by JA Huss
“Oh, my God!” she moans. “Don’t stop talking. Holy fuck, Spencer. Please, don’t stop! I like it.”
I unbutton her little jean shorts and smack her thigh. “Stand up and take these off.”
She stands up and swings her leg over the bike seat, then shimmies her hips until the shorts fall to the ground around her wedge-heeled sandals. She kicks them off to the side and stands in front of me. “Now you, Spencer.”
I shoot her a crooked, devious, filthy grin. “Now me, what?” I growl. “If you want something from me, you have to ask for it. And if you expect me to deliver, you better be descriptive.”
She blushes and my wood is petrified, that’s how fucking hard I am for this girl. She doesn’t ask, she just takes. She slips out of her panties and straddles the bike again, her legs open and her wet pussy exposed. She goes for the button on my jeans and I stop her hand.
“You want my cock, Ronnie? You want me to take it out and fuck your tits and your mouth?”
She pants harder now. “Yes.”
“Say it, Bomb. Tell me why you want it, or I won’t give it to you. I’ll tease you and leave you to suffer. If you want me, you have to ask for it. You have to ask for it the exact way you want it, Veronica. If you want my cock in your mouth, tell me. If you want my cock between your perfect tits, say it. If you want to suck me until I come down your throat—fuck, baby. Just ask. I’m ready.”
She stares up at me, her ragged breath a total betrayal of her desires. But I stay still and quiet as I wait her out.
“I want you,” she finally whispers. “I want—” She stops to swallow hard and closes her eyes. Her cheeks flush red with embarrassment, but she forces the words out anyway. “I want your cock between my tits, Spencer. I want you to fuck me in my mouth.” She squeezes her tits together and wiggles her pussy against the hard thickness pressing up against my jeans.
I can’t take the restraint anymore, so I get off the bike and strip off the jeans. I’m still commando from this morning’s modeling job, and His Highness is ready for battle. I sit back down and look down at her pussy. It’s so wet her juices are almost flowing out onto the black leather bike seat. I grab her hips and pull, bringing her beckoning sex within easy reach of my throbbing cock. “Lie back, baby. I’m gonna take you now. I’ll get to your tits and your mouth later, but right now I’m gonna fuck you good. I’m gonna make you squirt. Are you a squirter, Bombshell?” I push her until she falls back against the tank. “I bet I can find out right now.” I slip two fingers inside her and thrust, fast and hard. She buckles and screams, wiggling against my palm, which probably stimulates her more. I pull my fingers out quickly once her muscles begin to clamp. “You are, baby. You are most definitely a squirter. But I’m not gonna let you off that easy. If you want that, you can ask for it next time.”
“Oh. My God,” seems to be her standard answer tonight. I’ve got her off balance. She’s not sure what to make of me, but her wet pussy says she’s OK with that for now. I ease forward and she moans out, “Please, Spencer, just fuck me! Please!”
I do fuck her on the ’56 Blackbird. She screams my name four times. We almost topple the damn thing over with our antics and I could care less. That bike can be repaired, but this first dirty fuck with my Bombshell, that’s never gonna happen again.
It’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing.
It’s a change-my-life-forever thing.
It’s a falling-in-love-and-lust thing.
It’s a recognizing-my-best-friend thing.
And it’s the day I decide—this girl is mine.
Forever.
Chapter Seven
I pull myself out of the past and sigh. It’s not going to end this way, that’s for damn sure. It’s not. I’ve been planning for my moment for years and that shit is just about in reach. I refuse to submit to circumstances.
I glance up at the clock on the wall and realize it’s already ten o’clock. I might as well go back into town early, just in case Ronnie thinks she can duck out and evade me at closing time. I grab my keys and my phone and head down to the buildings on the far end of the property where I keep the surveillance van. Ford’s robot shit is in there and I won’t have time to come back to the house before meeting him at midnight.
I key open the garage and walk into the darkness. A stray beam from the outside security light bounces off a chrome fender and distracts me for a moment. I reach over to the wall and flip on the light.
