Coletrane (Bad Boys of Retribution MC Book 4) Page 2

  Brodie didn’t bother with any of that, shouting out, “Way to make a first impression!”

  I spun to glare at the Veep. “Not another fucking word.”

  “Ohhh.” He lazily leaned against a table, stroking his goatee. “Giving orders to the Vice Prez could get your patch yanked.”

  “You’re not the only one who doesn’t take orders,” Sin called back as I marched her outside.

  The guys’ jeers swilled out after us.

  “I think we’ve already established that.” I directed Sin toward my bike.

  “This is your motorcycle?” Her fingers trailed over the seat of my roadbeast.

  My own beast jumped in my jeans, her stroking fingers causing a commotion to my cock when all she was touching was my motorcycle for fuck’s sake.

  “Yeah. Welcome to the ride of your life.” I squinted at her from top to toe then said, “But we’re gonna have to do something about this.”

  This was her beautiful dress in some kind of silk that swathed her hips and tits and thighs in a colorful oriental design. And then . . . her perilously high heels, which made her hips sway side to side with every step she took.

  I took off my Retribution vest and helped her into it. And that was so goddamn hot. I really wished I was in her league or that she’d be up to playing the way I usually wanted.

  After dragging my gaze away from the mind-bending visual of the top class broad in the expensive dress wearing a black leather, skull and scales of justice cut, I grabbed my spare helmet.

  “You been on one of these things before?” I settled the brain bucket on her head, her hair beneath my fingers just as soft as it looked.

  “No.”

  I helmeted up and straddled the bike. “Get on behind me. Hold on around my waist. Lean when I lean.” Turning my face, my lips nearly brushed hers. “I’ll take it easy on you this time.”

  Sin shifted even closer behind me, running her arms around my waist and resting her thighs against mine. “I don’t want you to take it easy on me.”

  Miss Priss was playing with fire.

  The engine purred to life, deep and dark, and Sin grabbed me harder with a full throttle laugh as we set off.

  Ugh. Sin on my sexy as sin all black Harley Night Rod Special that shined with a few thin red accents. Her hem flipped up, teasing me with the visual of lots of curved thigh. Not to mention the spiky heels. Holy shit. Wet dream material right there, but I would not think about that.

  Her lips hit my ear as she gave me directions downtown.

  Yup. I had her pegged her right.

  With her hands grasping my belt buckle, her legs gripping me, her body plastered to mine, I gave her what I’d promised—the ride of her life. Just not the one I wanted to give her. Still, I couldn’t help grinning as we gunned across bridges and slip-streamed through traffic, the lights shining off Charleston Harbor.

  I quieted the engine, gentling my Harley like a sweet little baby as we entered the peninsula. Across from White Point Garden where the inlet battered the shoreline and Civil War cannons aimed out to sea, I cut the engine and hit the kickstand. Quickly dismounting, I helped Sin off the bike.

  I glanced behind me. “You live here?”

  Here was enormous. On the Battery—of course it was. Alongside the Ravenels, the Hawkes, the Calhouns . . . all the old Charleston families. There were deep verandas—not, you know, commonplace porches—on every level and every side of the mansion as far as I could see, and the house stood four-stories high. I couldn’t even guesstimate how many rooms back it reached on the large, private lot. A well-tended courtyard with a large, lighted fountain framed the area beside the brick driveway.

  In the drive? The kind of high retail cars that would make a fool drool.

  “It’s my mom and dad’s house.” Looking down, she smoothed out the bottom of her dress over those long, shapely thighs that had pressed against mine. “Yes, I live here with them.”

  I took off my helmet and let it hang from my fingers. “Just how old are you?”

  “Twenty-six. You?”

  “Twenty-five. And I don’t live with Mommy and Daddy.”

  Sin drew off my vest with a curl of her shoulders. I stepped behind her to pull it down her arms, my fingers grazing hers. For some insane reason I wanted to close the distance between us, drag her back against me, kiss a path up the side of her soft-looking, so-pampered neck.

  I shoved away the impulse, slipping the creased leather up my arms. Unbuckling her helmet from behind, I lifted it off. She shook out the pale glossy tresses, and I sucked in a breath.

  “Your mom and dad know where you’ve been tonight, precious?” My voice thundered deep and husky. I ran a forearm around her waist.

