Chrome: With a Heart Forged in Steele (Carolina Bad #4) (2 page)

“It all starts with a bubble bath or a massage. Don’t tell me you haven’t watched that porn too.”

That did make me laugh but not for long.

I sensed her wavering, and then she dropped her head, shaking it.

My heart fell to my stomach. Fuck. It went subterranean.

“Rayce. Please.” Clasping her sweet face between my hands, I was so close to kissing her I could almost taste her lips.

“I’m not your people. I’m not looking for a man to take care of me.”

I glared down at her. “Just what the hell is wrong with wanting to make sure you’re okay?”

“It’s dangerous to get too comfy, grow attached, have the
feels
. People leave, they die, they walk away.”

“You don’t think I know that?”

Before she could say anything else, I pulled her into my arms. She was so damn big in her personality, but when she was like this, in my embrace, she felt tiny. I all but engulfed her. God, having her in my arms, it was the best place for her to be.

I tilted her chin beneath my fingertips. I stared intently at her mouth, that spitfire so-sassy mouth, wanting so much to kiss her.

Getting a grip on myself, I stepped back. I brushed my fingers across her cheek. Fuck, she had the deepest dimples when she smiled. Now she looked at me so seriously.

“G’night, princess. I hope you sleep well.”

“Thanks for the ride, old man.”

Shaking my head, I walked away.

And that would be the last time I walked away from this woman, whether she liked it or not.

Burnout

I DID NOT WANT to drive away from Rayce.

Alcoholic deadbeat dad?

What the fuck?

And that sad excuse for a trailer. Jesus Christ. I wasn’t a snob or anything, and I knew my way around down-and-out, but that situation was just fucking unacceptable for a woman like her.

Rayce could handle herself. Hell, she’d handled herself around me and many, many other Retribution dudes enough times, but that shit did not set well with me. Not to mention she’d been about to crack wide open tonight.

Half a dozen times on the drive home I almost did a U-ey to go back for her.

The only other night I’d seen a small crack in her tough-chick shell had been in November. We’d all been partying at the MC to celebrate Ashe’s return to full duty after her abduction. That time—when Rayce had lost her cool mask—it was because I’d finally gotten to her.

After months of watching her, endless hours of wanting her, I’d set my plan in motion. She’d approached me that night, a sly smile on her sexy lips. When she’d trailed her hands up my chest and winked at me from those gorgeous, big, hazel eyes, my cock had pressed hard against my black leathers.

“So tell me, old man.” She toyed with a button on my shirt. “Is the business called
Chrome
and Steele because you’ll be losing your hair soon?”

Losing my hair? Jesus, she had balls. But I had bigger ones dangling between my thighs, I was sure of that. And my hair? It was thick and black and cropped short. I was in no danger of losing it.

“Princess.” Taking hold of her waist, I’d flipped her around so I could crowd her against the wall.

She sucked in a breath, her gaze lifting to mine.

That’s right
.

I had surprises up my sleeves and down my pants she couldn’t even begin to guess at. Couldn’t wait to show her.

I’d skimmed my stubbled jaw against the soft skin of her cheek. “You don’t need to worry about my age. I’m old enough to handle you, and young enough to make good on my promise.”

I’d stepped closer into her heat. My body grazed hers—her big curves against my hard muscles.

“What promise would that be?” the bold woman had dared ask.

Her lips were plump and pink. Her body smokin’. Her challenging attitude totally in place until I’d answered.

Leaning toward her, I let my lips glide against her ear. “I can rock your world. Rock your bed. Make you come so hard you forget your own damn name and can’t walk straight the next day.”

Her body had
rocked
against mine. Her fists had tightened on my shirt.

She’d goddamn whimpered.

It’d taken an inhuman amount of willpower to slip free of her grasping grip. But this woman wasn’t so easy to get. And I’d needed her to know I wasn’t just fucking around.

Low and rumbling, I’d said, “But I usually save that for more experienced women.” I’d set her gently away from me, taking in her dazed hazel eyes one last time. “See ya ’round, racy Rayce.”

Ambling away from her?

Sheer torture.

Worth it when I’d glanced back and she’d sagged against the wall, staring after me.