My old Chevy truck—the same one I drove around town when I first moved out here, the same one I met Ronnie in—is staring back at me. One of my mechanics borrowed it last week when his truck was out of commission. He must’ve parked it in the wrong bay.
I suddenly have an overwhelming need to drive this truck into town to see Ronnie. Maybe I can talk her into going for a drive and it will spark a memory in her? A memory that reminds her that we’re good together. I fish around in a drawer where I keep an extra set of keys, then reach inside the surveillance van and pull out Ford’s case. I think there’s a computer in there, but I really have no idea. He locks that shit up tight. It’s not really a briefcase, it’s a portable safe. You’d break whatever’s inside opening it up without a key, and even if you ever did access Ford’s computer, he’s got an automatic kill switch on the drive if you get the password wrong just once. We learned our lesson the last time his shit was breached. Almost cost us life in prison. We don’t make the same mistakes twice so the password kill is more than a just-in-case precautionary measure. And Ford never forgets a password. There is no need for a second chance.
I check the back of the van for anything else we might need, but it’s clean back here, so I get in the old Chevy, set the case down on the passenger seat, and pull out of the garage.
The ride back into FoCo is nothing but a whole lot of time to stew in all the mistakes I’ve made over the past few years. I’m second-guessing everything. The team, the jobs, the revenge, the bailouts. All of it had consequences we never saw coming.
But there’s nothing we can do about that now. We just need to move forward and clean it up as best we can.
The only thing I don’t regret is how I’ve handled Ronnie. In her case, I did everything right. I made sure of it. I covered all my tracks, I left no trace, I have kept her as far from me as possible for as long as possible. New Year’s was the first time I slept with her in months. And that was a private party. We stayed the night in Rook’s old garden apartment. We never left the building together. I made sure I was gone in the morning when she woke up.
The time before that it was just after Rook spilled her guts about her life on national TV and got more than a hundred people arrested in the process. People lined up outside Chaput Studios with giant signs. One proclaimed her a lying whore. And that was one of the nicer signs. She wasn’t even living there, she was here with me. But as soon as those monsters found that out, they parked at the end of my driveway.
I smile. They made the mistake of assuming that the road leading up to my house was public. It’s not. It’s my road, all three miles of it. It’s on my fucking land, which makes that land my fucking home. Which means I can shoot those fuckers if the right situation arises and it’s totally legal according to Colorado law.
I never got my chance to shoot anyone, but I did beat the shit out of a reporter who was hiding in the trees near the river in back of my house.
The county deputies pretty much had it after that. They cleared them all out under the pretense that it was a fire hazard. A few years ago this whole area was up in flames, so people tend to take that fire talk seriously around here.
Rook survived. Ford was here, Ronin was here. The Biker Channel hired security. She never had to leave if she didn’t want to, she worked in my shop while we were filming and did her classes online. Ford fired that piece-of-shit tutor who ratted us out and helped Rook in her college math class himself. I even got Ronin to do her delivery duties.
We protected her one hundred percent. But her situati
on was unique.
Ronnie works in a tattoo shop downtown. If she doesn’t work, she doesn’t make money. She can’t pay her bills. Her family is not rich. Hell, they’re not even middle-class. They might be the token white trash of Fort Collins. They do have a big-ass house in the historic district, but they have that house for one reason only—Gramps won it in a poker game back in 1958. It’s not in good repair. The place is freezing-ass cold in the winter because the furnace is so old it hardly functions, and the roof has been leaking since I met her.
And Ronnie might have a pack of badass brothers and a father who’d drop you with one kick to the throat, but the doors don’t even lock on that house. The windows barely shut. The only reason it’s never been robbed is because the Vaughn clan scares the shit out of people.
If Ronnie was thrust into the public eye like Rook was, she’d never make it. The entire family would be annihilated. They’d lose their business, they’d be hounded day and night. And there’s no way to restrict picketers on a public sidewalk in downtown like I can do on my little backcountry private road.