  She shivered against me, her breath halting then turning into soft pants. “Just because I live at home doesn’t mean I’m under lock and key.”

  My fingers skimming across her cheek, I turned her face. “Good. Because I’m gonna kiss you now.”

  Her lips parted. Her eyelids slid closed. I homed in on her heat, her warmth, her fire. As soon as my mouth touched hers, an unholy urge shook me. She tasted like spice, and her lips plumped against the firmness of mine.

  A small gasp left her throat, and then her mouth parted.

  Her hands clenching my arm and my neck, she turned fully around. With a slant of my head, I snuck between her lips, my tongue guiding the way to the sleek surrounds. A hot gust of breath fanned against my cheek as her tongue struck out, diving around mine to reach my mouth.

  Our tongues met and twisted together.

  I whipped my head back fast. Released her just as quickly, only grasping her elbow when she stumbled a little.

  “I didn’t mean to go that far.” My entire body strung tight, humming with lust. I swallowed hard. “I didn’t even mean to kiss you.”

  “In case you missed it, Cole, I wasn’t complaining.” A teasing smile played around her perfect red lips. “And don’t worry. My daddy might be a hotshot lawyer, but he hasn’t taken a shotgun to one of my boyfriends yet. Certainly not just for giving me a goodnight kiss.”

  My hands balled at my sides, I restrained from touching her again. “I don’t start things I don’t intend to finish.”

  “Neither do I.” Her chin notched up, and her eyes hardened, giving an edge to her sweetheart face.

  “But this is one thing we’re definitely never gonna finish, Sin.”

  “Suit yourself.” She shrugged, pivoting around. As she started up the drive, she called back, “See you ’round, Coletrane.”

  “I doubt that very much.” No matter how much I wanted it.

  I stood stock-still, watching her ass sway back and forth until she reached the door and let herself inside.

  Rubbing my fingers over the stubble on my jaw, I groaned. I also did a few readjustments to my cock. One kiss, and she’d run over me like a fucking freight train. Christ, even my cut smelled like Sin. Her refined perfume hit me like a rush.

  I took one last look at the mansion before tearing away on my Night Rod.

  Maybe Sadie thought I needed to be set up because she and Kinkaid were all so sweet, so in love. Sadie didn’t have to outsource if she wanted to get me a date. The Retribution MC, full of hot Harley chicks any given night, was a fucking matchmaker’s paradise. Go figure. Brodie and Ashe, Hunter and JB, Kinkaid and Sadie were just the latest to do the couple’s thing.

  Not me though. Oh hell no. I was on hand to lend an ear, a shoulder, a fifth of Jack or anything else you wanted to take a crack at, but I was determined to stay single.

  I had very clear characteristics I looked for in a woman, and most of the ladies were too into the superficial to give me what I needed long-term. I knew what I wanted and understood most chicks would not give that up.

  I soared across the Ravenel Bridge, hitting the outskirts of Mt. Pleasant, thrilling at the fast, thunder-loud ride.

  Take Sinclair Chatham, just for instance. Sin. She immediately got right the fuck under my
skin in ways I did not like, in ways I wanted a thousand times more, harder, hotter, faster.

  Not gonna happen.

  The MC crew all thought I was Mr. Nice Guy.

  What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

  What sexy downtown princess Sin didn’t know could definitely hurt her.

  In other words, she was completely off-limits.

  Chapter Two

  THE NEXT MORNING, I woke like clockwork at seven thirty even though I’d gotten little shuteye. Thoughts of Sinclair Chatham had eaten into my brain. Hot ideas about her had turned my body into a coil of lust-hungry pain.

  I’d considered calling one of the women I fucked on the regular—there was always someone available—but I’d never screwed a chick while thinking about someone else and I wasn’t about to start now.

  I’d jerked off instead. Twice. The only masturbation material I’d needed was the memory of Sin sitting on my Harley with her dress drawn up her thighs and her legs ending in those wicked high heels. By the time I’d finished and wiped clean, my entire T-shirt was come-soaked, my breathing off kilter, my legs fucking wobbly. Tossing the rubbished shirt aside, I’d sat up in bed, leaned over to crack the window, and lit up a smoke. Filthy habit from my bad youth, but nowadays I only sucked on a nicotine stick when I was stressed.

