Kinkaid (Bad Boys of Retribution MC Book 2)

  KINKAID

  Bad Boys of Retribution MC

  Book II

  RIE WARREN

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Kinkaid

  Copyright © 2015 by Rie Warren

  Excerpt from Bo © 2015 by Rie Warren

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations.

  https://www.riewarren.com

  Warren, Rie.

  Kinkaid / Rie Warren – 1st ed

  1.Contemporary Romance—Fiction. 2. Alpha Male—Fiction. 3. Bikers—Fiction. 4. MC Romance—Fiction 5. Erotica—Fiction. 6. New Adult—Fiction I. Title

  ASIN:

  Cover Design

  By Tera Shanley

  Editing

  By Gilly Wright http://www.gillywright.com

  Chapter One

  “BOM CHICKA WANG WANG.” Hiro the Super Hero rolled up a sweat towel and snapped it against my ass.

  The so-called dressing room at The so-called Gentleman’s Quarters smelled like a jockstrap, no doubt due to the number of large athletic bodies jockeying for space amid lockers, mirrors, and randomly dropped barbells. It also reeked of Johnson’s baby oil, perspiration, eagerness, and raw nerves. Elbows, balls, and cocks bounced this way and that. You couldn’t turn around without getting your bare ass smacked or your junk thumped or your biceps squeezed.

  For all the loudmouths and lame smack talk, this had been a second home to me for over two years.

  I grabbed Hiro around his waist and bent him over a table. With his briefs ripped down to his thighs, I grinned at the ten other male strippers. “Whaddya think? Should I do him?”

  “He’s too scrawny to take that meat you never show the clients!”

  “POUND ONE OUT ON HIM!”

  “Ain’t nuthin’ wrong with Asian flava flav.” Jamal jerked his chin at me.

  I slapped Hiro’s rump and turned him free. “Nah. This dude’s been through the hazing enough times. Let’s talk about Glen the Newbie.”

  Hiro Hero had his shtick down pat. Dare Devil? Hell yes he was. The Oriental import cleaned house every night wearing a black mask over his face, his gymnast’s moves on the stripper pole enough to carpet the stage in greenbacks.

  Tonight was Amateur Night at The GQ, and Glen the nervous noob stood right in front of us, obviously spooked by the impromptu backstage show I’d just provided. His face turned an unhealthy shade of puce, and with his eyes peeled back he had the look of a gaping goldfish.

  I breached the distance between us and grasped his shoulder. “Breathe, man.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re a pro.” He shivered in his boat shoes, his khaki pants, and his button down shirt, his mouth hanging open in front of eleven buff and basically naked dudes.

  Couldn’t blame him one bit. I’d been there once. I still was the new kid on the block at Retribution MC. Here? I had pull, power, and professional tenure if nothing else. Mamie, the downhome den mother to this group of exotic male dancers, had taken me under her wing after her husband Micah—the owner, ringmaster, and savvy businessman behind it all—had deemed me worthy.

  I’d made it on Amateur Night. What could I say? I had the looks and the moves to match. Glen? I thought the crowd of cocktail-high honeys had clapped the loudest for him out of all the other stripper-wannabes just because he was A. gangly as fuck, B. nerdy to the fucking max, and C. seriously fucking lacking anything remotely resembling rhythm.

  His upcoming solo would be a laugh if nothing else.

  I took another look at Glen’s neon green face and showed the dude some pity. “We can’t let him go out there like this.”

  The other GQ—heh—strippers fell upon Glen like rawboned barbarians, or—God forbid—beauticians.

  In no time at all, we’d turned the fugly frog into a . . . well, he was no handsome prince, but at least we’d kitted him out in tight-ass strip-away pants. In a ribbed tank top with his sparse chest hairs curling over the top, his skinny torso was not cream-worthy material by any stretch of the imagination. His skin lost the dead corpse look, though. Or that could’ve been the cover-up Hiro skillfully blended all over his sallow face and torso. Boy needed some Vitamin D or a trip to the tanning salon.