There’s just no way to keep her safe other than the way I’ve been doing it. Ignoring her.
The minute anyone finds out this girl is my future Mrs. Spencer Shrike, people will pounce. And while I can handle that at any other time—I could get her out of here and put her somewhere safe, I could make sure the Vaughn clan gets Sick Boyz’ rent paid on time, I could drum up business for them with some word-of-mouth buzz—I cannot do any of that shit right now.
We’ve got a major trial happening in two weeks. Rook will need to testify about the most horrific details of her previous life. They will try their best to link Ronin, Ford, and myself to a shitload of crimes that took place several years ago. I cannot be worrying about Ronnie and her family.
It’s just not a good time.
I turn off College Avenue before I get to Ron’s shop and park the truck on Maple, right next to my new building. It used to be an auto repair place a few years ago, but that went under and no one picked it back up. The Biker Channel loved the location, just past all the cute shops in downtown so we won’t offend anyone with our loud bikes. Plus, it’s already set up for a shop.
I get out of the truck and walk up to it, just checking shit out. The windows are all boarded up still. No one’s supposed to see inside until the grand opening and the crews won’t even start painting the outside for another week.
Not much to see, so I head down the street towards Sick Boyz. It’s still packed when I get there. All those frat guys are milling about outside waiting on their brothers to be finished. They’re drunk and I don’t like it.
I check my phone for the time. Ten forty-five. And just as I look up, Ronnie comes plowing through the doors in a rush. I slink back against the building, hiding in the crowd of guys as she looks up and down the street, probably checking to see if I’m doing recon on her ass. One of the guys outside the shop whistles at her and she flips him the bird and tells him to fuck off as she walks off towards home.
I start to laugh, but it dies in my throat because she stops at Mountain Avenue and hits the walk button. This is where things get interesting. Because her house is west, and that signal is for crossing College Avenue to the east.
My legs are in motion before my brain fully understands what’s happening. I’m an act-now-think-later kinda guy, so I take off after her. Where the fuck is she going? It’s late, it’s dark, she’s got no car—she should not be walking around downtown alone. Not that this town is unsafe per se, but bad shit happens everywhere. Even here. And it’s a college town, which means there’s always the threat of predators.
She walks briskly on Mountain, then turns abruptly into an alley. I hang back. My Ronnie is not stupid. She never looked back at me, but I taught her to keep walking if she ever thought she was being followed. Keep quiet for as long as possible and get that gun ready. I stalk up to the corner and wait. I know she’s on the other side, ready to pounce on anyone who appears. I can feel her when she’s this close. Like we’re connected. I can almost hear her heartbeat, that wild heartbeat that drives me crazy beating against mine as she lies on top of me after sex.
I hear an exhale, then the pounding of her Chucks as she beats a retreat. I poke my head around and catch her disappearing around another corner. But this is not a street, it’s a building. I cross the alley and stalk the wall, getting to her corner just in time to hear a screen door slam.
What the fuck is she doing?
I peak around the corner just as some lights flip on in an upstairs apartment over an old building.
That little sneak got her own place. Her car is out back, parked. And sure enough, there’s a For Sale sign on it. And she’s dating some rich guy. I bet she’s got new panties on as well! That uptight fuckass banker is enjoying my Bomb’s new panties!
I’ll kill him.
I walk over to the stairs and try my best to be quiet as I ascend, but they are wooden. And old. And squeaky. Suddenly the door is kicked open and a gun is pressing against my cheek. “Move one inch, motherfucker. I’ll blow your teeth out the other side of your head!”
“Whoa there, Ron, it’s me, baby.”
She pulls the gun off my face. “Holy hell, Spencer! You scared the fuck out of me! I thought you were gonna break in and rape me!”
“Well…” I chuckle a little. She does not find my joke funny. At all. “Sorry, Veronica. I was waiting for you outside the shop and saw you walking the wrong direction. I just needed to see what’s up.”
“It’s none of your business what I do.” She pulls the screen door open and walks into her place.
