Shooting Dirty

by Jill Sorenson

  And he’d haunted her dreams ever since.

  It was pretty fucked up, even for her, to be attracted to a cold-blooded criminal who’d dragged her into his truck and held her against her will. But he hadn’t hurt her. He’d done something else to her. He’d looked inside, at the places she kept hidden.

  “I don’t know anyone by that name,” she said.

  He squinted in disbelief. “I think you do.”

  She just stared at him, hoping he’d go away. Even if he didn’t have the gang vest and neck tattoo she would have been afraid of him. He reminded her of a snake, coiled to strike. She forced herself not to shrink back. Sudden movement could set him off.

  “The guy I’m talking about is a big, black-haired motherfucker with tattooed knuckles. It says S-L-A-B on one side, C-I-T-Y on the other.” He raised his own fists in an intimidating, unnecessary demonstration. There were silver skull rings on his fingers. “You seen him?”

  Janelle shook her head, mute. She could picture those tattooed knuckles as clear as day. Ace’s hands had been large, like the rest of him. Slab City was an off-the-grid community on the east side of the Salton Sea. It was full of outlaws and outcasts. Maybe he lived there. Although she hadn’t seen him since the shooting, she’d sensed him. Someone had replaced a broken window in her car, and she’d found an unmarked envelope full of money in her mailbox just before Christmas.

  The man on her doorstep relaxed his fists. “Tell him to meet me at the clubhouse as soon as possible. I’ll keep stopping by until he does.”

  She didn’t agree to do his bidding. He sauntered toward his friend with a loose-hipped gait. After they both got on their bikes and drove away, she breathed a sigh of relief. Then she rushed outside to find Jamie. The rec center was at the opposite end of the trailer park, next to a deserted playground.

  It was empty.

  She examined the surrounding area, her throat dry. It was an arid January day, pleasantly warm at seventy-five degrees. The air crackled with static. A tumbleweed rolled past the abandoned swing set and got caught up under one of the picnic tables. She walked around the corner of the building, toward the vending machines.

  And there was her son, drinking a soda in the shade.

  With his father’s killer.

  Chapter Two

  Ace sat in his truck at the edge of the trailer park, smoking.

  Janelle had warned him to stay away. She’d also promised to claw his eyes out, if he remembered correctly.

  And yet, here he was.

  He’d worked ten backbreaking hours on a demolition project. He was worn out, dirty, and not even horny. But instead of seeking the comfort of his own trailer in Coachella, he’d parked down the road from hers and settled in for some quality lurking. Her bedroom window had thin curtains he could almost see through. He planned to stay until sunset, chain-smoking and hoping for a glimpse of her.

  While he waited, his attention was diverted by a group of boys. They were standing near a deserted playground on the other side of the trailer park. Four rowdy-looking teenagers had formed a wall to block another boy’s path. There was some shoving back and forth. It appeared to be a routine afterschool scuffle. None of his business.

  Ace kept watching because he recognized the smaller boy. It was Janelle’s son, Jamie. Ace had learned his name a few months ago while hunting down the boy’s father. One of the teens, a redhead in a jacket with the sleeves torn off, stepped forward and sucker-punched Jamie. The boy dropped to the dirt. The other kids crowded around him and started kicking.

  Shit.

  Ace got out of his truck and strode toward the group, tossing his cigarette aside. They had their backs to the road, so they didn’t see him coming.

  The redheaded boy gave Jamie another kick. “Your mother’s a whore, Lamie.”

  Jamie made a sound of fury and tackled the bully around the ankles, bringing him to the ground. Then there were two boys rolling around in a cloud of dust while the three remaining cheered them on. One-on-one wasn’t quite as unfair as the kicking scenario, but Ace had already walked all the way over here, and the fight was still uneven. Jamie’s opponent had several years on him, and at least forty pounds.

  “Break it up,” Ace growled, shoving the bystanders aside. He grabbed the bully by the back of his jacket and yanked him upright. His three friends gaped at Ace like he was some kind of mythical beast.