  He’d been oiled, groomed by the bunch of baboons, and now Jamal got busy showing him how to crunk as only a big, bad, black man with long dreadlocks could.

  Glen fell on his ass the first time he tried to twerk—and Jamal wasn’t even demonstrating how to twerk. Dude had watched too much Miley Cyrus, apparently.

  I doubted Glen would even make it half a minute into his routine before he was heckled off the stage and escorted away by Mamie. She liked to carry a bullwhip on Amateur Night.

  “Why the hell are you doing this, man?” I helped him off his ass-plant on the floor.

  He shoved a hank of sweaty hair from his forehead. “Respect?”

  “You think getting your dong out and swinging your shit in front of a bunch of buzzing babes at bachelorette parties is gonna win you respect?” I ran a hand through my short-cropped white-blond hair. “You’re more fucked than I thought.”

  “Respect. From my frat brothers. They’re in the audience.”

  “What college you at?”

  “CofC.”

  “Oh yeah? College of Charleston? I got a friend there. You keep that up, dude. Forget about this bullshit. We ain’t nothin’ special.” I clapped him on the shoulder, drawing him closer. “More balls than brains, see?”

  He smiled wryly. “I could do with more of one, less of the other.”

  “Ditto that.”

  “CURTAIN! NEW KID!” Mamie shouted, shoving her face into the dressing room.

  I had the dubious honor of walking Glen to the stage. The short journey felt like I was delivering him to certain death at the end of a gangplank. As I listened to him cue up to Mamie and Micah, my mouth dropped open.

  FFS.

  His song choice?

  “Gangnam Style”.

  His stripper name?

  The Gigolo.

  OMFG.

  He was destined to fail before he even started. I couldn’t stay to watch the slaughter. I crept back toward the dressing room, groaning. The other guys lined the hallway, taking turns peeking through the backstage curtain and giving a whispered commentary:

  “He’s doing the motherfucking cabbage patch!”

  “What the hell was that move?”

  “He oughtta be packing more than a Vienna sausage if he’s gonna start waving it around, right?”

  “Jesus Christ, Jamal. Did you have to teach him how to twerk? Looks like he’s having a full-blown seizure out there.”

  Jamal threw his hands up in the air. “I did not show him how to twerk. If I had, he’d for damn sure know he’s supposed to be shaking his lily white ass not flapping his chicken wings.”

  I remembered my Amateur Night debut. The men had been equally mean with none of the help, but once I’d stepped onstage after Micah’s introduction I’d been one hundred percent in it to win it. The thing was, I liked to dance. And that just wasn’t something a dude could do without getting his ass kicked by his bros. Most of the strippers here phoned it in—a little gyrating, a flex of muscles, a dirty grin and the girls fell off their high heels to slip money into barely there G-strings.

  Not me though. Nope. I was in my own world but totally
conscious at the same time. The music pumped through me. It moved me. I lived in those moments, free of responsibility.

  It was Nirvana. Pure and wicked all at the same time.

  After my first dance, Micah had shouted out to the crowd, “DO YOU WANT MORE?”

  Catcalls had ricocheted around the room, my name on the women’s lips. Chants and red-lipsticked roars for more.

  I did it because it was how I breathed. How I lived. Under the spotlight. In secret. And it was how I paid the bills.

  In the dressing room, I pulled my outfit off a hanger. Tailored to perfection, the new duds were king. I even had a fedora to go with. I’d brought my lucky cock-pouch, no more than a black mesh jockstrap to wear beneath the suit. No doubt about it, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday were my nights. I was king of The Gentleman’s Quarters—until someone younger and more charismatic came along.

  Sure as hell wasn’t gonna be Glen, judging by the BOOs echoing from the audience and drifting all the way to the dressing room.

  I stripped down, oiled up to a fine sheen, and stroked my cock a few times. Enough to get plump but not fully hard. I dressed slowly, checking all the seams, making sure my tackle was tucked in. Peering in the mirror, I blinked.