The remainder of the night had been more partying and more drinking but not an excessive amount for me. I saw my brethren as men I needed to look out for even if they were more than capable of bringing on the pain when needed to those who threatened our mixed-up, messed up, all-legit MC family.

Okay, almost all-legit.

Rayce had been on my radar bigtime since day one. When she’d left that November night—alone, thank fuck—I’d cut out shortly after.

Since then it had been more cat-and-mouse, stop-and-go, with her.

A foxy, smart, talented woman.

That honey fucking
owned
me.

Sexy, gorgeous, undaunted, foul-mouthed.

Beautiful and hard-edged.

All for a reason I’d just discovered. She protected other people always above herself, and she didn’t want to get hurt.

Sure, Rayce could take care of herself.

But she deserved to be cherished and safeguarded by the right man.

I was that man.

I made it home without turning around and storming into her trailer, ordering her to pack a bag, and manhandling her to my truck.

Parking in the brick driveway, I locked up and strolled out back. The house had been my folks’. The big clapboard cottage with huge porches faced the narrow street in the Old Village of Mt. Pleasant, but the back yard rolled down to the Cooper River. Cold weather grass crunched underfoot, and steam rose off the roiling water that appeared black and depthless in the middle of the frosty December night.

I walked to the dock, lanterns lighting the way along the silvery wooden wharf. Icy crystals clung to the pylons. The boat, christened the
Becky Sharp
after our mom, had been raised, covered, docked for the winter although it never got too cold to take her out if we wanted to trawl around the Intracoastal Waterway.

Dad had bought the Grady-White outboard once Chrome and Steele really took off. I’d been fourteen at the time. He’d let me captain that stunning seaworthy beast for the first time a year later.

“Take the wheel for a sec, Boom?” he’d casually asked, as if requesting me to do something as normal as filling the cooler with more ice.

I’d put my hands on the sun-warmed metal, spinning the wheel with the tides. Dad disappeared with a secret smile, and before I knew it, I was guiding the
Becky Sharp
down the river, threading along the buoys as dolphins—gray and sleek—water-danced beside us.

“Look at you, hot shit.” Brodie had shuffled up beside me.

Mom snuck up and smacked him on the back of his head. Even then he’d had the blond surfer-dude hair.

She ruffled it afterward saying, “Watch your mouth, Broderick.”

“Jesus, Ma. That hurt.” He’d frowned, rubbing his head.

Long black hair swinging to her waist, pre-teen Cat had squealed, “
Oooh
,
Broderick’s
in trouble again!”

“Shut it, Cat.” Brodie had rounded on her, his angelic looks the direct opposite of her dark devilish ones. “Just ’cause you finally started shaving your legs don’t mean
you’re
the hot shit.”

“And just ’cause you
finally
grew a few hairs on your chin don’t mean you’re
the man
.”

“Break it up!” Mom had shouted.

“No probs,” Cat had called back.

And then she pushed Brodie overboard.

His middle finger breaking the surface first, Brodie spluttered up.

Cat dove in after him—cleanly slicing the water like a knife cutting through melting butter.

I’d hauled up the wet and weary assholes after they’d tried to drown each other a half dozen times.

We’d spent so many spring and summer days on the
Becky Sharp
—Mom, Dad, Cat, Brodie, me. Fishing off Isle of Palms. Swimming in the Wando River. Waving at other boatgoers as we crested the downtown peninsula.

Those days were long gone.

I’d been numb for too many years to count.

Everything had changed, some for the better.

Parents dead.

Cat married and finally happy.

Brodie hooked up and totally settled.

Loneliness seeped into my bones like the cold air rising from the ground. Like someone walking over my grave. The mist grew, drawing me closer to the water—that dark mirror that haunted me like black ice on the surface of a road.

I saluted the water for Mom. For Dad.

Stalking into the house, I knocked my boots free of any lingering frost. I heard Sherlock—
affectionately
known as Shitlock—clacking down the staircase. He prowled toward me in the kitchen. After kicking off my boots, I bent down to pick up the fatass cat.