  I’d probably be comatose after the first time I fucked Sin. ’Z’if that was ever gonna happen.

  I’d eventually fallen asleep, rolling out of bed in the morning at stupid-hour. I kicked the discarded T-shirt into the hamper, made my bed, and wandered to the kitchen.

  My apartment was on the smallish side, but it had all the requirements, the requirements being four walls and a roof. I wasn’t too fussy about my living space as long as it was clean, and I didn’t have to share with a roommate. One bedroom, one bath, living room, kitchen, and a small balcony. My apartment definitely wasn’t downtown-mansion-extravagant.

  The walls were white, the place shiny and bright with sunlight, and in the kitchen my second-hand appliances gleamed. I’d had a lot of practice as Probie 1.0. Tidy came second nature, something that probably didn’t gel with how I appeared: a rough, tough, tatted-up dude.

  Aaaand my one and only roomie careened into the kitchen, the one living thing I’d let in and couldn’t get rid of. Pincushion. Otherwise known as The Thing. She—it—had turned up at my door, mewling so loudly my head hurt. I’d stupidly picked the cat up, brought her inside, fed it. I’d named her Pincushion because the super ugly stray looked like she’d stuck her paw in a light socket. Fur stood up all over her back like needles no matter how much I brushed it. And I knew all about needles in one form or another.

  The feline monster performed her version of a leg-hump: wrapping herself around my ankles as she stared at me with accusatory half-slit eyes.

  I patted It, then doled out the fresh water and cat food, murmuring obscenities in her direction, which she returned with the most ungodly yeowls known to man.

  After starting the kettle, I opened a cupboard and surveyed the lined-up boxes of herbal teas. I selected black chai, stuck a bag in a mug, and ambled into the living room. The Thing padded after me, her breakfast done. Pincushion didn’t purr—not like Sin had—but goddamn meowed constantly. I tried to shake her off. No such luck. Waiting for kettle to whistle, I flicked through my vinyl albums.

  I’d bought the quality Audio-Technica turntable when I’d gotten my first job out of college. The sexy silver record player pumped out full octane sound, and this morning I ramped it to life with Cream’s Disraeli Gears.

  It went without saying I didn’t have an iPod dock. I liked it old school. In terms of music at least. My laptop, on the other hand, was state of the art and fully loaded. I customized that MacBook like Clapton did his Fender Stratocaster.

  I plopped down in the middle of the floor, dragged the lump of fur into my lap, and gave Pin a good morning scratching.

  At least that shut her up long enough I could listen to the tunes.

  When the kettle started singing in the background, I shifted Pincushion onto the couch. I made my tea, left it to brew, and popped a bagel in the toaster.

  Man, if the guys could see me now I’d never hear the end of it. They probably thought I drank whiskey-laced black coffee, ate rusty chains for breakfast, and lived in a hovel. I ate standing at the counter, glancing through the news on my laptop.

  I checked out Bo and Kinkaid’s websites, the ones I’d designed for a friend-rate, AKA for free. Everything seemed to be running smoothly. One of those tech-challenged idiots had even remembered how to add photos to the album. I gave them props.

  I ducked into the bathroom. At six foot two I didn’t consider myself too tall, but whoever had built these cardboard cut-outs had obviously been trying to max out the square footage. And being a bigger than average bastard meant I got the short end of the stick.

  My shower was quick. I didn’t even yank my dick over Sinclair while I cleaned up.

  Props to me.

  Clean up, shave . . . scrub a dub dub.

  If Pincushion’s fur was a joke, my hair was a mess. I brushed the strands into place with my fingers. A slant of hair darkened my forehead, the same dark brown as my well-groomed stubble.

  I checked my shoulder, gingerly unwrapping the bandage. No infection, the wound seamed tight. I grabbed a pair of scissors and snipped off the stitches.

  Then I scowled in the mirror. That wasn’t the only battle wound on my body, but it was the only one fucking up one of my tats. Ink covered my stomach, chest, and my arms. I had designs covering every square inch. Flowers, sugar skulls, and on my shoulder, a wicked-looking needle dripping noxious green liquid. The word TOXIC a banner beneath it. An odd mix of ink that swirled together and made sense only because each tat was done in the same bold, brightly colored style.