  I looked gangster for my new routine. Or thuggy. Depending on how you looked at it. High cheeks, bright green eyes, wide lips, huge shoulders, narrow hips, cleft chin. No powder. Because I no longer sweated this shit.

  I had enough other shit to sweat about.

  There were exactly two people I never wanted to find out about my nighttime profession. Okay, make that one person plus an entire MC club. Sadie Grace, and the Retribution MC I was pledging to, to be exact.

  Sadie was my best friend since the first time we had a bust-up on the playground when we were ten. She’d had knobby knees, long sandy hair, and big blue eyes the color of the ocean at Isle of Palms on a clear day.

  She’d also had the same mouth on her she had now.

  “That’s my ball!” she shrieked.

  “Bull-hockey. I grabbed it fair and square. Stop bein’ a sissy about it.”

  Our one-on-one b-ball game descended into a scrap between a tiny tomboy and a rough around the edges southern boy.

  Sadie hurled herself at me, knocking me flat. “Don’t you ever call me a sissy girl again!”

  She walloped me on the nose.

  Then cried next to me while it bled, using her Roller World T-shirt to stanch the bleeding. “You should hit me back.”

  “My grampa told me never to hit girls, or I would.”

  Sadie straddled me to inspect my swelling honker. She smelled a little sweaty—clean girl sweat, not like the locker room dick cheese smell of old jockstraps—and like Ivory soap. Her lips were too close to mine.

  I shifted, feeling a little strange. Then I shoved her off my lap. My heart beat a million times a minute. I still smelled her girl scent filling my nose.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “But you still suck at basketball.”

  In retaliation, Sadie bounced the hard orange ball once against my forehead before dribbling up the court and shooting a three-pointer. “I win. Loser.”

  The basketball rolled back toward me, and she skipped out of the fenced enclosure, hitting her ten-speed, and riding away.

  She’d always had a thing for bikes. Now—eleven years later—it was dirt bikes. The rip-roaring, heart-pounding, thigh-gripping good times of her Suzuki DRZ 250.

  That was the first and last time I’d felt the weird awkwardness around my girl. I made sure nothing like budding teenage hormones came between us again. Not through junior high, puberty, or even when I’d been captain of the Wando High football team. The head Wando Warrior and quarterback, I’d played every game for Sadie while she’d gone the high school Goth routine. Standing on the sidelines, she was always the prettiest with her indigo ocean eyes.

  Aaaand now I took my clothes off for money, and she was an art student at CofC.

  She was my buddy. A guy’s girl. I didn’t see her as a woman, but as a friend. Only a friend. Forever.

  Riiiiight.

  I settled the fedora on my head, slanting it at a rakish angle, and aimed a wolfish grin at the mirror.

  Sadie had fallen in with the Ladies of Redemption MC, the sister charter to Retribution, and I’d followed right after her to the brotherhood, just like I always had. I’d heard about the MC’s troubles, and I wasn’t about to let her go in alone. Someone had to look out for her, and I’d appointed myself to that position the first time I’d beaten up Ricky the Rat Face when we were twelve and he’d called her Sadie the Slitch.

  When it came to Sadie, there was only one thing she didn’t know about me. The Gentleman’s Quarters.

  Then there was the MC. My lifeline. Something that had nothin’ to do with paying bills I was too young to handle, taking care of my grampa like he’d taken care of me.

  Those rough road dudes would not understand this.

  I’d been dancing at the GQ since I turned nineteen. Grampa Dean raised me from cricket to knee-high to manhood in his widower’s cottage. Now, at eighty-four, my grampa needed around the clock supervision. I took care of the daytime but someone had to pay for the night nurse, the out-of-pocket for his prescriptions, the co-pays on monthly medical bills, and the day-to-day living.

  Shake my ass for a few minutes? Grin and bear it? It wasn’t nothing but a thing to make sure Grampa was well cared for.

  I sat with him every morning whether my eyes were bloodshot from sheer exhaustion or not. After my shift ended and I’d cleaned up from sweating, gyrating, dancing, I’d head on home, say good day to the nurse, and make Grampa and me a hot breakfast.

