondered how his rough, tattooed hands would feel on her. If she’d respond to his touch with enthusiasm or freeze, retreating inside herself. Would her body accept him, even while her mind stayed distant? Before meeting him in person, she’d imagined faking everything, from attraction to orgasm. She’d planned to use lube to mimic natural arousal, and rouge her nipples. Now that they’d interacted, she wasn’t sure the deception would be necessary.

  Since Philip died, she’d been numb. Not just emotionally, but sexually. She’d masturbated once, about a week after his murder, lost in a haze of crushing grief and insomnia. Seeking comfort, any kind of comfort, she’d climbed into bed with a shirt he’d worn. It smelled of citrus soap and shaving lotion. She’d spent hours with the fabric pressed to her face and her hand between her legs. When she couldn’t orgasm anymore, she’d cried. Deep, raw, gut-wrenching tears.

  The next day, she’d washed his shirt and tucked it away. She’d been allowed to pack a suitcase full of belongings from their home, mostly her own clothing. The items she had to remember him by were photographs, his favorite wristwatch and a small sculpture of Aphrodite he’d meant to give her for their fifth anniversary. He’d always called her his Aphrodite. His titian-haired goddess.

  She kept those things in a drawer, along with hisshirt. And she might as well have placed her sexuality in there, too. Set it aside, under wraps, like an object to mourn and weep over when she was feeling weak.

  She hadn’t opened that drawer this weekend. Instead she’d gone shopping to fill another drawer—a naughty one. She’d stocked up on provocative lingerie and sexual aids. While browsing for new outfits, she’d caught a glimpse of a black leather corset. She’d bought it on impulse and donned the garment at home. Stomach fluttering with excitement, she’d touched herself in front of the mirror. Fantasizing about Cole. At the moment of climax, she’d pictured him in the motorcycle mask, taking her by force. Her sharp cry of pleasure made her tremble with shame. Was she facing her fears, or getting off on them?

  She didn’t know.r />
  After she disabled the air conditioner, she returned to her desk. She was wearing a gray skirt suit with a sleeveless, floral-print blouse. No garter belt or stockings today. Her bra was bright pink. If she removed the jacket, her bra would be visible through the sheer fabric of her blouse, but the look wasn’t that daring. She undid a few more buttons.

  Her strategy was to entice Cole without being obvious. She wanted him to think he was chasing her, so a certain amount of subtlety was in order. But time was of the essence. He could get pulled from the assignment for failing to cooperate. Damon already suspected Cole of withholding information.

  There was another glitch in the plan: she actually liked him, and that was dangerous. She’d sympathized with clients before, but she’d never had to recuse herself from an evaluation. Her fluttery-stomach feelings for Cole were inappropriate on every level. They also might compromise her mission if she got too emotionally attached.

  She had to act now, before she changed her mind about using him.

  Too nervous to sit still, she went to the staff lounge. Her throat was dry as a bone, and she’d forgotten her bottled water. She found a clear plastic pitcher under the sink and washed it. After adding ice, she filled it up. There was a bag of freshly picked lemons on the table, so she sliced one and tossed it in. Very refreshing.

  She carried the pitcher back to the office, along with some paper cups, in case Cole wanted a drink. It was the least she could do. The temperature was in the high nineties today. Without a/c, the room would become a sweat lodge.

  She distracted herself for a few minutes by making notes about other patients. She’d seen a police officer in Palm Springs with PTSD this morning. She spent Mondays and Wednesdays counseling women at the Ironwood Female Detention Facility. It was interesting, important work, but she wasn’t fulfilled. Because she had no outlet, no comfort. No personal life. No one to come home to and curl up with at the end of a hard day. She didn’t know if she was capable of trusting a man with her body, let alone her heart. She couldn’t imagine starting a family. Not when she felt so unsafe. How could she bring a child into a world where real monsters roamed free, and might come after her?

  She didn’t have a normal life. She couldn’t have one. She could have only this cold, satisfying revenge.

  After what seemed like hours, Cole knocked on her door.

  “Come in,” she said, standing behind her desk.

  He had his leather vest draped over one arm instead of on his back, probably in deference to her anxiety attack. Otherwise his appearance was the same. White T-shirt, snug around the biceps. Basic Levi’s. Motorcycle boots. He must shower between work and these appointments, because his clothes were clean.

  He looked good. Healthy. Handsome.

  Heat rose to her cheeks as he gave her a similar perusal. His gaze zeroed in on her cleavage, darkening with interest. What had felt demure a moment ago now seemed desperate. She shouldn’t have unbuttoned so far.

  “How are you?” she asked, clearing her throat.

  He made a noncommittal sound and helped himself to a seat. His demeanor was less cautious than last week but also more agitated. He took up a lot of space, legs spread wide, expression challenging.

  Mia picked up her notebook and crossed the room, sitting down across from him. “Is something bothering you?”

  “Just your DA boyfriend.”

  She didn’t correct his wording. “What did he do?”

  “I don’t see why I should have to meet with him unless I have information. Getting interrogated twice a week for no reason is bullshit. I have to leave work early, and it looks suspicious.”

  “It’s not unusual for an inmate with your criminal history to have biweekly visits with a parole officer in the first month after release.”