Shitlock had shown up a couple months after Watson, aka Twatson, during the days Brodie and I bachelor-padded it here. Our own Cat, our sis, had moved out, so we’d taken in the mangy fleabags for a little extra company. Although, really, I thought Brodie was soft on the fluff balls.

Once Brodie shacked up with Ashe, he’d taken Twatson,
bequeathing
Shitlock to me.

I didn’t mind too much. The feline just needed some lovin’ now and then, food and water, and bonus? He couldn’t talk so I didn’t have to listen to another human being yammering on at me.

I’d had the house to myself for four months now. Couldn’t say I missed Brodie all that much. I saw him enough at Chrome and Steele and Retribution anyway.

But
something
was missing here.

A big family house just waiting for the family part to make it feel like a home again.

And that was enough thinking like I had a vagina.

Just because I had a damn cat didn’t mean I needed to be a pussy myself.

Knuckling under Shitlock’s chin just where he liked it—
purr
,
purr
,
purr
—I scooped out some kitty kibble one-handed.

I set the orange cat on the floor. “Eat that and go do some mousing or something useful for a change. I need a shower. It’s been a fucker of a night.”

It was almost two in the morning by the time I dropped all my clothes in a heap on the bathroom floor. I flexed my fists, stretched my arms. Groaned as muscles bulged and popped.

Jesus. I was tight. Tight in my skin. Felt like I was coming loose in the head though. I couldn’t shake thoughts of Rayce no matter how hard I tried.

I flipped on the shower, waiting for hot steam to billow out over the top of the glass doors. In the clouded mirror I could just make out my form. The breadth of my tattooed shoulders, wide as the doorway. Dark hair. Eyes the same shade as both Cat and Brodie’s—a color my mom had called blue ice. A color Brodie called ladykiller blue.

Fucking Brodie. He thought I’d been practically celibate for years. Just because I was discreet didn’t mean I wasn’t snagging pussy whenever I could. And I’d snagged a lot of pussy.

Up until the first night I’d seen Rayce inside the MC. Yeah, that was four-plus months ago. So the celibacy thing at this point was no goddamn joke, and I needed something more on my cock than my hand.

I just did not want a cheap babe, an easy fuck, a one-night stand. I’d had plenty of those. They never stuck. I hadn’t wanted them to. Easy come, easy go, and that had been the point.

Not anymore.

I popped into the shower, practically sighing when the hot water beaded on my skin. I’d taken a few punches during the showdown earlier. I’d handed out more, though.
Lathering my hands, I scrubbed my arms, my legs, across my torso. More lather. Hotter water to work out all the kinks.

My fingers brushed my balls, went for the long thick pole of flesh between my legs.

I thought about Rayce. Imagined her in the shower with me. Her nipples peaked. Her tits glossy and wet. Water and foam trailing over her body like the come I wanted to spray all over her, into her.

Instant cock-hardener.

Groan.

I placed a hand on the shower wall, glaring down at the dumb-stick
sticking
up from my groin. Bastard piece of meat practically waved at me from where it stood, the tip grazing the trail of black hair above my belly button.

Gripping the base of my shaft one-handed, I flicked the water to cold. Icy, cock-freezing cold.

I did not want to jack off about Rayce one more time.

I wanted to have her.

****

After placing a call to Josh Stone first thing in the morning to find out what time Rayce’s shift started, I jumped into my TopKick. The road warrior truck came second only to my Vincent Black Shadow motorcycle. Fully customized with huge fog lights and silver stovepipes, the grill alone looked like mean metal on wheels.

I blasted the heat. December was not getting any warmer. The cold weather didn’t bother me too much as a rule, but today had a sharper feel to it.

It was a twenty-minute drive to Rayce’s. And, Jesus, the place looked even more desolate by daylight.

Fuck
.

Looked like her dad had been in the junk business—or was just a freakin’ packrat—because there was shit heaped up everywhere. Shapes that had been dark and indistinct last night took form.

Dense piles of rusted out car parts. Old bikes by the dozens—not a single one of them whole. Leaning towers of hubcaps. Walls of tires. Every kind of shit in every stage of neglect and disrepair one could imagine.

In the middle of the boneyard sat the trailer.

I cursed under my breath.