  “Naw. Y’all got better things to do than waste time over a man’s last dyin’ breaths.” He shuffled into the kitchen and sat at the table. He always made sure to set it for breakfast before turning in at night.

  “I’ll be here ’til the end, Grampa. I’m double as stubborn as you and a helluva lot stronger.”

  “You so strong, lift that old bottle over there and get me a refresher of bourbon.”

  I laughed at that and handed him a cup of black coffee instead, slightly flavored with bourbon. “You can have your one branch and bourbon of the day at precisely four p.m.”

  He glared at me with his cloudy eyes then took the mug in his hands. It was only half-full. His hands shook so bad nowadays, I didn’t want him to get burned if the coffee sloshed over the sides.

  He was still a big man despite his years. Well over six feet tall and broad as a southern pine. Wasn’t anything wrong with him but frailty—a delicate-sounding word for the worrisome burden of old age.

  Grampa Dean’s mind was sharp as ever. After he finished his breakfast, he pushed the plate away and tapped his fingers until I placed a sharpened pencil and the daily large print crossword in front of him.

  His lips curled up at the sides as he stared at the first clue. “You’ll make someone a good wife someday, son.”

  “You old good-for-nothin’ coot,” I slung back.

  He crowed with laughter, scribbling in the first crossword answer, holding his wrist steady with his other hand.

  I took care of Grampa as best I could. As for Sadie, I hadn’t had to go all big brother over her yet. Just a few fistfights through the years to protect her from the usual jackasses. Nothing I couldn’t handle. For that I was thankful. Even the guys at Retribution had been respectful toward her so far. It was a good thing, too, because I’d hate to have to pull a knife on a brother.

  My so-called other brothers—“From a different mutha” as Jamal always said—pounded me on my back as I headed toward the stage.

  “Shake that fuckin’ money-maker.” Jack The Stripper spanked me on the ass, having just finished his dark BDSM routine.

  “This one right here?” I riffed, grabbing my junk.

  “Bom chicka wang wang!” Hiro shouted.

  “You need some new material, my friend,” I said.

  “And yo
u need less on that big white honky ass.” Jamal reached out to squeeze my rear in both steering-wheel-sized hands.

  “It’s called class, J-man. Somethin’ you wouldn’t know about.” I pulled away from his grabby hands, tugging at the seat of my pants.

  As soon as I entered the pitch-black stage, their wisecracks drifted away. I was immediately centered. I got into place as my sight adjusted to the dark. Sitting at the desk inside a massive metal cage used only for my routines, I checked the angle of my fedora one last time. Then I dropped my chin down, looking out into the seething sea of women impatiently waiting in the crowded, smoky-lit room beyond the darkened stage. I watched them through lowered eyelids.

  As far as strip clubs went, The GQ was upscale. But the deluxe surrounds didn’t fool me. No amount of expensive décor, upholstered seats and sofas, or pricey wine and liquor could disguise the fact ladies came here for one reason and one reason only.

  S-E-X.

  They wanted to be the center of attention, to feel important, wanted, attractive . . . hot by some of the most jaw-dropping, eye-popping, impressive men in the lowcountry.

  Horny plus honeys plus good booze and a sexy stud equaled cha-ching. Cash money.

  A shiver of excitement raced through me. The fact I loved this vibe was what made me the best at what I did. I could be whomever I wanted for the length of one song. I was whoever they wanted me to be. And that gave me power over my life I had in no other area.

  “Aaaand next up tonight! The man y’all have been waitin’ for! Showstopper, bed-hopper, babe fucker . . . KINKY KAID!” Micah hollered from his standpoint at the very front of the stage. The answering roar from the sex-rabid women resounded through the room.

  “Now, he don’t do full frontal.” Micah’s voice registered low.

  “BOOOO!”

  “Wanna know why?” he yelled.

  “YEAH!”

  “Kaid’s cock is too big to cover with his hands. Boy ain’t small, if you know what I mean, and we don’t wanna get busted. Am I right, ladies?” Micah raised his arms, lapping it up.