  “Yeah, maybe. But I don’t like being hassled and accused of withholding evidence.”

  Mia would be very surprised if Cole wasn’t withholding evidence. “I can speak to Investigator Vargas on your behalf.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I take care of my own business. And I don’t want you speaking to him. I don’t want you doing anything with him.”

  She tightened her grip on the notebook, flustered. Normally she would offer a gentle rebuke if a male client acted possessive or voiced an interest in looking up her skirt. With Cole, she let it slide. “Let’s talk about your homework.”

  “Homework?”

  “I asked you to think about how you express feelings other than anger.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “Did you come to any conclusions?”

  He leaned back in the chair, considering. “I think I avoid feelings altogether. Or I keep a lid on them, bottled up tight. But what I put in there isn’t what comes out. Grief or whatever gets converted into anger. Then it boils over.”

  Mia couldn’t believe how good he was at this. After two sessions, he was more self-aware than some clients who’d gone through years of therapy. “Do you know why you avoid your feelings?”

  “Because crying is weak, I guess. I prefer to stay in control.”

  “But you aren’t always in control of your anger.”

  “No. I’m not.”

  “Has that affected your life in negative ways?”

  He glanced out the window. “It has, but I don’t regret the violence I’ve done. The guy I stabbed had it coming to him.”

  “Do you believe in the justice system?”

  “Do you?”

  Mia didn’t want to answer that. She’d had a different outlook since Philip’s murder. Dangerous criminals went free all the time. The rapist Cole stabbed might have gotten away with a slap on the wrist.

  She still had the utmost respect for law officers, many of whom were underpaid and underappreciated, but working behind the scenes with them had painted a dismal picture. Their failures and frustrations resonated with her. So did the stories of the troubled women she counseled in jail.

  “The majority of convicts come from disadvantaged homes,” she said, acknowledging that the system was flawed. “Poverty, abuse, drug addiction. There’s also a disproportionate amount of nonwhite inmates. Prisons are a huge moneymaking industry.”

  “You should put that on a picket sign.”

  “I’m sensing some hostility. Why?”

  “Because I’m not a victim, helpless to overcome my poor, sad childhood. My parents didn’t abuse me.”

  “Neglect is a form of abuse.”

  “I’m responsible for my own actions,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “But I agree that the system is fucked up. That’s why guys like me join outlaw clubs. Instead of trying to change society, we reject it.”

  “Do you want to change yourself?”

  He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Maybe.”

  Mia knew then that she couldn’t use him to get revenge on her enemies. He wasn’t the empty-headed thug she’d expected. She’d seen that from the start. He was capable of turning his life around. More capable than she was, perhaps.

  There was something to be said for hard-knocks resilience. She’d grown up in comfort, surrounded by love, believing in fairness and peace. She hadn’t been prepared for the rug to get pulled out from under her. Cole didn’t have that safety blanket. He’d been able to roll with the punches.

  She took a deep breath, feeling some of her tension ebb. She’d been on edge and obsessed with this crazy plan for weeks. The nervous energy had been heady and revitalizing. She’d embraced the rush of sensations like an addict, wanting more.

  Now she had to let it go. Only a madwoman would have entertained the idea she’d dreamed up. Did she really think she could seduce Cole, feed him a few details about her past, and sit back while he hunted down her husband’s killers? If he’d actually done it, and been caught, he’d have spent the rest of his life in prison. This was California, home of the Three Strikes law. He had two strikes already. On the third, they’d throw away the key. She couldn’t have lived w
ith that on her conscience. She wasn’t really living at the moment, but more death wasn’t the answer.

  Although she felt as though a weight had been lifted off her shoulders, her relief was tempered by sorrow. Abandoning her plan meant giving up on vengeance for Philip. It meant moving on without closure.

  Blinking the tears from her eyes, she focused on Cole. He was waiting for her to speak, watching her face with concern. “There’s a strong correlation between anger, self-control and prison. I think you’ll see a major improvement if you work on the way you deal with feelings. You might be able to curb your impulses and avoid another felony arrest.”

  “The stakes are pretty high,” he said.

  “Yes. I assume you don’t want a life sentence.”

  “I’d rather die.”

  Guilt speared through her. “Talking with me is a good start. You can learn to release your emotions instead of keeping them bottled up inside.”

  He seemed unconvinced. “I don’t think talking is the answer.”

  “No?”

  “This—” he gestured to the space between them “—isn’t what I need.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Some other kind of release.”

  “Sex?”

  “Not just that.”

  “Intimacy?”

  After mulling it over, he nodded.

  “Did you have that the other night, with...”

  “No,” he said. “We just fucked.”

  She considered his suggestion. Having counseled female inmates about sexual issues on a number of occasions, she was familiar with their struggles. “How did you handle the lack of sex in prison? Assuming you didn’t have any. No judgment if you did.”

  “I went without.”

  “What about friendly contact?”

  “Do fights count?”

  “No,” she said, smiling at his joke.

  “We had a monthly football game with the guards. I wouldn’t call the contact friendly, but there was lots of it.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  “Not in a gay way, but yeah. I did.”

  “Everyone needs to be touched. It’s a basic human desire, like communicating with others and looking at faces. There’s no shame in wanting sexual contact, or engaging in same-sex contact, even if that’s not your preference.”