  Jamie moaned, holding a hand over his bloody nose.

  The teenagers reeked of clove cigarettes and hard alcohol. They looked familiar, like MC wannabes, but Ace couldn’t place them. There was an old Dodge Dart nearby with grimy windows and a bumper sticker advertising Slab City’s pirate radio station. These were Slab kids—like him. “You boys aren’t from around here.”

  The bully struggled to break free from Ace’s grip. “So what?”

  Ace released him with a disgusted shove. “So only pussies fight four against one. Get the fuck out of here before I even the score.”

  The teenagers took off running. They piled into the junky car and drove away, spitting gravel across the parking lot.

  Ace extended his hand to the boy on the ground. Jamie stared up at him warily, his nose crusted with a mixture of dust and blood. He had his father’s face, with Janelle’s stubborn chin and a shaggy mop of brown hair.

  Instead of accepting Ace’s help, he rolled over and puked in the dirt. The liquid that came up smelled like tequila and oranges.

  Ugh. Gross.

  Ace cringed, withdrawing his hand. Then he folded his arms across his chest and glanced around the deserted picnic area. He didn’t know what to do with a drunk, sick kid. Leaving him in a puddle of his own vomit might be the best option.

  Janelle would freak out if she saw them together, and Ace wanted nothing to do with him. The kid was a walking reminder of his dead father, and Ace didn’t need another guilt trip. He also didn’t like kids, with the exception of his own.

  Skye was his reason for living. His only reason, most days.

  Other people’s children were no concern of his. They were weak and defenseless, and he couldn’t stand the sight of them in trouble. So he didn’t look.

  Jamie dry-heaved a few more times and went quiet. Ace was about to make his excuses and walk away when he heard the faint growl of motorcycle engines. It sounded like a couple of custom-made choppers, the kind White Lightning favored.

  The noise faded and he returned his attention to Jamie. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Want me to call your mom?”

  “No.” Jamie got up without Ace’s help. Then he stumbled toward the nearest building, clearly inebriated. There was a vending machine next to a bench in the shade. He sat down and almost fell over the side.

  Ace frowned at the kid’s lack of coordination. He was really fucked up. That wasn’t Ace’s problem or his responsibility. He’d already done enough. Even so, Ace stepped into the shade and bought him a cold soda from the machine.

  “Hold that against your nose,” he said, handing it to him.

  Jamie complied with a mumbled thanks.

  Ace felt awkward about getting involved. The situation reminded him of his own troubled childhood. He’d been nine or ten when he’d had his first drink. By age thirteen, he’d been getting hammered on the regular. Now, almost twenty years later, he was sober. He couldn’t say he was enjoying lucidity, but he hadn’t enjoyed oblivion either. “What was the fight about?”

  “My mom.”

  “They insulted her?”

  “They said she was a stripper.”

  Ace didn’t react to this news. He was surprised Janelle had been able to keep it a secret for so long.

  “I told them she worked at a sports bar in Coachella, so we drove by and it was closed. Out of business.” He shifted the soda can
to the other side of his face. “Patrick said she dances nude on stage and gives b-blowjobs in the back room.”

  Vixen was a topless bar, not nude, and there was no touching allowed. Certainly no blowjobs. Ace had discovered all of these details firsthand, much to his disappointment. “Patrick is the one who punched you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  “Kincaid.”

  Ah. That was why he looked familiar. Ace knew his mother.

  “He’s a fucking liar,” Jamie said, his eyes narrowed. “My mom’s not a whore. She never even brings guys over. The only person who comes by is Tiffany.”

  Tiffany. Ace knew her, too. Not quite as well as he knew Patrick’s mother, but he’d seen her dance before. She was the most popular girl in the club, and rumor had it that she liked women as well as men. Sometimes Ace wondered if Tiffany and Janelle were more than friends. It was a bittersweet speculation. He wanted Janelle for himself.