  I’d designed them all, trusting my coworker Trixxie to do the ink. The little silver barbell nipple piercings had hurt like a bitch, but I’d just bitten my tongue and sat like a statue while Trixx had performed her magic. The small plugs I’d worked up to in my ears? That was all Trixxie’s work. In fact, the only man I knew with more hardware in his body than me was Brodie Steele. And from what I’d heard, the Steele part was pretty fitting.

  I wiped the last of the shaving foam from my face with a towel, found clean clothes, yanked them on, and attached my wallet to the chain from my belt loop.

  All good.

  Another rub-a-rub-rub on Pincushion’s prickly head, and I let myself out and locked up.

  Damn, but it was a fine, fine Joo-ly day. The sky bright blue. The sun a hot yellow disc. Not a cloud in sight.

  And hot as Sin.

  On my Night Rod, I enjoyed the serious summer weather all the way downtown. Summer. I fucking loved it. Maybe I’d hit the beach after work and ride some waves instead of my Harley. I’d lived in the Charleston area all my life, but now—finally—I had my place. I knew where I fit. If I played my cards right, maybe one day I’d own my own business. Maybe I’d be an officer in the MC.

  It had been a goddamn long road.

  The one to downtown was a hell of a lot shorter. Just being on the peninsula made me think of Sin. Not like she’d ever left my mind. My pipes roared, but they didn’t drown out the thoughts about what I’d like to do to her.

  Tie her up.

  Kiss her quiet.

  Make her stay still while I got my face between her legs.

  Clamp her nipples.

  Spank her pretty ass.

  Fuck her ’til she screamed.

  Make her beg for more of my cock.

  Fuuuuck.

  Good thing we inhabited separate worlds. Our paths would likely never cross again.

  Parking outside Inksanity Tattoos, I glared at my cock that wanted inside Sin. Stupid appendage. I adjusted quickly, standing there on the sidewalk of Morrison Street, at the crossroads of up-and-coming and down-and-out Charleston. Trixxie wouldn’t hesitate to make fun of me if I walked in with a b
ig hard-on waving around.

  Finally getting the dumb-handle in my pants under control, I opened the door of the tattoo parlor.

  Yeah. I was known as College to the dudes when they didn’t revert to Probie. I had a degree. After I’d gone off the rails and finally dragged my way up for air, I’d put myself back together. Gotten control. Learned the ins and outs of computer science instead of blowing holes through my veins and ripping people off. I’d done it to prove a point to myself.

  I could be a success. Didn’t have to be a failure.

  I’d sat at a desk in front of several computer monitors for two years while my brain curdled, ignoring every part of me that was me. That IT job had been terminal, in more ways than one.

  Best day of my life? Handing in my resignation. Now I just messed with the web shit for fun and recreation, charging the usual Friends and Family rate. Hey, that shit wasn’t just for the cell phone companies.

  My real passion, my real art? Painting on the body, with needles.

  A ghoulish Muah ha ha laugh ghosted out instead of the normal jingle of tinkling bells when I opened the door of Inksanity. What could I say? The owner—Zeb—had a sick sense of humor. He only showed his face at the place when we had an important customer. Otherwise he left the biz to Trixx and me, and we tag-teamed that shit.

  Hearing the Addam’s Family laugh, Trixxie stuck her head into the front room. “’Bout time you showed up, Cole.”

  “Hey. I’m on time.” I stalked behind the counter and scanned the day’s appointments on the computer screen.

  “Ish.”

  “You got a customer already?” I asked.

  “Walk-in. Frat boy.” She lowered her voice. “He wants the fucking Greek letters tramp stamped. I might add devil’s horns.”

  “Dare ya.”

  “You don’t even have to.” Slinking back inside, she shut the door.

  I had an hour until my first customer so I finalized the design. I didn’t do dolphins or unicorns or unicorns farting rainbows.

  The body was a bare canvas I tapped into. I was into perfect line work, vibrant colors, distinct and personal designs. I’d done some of the Retribution brothers and the Redemption sisters, too. But not Sadie. Kinkaid’s Christmas present for her had been a voucher at Holy City Tattoos, our competition. I still had it in for him over that.