I follow her in and stalk her to the kitchen, where she grabs a beer from the fridge and then pushes past me and plops herself down on the raggedy thing some might call a couch.
“So… you moved out? Why? And what’s this shit about you selling your car? I bought you that for graduation. ”
She kicks her Chucks up on the battered coffee table and pops off her beer cap. “I’m twenty-three, Spencer. It’s about time I left the nest, don’t you think?”
“Uh…” No, not really. That’s not what I think at all. I like her at home. I like her surrounded by Gramps and her father and little brother. Three related men in the house. Yes, that’s something I can live with for a long time, thank you. But I say none of that. My Shrike Sense is tingling. I feel a declaration of independence coming from my little Ron. So I sit down next to her and try to be reasonable. “Ronnie, this place is a dump. You can’t stay here.”
She takes a swig of her Fat Tire and lets out a long, “Ahhhhh.” Totally ignoring me.
I decide on the subtle approach. “So how long is the lease? Please tell me it’s a month-to-month.”
She flips the TV to Comedy Central. There’s an Ab Fab marathon and I get a little distracted for a second. But then I snap out of it and take my attention back to her. “Veronica, answer me. Why are you living in this dump?”
She laughs as Patsy smokes a joint on TV, then drags her eyes over to me. “If you’re here to fuck me tonight, the answer is no. I have a boyfriend.”
“What? Yeah, me! I’m the boyfriend!” I stand up and pace. This has gone too far now. “Please tell me you’re not seeing that banker asshole. Because I swear—”
“Dammit! Who told you that? Ford? Did Ford tell you? I’ll kill his ass.”
“I saw you together at dinner, Veronica. What the fuck is up? And I still want to know why the fuck you’re living in this alleyway shithole.”
She snorts out a laugh and shakes her head. “You have no clue, Spencer. None.” She looks over at me again, only now her eyes are filled with anger. “You really think that you can saunter in here and demand my attention?” She stands up and points at me. “You really think I give a fuck what you think about my home? Fuck you. I’m not ashamed of this place.” She looks around the apartment and points to the art affixed to the walls with thumb tacks, and then looks back at me. “I love this
place. I love this place,” she repeats with the emphasis. “You wanna know why I love this dumpy little shithole? I’ll tell you. It’s because it’s my dumpy fucking shithole, you giant prick. I wasn’t born to a wealthy family. I wasn’t given a private education growing up. I didn’t even have a fucking mother, you insensitive jerk. I had to claw my way through dinner every night. Fighting back four brothers for food. I had to submit to them at every turn. I had to fight them, for fuck’s sake. When they got the itch to pick on me, whether it was in play or not. My life has been nothing but one long fucking struggle. And this”—she pans her hands wide to include all the space within her little apartment—“this is my reward. And maybe it’s not up to your goddamned standards, but no one gives a fucking shit about you in this room except you, Spencer Shrike. And you do not deserve me. You don’t. I’m a good person. I worked hard to get what I have. And maybe it’s not a lot compared to what you have, but at least I got it honestly.”
I just stare at her. Unable to move or even form a sentence.
“So fuck off. I’ve moved on, asshole. Get it through your thick skull. I’m not interested.”
“Veronica,” I say calmly. “You don’t—”
My cheek is suddenly stinging with heat and Veronica is staring at her red palm, stunned that it actually struck out and hit me across the face.
She shakes herself out of her daze and points her finger at me again. “Don’t you dare tell me what I think or what I feel. Don’t you dare. I’m so fucking tired of people telling me things about myself they have no clue about. Every damn day I walk into Sick Boyz and swallow down the vomit. Do you know that about me, Spencer? You think you know me so well. Do you know that the smell of blood makes me sick? The sight of blood makes me sick? Not sick as in I might faint, or I might feel a little queasy, or that’s sorta gross. But sick in a way that makes my heart beat so fast I think I might drop dead. It gives me panic attacks, Spencer. Every damn day I fight it off.” Her whole body is shaking.