  He’d wanted her from the first moment he saw her. He’d bought a lap dance from her the night before he’d taken her captive. She wasn’t the youngest dancer at Vixen, but she was the best by far. Her body moved like a well-oiled machine, her steps smooth and graceful. She could do amazing things with a pole between her thighs. On stage, she was a sex kitten, faux-sultry, but also remote and unattainable. You can’t touch this. Behind the mask, she wasn’t the least bit playful. She was tough as nails.

  He’d been mesmerized with her from the start. Shooting her ex hadn’t killed his fascination. Neither had capturing her and holding her against her will. He’d never tied up a woman before, and he still felt conflicted about it. He hadn’t expected to feel anything.

  It was supposed to have been his last job, a simple pickup and delivery. But everything had gotten fucked up and the crew leader had gone missing. Ace had been ordered to find him by any means necessary. He’d taken Janelle as collateral.

  She’d been a handful, to say the least.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about her. Fantasizing about her gorgeous body...her tightly bound wrists. He kept driving by her work and guarding her trailer from a distance. Guarding her from who, or what, he didn’t know. The greatest threat to her was him. She had no other criminal connections. She was a loose end from a job gone wrong, and that made him nervous. He sensed trouble, as if someone else was tailing her. Someone who wanted to hurt her, not just fuck her.

  Ace pushed his dark thoughts aside and focused on Jamie. “You go to school with those kids?”

  Jamie nodded.

  The local high school was a combination of grades seven through twelve. Ace remembered it well. Some of the older boys picked on the younger ones. “I’d steer clear of them if I were you. Patrick’s probably jealous.”

  “Of what?”

  “You. You’ve got a good-looking mom. Maybe kids insult his mother.”

  “They do.”

  “Well, there you go. He can’t fight his own friends. It’s easier to gang up on you.”

  “So I’m supposed to jus’ ignore him?”

  “If you react, he’ll keep doing it.”

  Jamie took the soda can away from his nose. The bleeding had stopped. His T-shirt was torn and stained. “Why do you care?”

  Ace was caught off-guard by the question. Did he care? It wasn’t like him to care. His heart—what was left of it—belonged to Skye. He didn’t have anyone else. She was the only person who mattered to him.

  “How do you know my mom?” Jamie asked.

  Ace just shrugged, as if they were casual acquaintances.

  “Are you trying to get with her?”

  “No. She wouldn’t have me.”

  Jamie seemed pleased to hear this. He cracked open the soda and took a sip, his eyelids drooping with fatigue.

  Ace smiled wryly. That was alcohol for you. Puking one minute, passing out the next. “You need to go home and sleep it off.”

  “I can’t. My mom’ll kill me.”

  Ace grunted in response, unsympathetic. The motorcycles he’d heard before fired up again and roared into the distance. He leaned his shoulder against the vending machines, relaxing a little. He hadn’t ridden a bike in ages. He missed his Dirty Eleven brothers and those wild, rowdy days. Too bad they’d come at such a high price.

  He couldn’t move forward, but he’d never go back.

  “Who are you?” Jamie asked.

  “I’m Aaron,” he said, though no one ever used his given name anymore. He didn’t want Jamie telling his mother about “Ace.” Then again, he doubted the kid would remember this conversation. They shook hands.

  Ace was about to say goodbye when Janelle strode around the corner, a laundry basket propped on one hip.

  She looked frantic. And sexy. She always looked sexy. She was wearing a lacy white tank top with cut-off jean shorts and cowboy boots. Her brown hair was in between curly and straight. Flyaway tendrils framed her pretty face, and rumpled waves brushed her bare shoulders. Her lips were parted in surprise.

  Janelle wasn’t happy to see him, of course. Her eyes flashed pure fire. He imagined the whistling showdown sound effect from an old Clint Eastwood movie.

  If you ever come near my son, I’ll shoot you.

  The warning she’d issued six months ago echoed in Ace’s ears. He believed she’d do it. Before he’d killed her ex, Ace had left her tied up in a shed, where she couldn’t get hurt or do any more damage. But she hadn’t stayed there. She’d broken free, grabbed Ace’s gun and pointed it at his head.

  Damn. That had been hot.

  He wondered what she’d done with his gun. He’d loved that gun. The Colt 1911 pistol had been a vintage, army-issue .45 caliber single-action semi-automatic in jet black with a long hammer and a checkered walnut grip. It looked fierce, fired true and felt as natural as his dick in his hand.

  Janelle had wrecked his truck that day, too. He’d lost his gun and his cage. He was lucky he’d walked away unharmed, though. Hell, he was lucky he hadn’t been arrested. He’d managed to stay one step ahead of the cops and deliver the money to Wild Bill. Investigators hadn’t even questioned him. Janelle must not have given them a full description, and neither had her brother-in-law, probably because they feared retribution. He’d counted on that, but he didn’t feel good about it. He didn’t feel good about any of it. He wasn’t a monster who enjoyed terrorizing innocent women. Even a lowlife like him had some standards.

  Or so he’d thought.

  His dick apparently hadn’t given a damn about right, wrong or willing. It had urged him to take advantage of her bound state. She’d offered him oral sex—out of fear and desperation. He’d declined for a number of reasons, but lack of desire wasn’t one of them. He’d had to work hard to appear disinterested.

  He didn’t think his reaction to her had anything to do with the fact that she took off her clothes for a living. Seeing her topless had certainly turned his crank, and paying for a lap dance hadn’t helped. But what had really hooked him wasn’t her sexy fuck-me act. It was her cunning, her resourcefulness and her powerful love for her son.

  The woman was a survivor. Tooth and claw.

  He wasn’t sure how to reconcile his admiration of her strength with his perverse excitement over having her at his mercy. So he didn’t. He just imagined her in all sorts of depraved scenarios and jerked off.

  Ace couldn’t help but admire her sleek figure and down-to-earth beauty now that she was right in front of him again. He held his breath in anticipation of her next move. Her nostrils flared with fury as she stared back at him.

  She must not have kept his Colt. If she’d had it, she would’ve drawn and fired.

  Chapter Three

  Janelle couldn’t believe he was here.

  The nerve of this motherfucker. He was just lounging in t
he shade next to Jamie, as if he hadn’t shot Shane in cold blood. As if he hadn’t grabbed her from the side of the road and held her hostage.

  It had been the most terrifying experience of her life. He hadn’t hurt her, and that was almost worse. If he’d been rough and cruel, she could hate him. His detached manner and careful handling had confused her. He’d been polite, even gentle. She’d felt a riot of conflicting emotions in his company.

  Fear, curiosity...arousal.

  Shame coursed through her at the thought. She’d offered to blow him that night and he’d turned her down. She’d been trying to play him, to use her sexuality as a weapon. Instead, she’d played herself.

  The man by the vending machine was as attractive as she remembered. He was wearing a faded gray T-shirt that had seen better days with sturdy jeans and steel-toe boots. He looked dirty. Not homeless-dirty, but hard-work dirty. His arms were banded with muscle and covered in tattoos. She forced her gaze to his face. It wasn’t a nice face. He had cold blue eyes and weathered skin. With his ink-black hair and hawkish nose, he reminded her of a crow. Or a desert raven, which was an even larger black bird. There was a grimness to him. He was the kind of man you’d cross the street to avoid.

  Somehow his scavenger features and scary eyes failed to make him ugly. It wasn’t fair, but neither was life. He had a strong jaw. He was tall and well-built. The overall effect was dangerously handsome.

  Ugh.

  She’d had it with men, and this one was at the top of her shitlist. Men were nothing but trouble. All of them. The guy on the admissions panel who’d judged her earlier. That awful motorcycle club member who’d just visited her. The customers at the club. Her son’s father. Her father.

  Her stepfather.

  Pushing aside the bad memories, she turned her attention to Jamie, the only male she could tolerate. She’d crush anyone who hurt him. Clearly, someone had. His hair was dusty and his shirt had bloodstains.