CRASH (A Stone Kings Motorcycle Club Romance) (19 page)

“
O
h
, Trig!” she moaned. “Oh, baby, you’re gonna make me come so hard!”

Her name was Cheryl, or Sherry, or some shit like that. Something that started with a “sh” sound. Which was fitting, because the bitch hadn’t shut up since we got to the motel. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I like a woman to show some vocal appreciation, but this one sounded like she thought she was auditioning for a porno. A bad porno, at that. Luckily, she had the best set of tits money could buy, and a pair of legs that just wouldn’t quit.

Her sister wasn’t bad, either.

I had met Cheryl/Sherry at a bar a few weeks ago, and we’d enjoyed a rousing fuck in a dark corner of the parking lot as I took her hard and fast up against the hood of her car. I’d ended up at that same bar tonight, and there she was again, this time with a slightly taller, slightly bustier carbon copy of herself.

Never being a man to resist an opportunity when it presents itself, we eventually ended up here, with me preparing to fuck the life out of both of them. Cheryl/Sherry wasn’t the best piece of ass I’d ever had — generally speaking, I didn’t bother with any woman more than once — but the prospect of banging two of her at once had convinced me to make an exception to that rule.

Cheryl/Sherry was whimpering and gyrating against my hand as I lazily finger-fucked her. My cock was standing at full-attention as I tried to decide which of them to bang first. I watched out of the corner of my eye as the other one batted her doe eyes at me seductively (
What the hell was her name? Candy? Bambi? Who the hell knew?
). As if she knew was auditioning for the part, she knelt down and proceeded to wrap her ruby-red lips around my cock. A groan of satisfaction escaped my throat as I settled back and let her work me. She kept her big blue eyes locked on mine as she bobbed up and down, sucking with just the right amount of pressure. Cheryl/Sherry’s eyes grew wide with lust as she watched the two of us. Not one to be outdone, she bent over me and hung her tits in my face. I grabbed one breast in my mouth and sucked its nipple to hardness. “Oh, yeah, just like that, baby,” she crooned. She reached down to her wet slit and began to pleasure herself, then immediately began shrieking and moaning again. I resisted the urge to tell her to shut the fuck up.

Candy/Bambi was a fuckin’ Olympic champion at giving head, I had to admit as I watched her go down on me. If it had just been the two of us, I might have just let her keep going until I creamed in that luscious, pouty mouth of hers. But I’m a generous guy, and there’s enough of me to go around. Never let it be said that I let a lady go home disappointed. So I pulled Candy/Bambi off my cock and got her on her knees. Cheryl/Sherry gave me a wicked little grin as she watched, then knelt in front of her sister and began to kiss and lick her breasts. My cock jumped at the gorgeous sight of one hot slutty chick getting another one off. “That is fucking hot as balls,” I growled. I grabbed the condom off the night table and ripped open the foil wrapper, then moved behind Candi/Bambi, shoving my sheathed cock inside her warm, wet slit right up to the hilt. She cried out and thrust her hips backward to meet me, and I pulled back and slammed into her again, feeling my balls start to tighten already.

We were making a whole lotta noise right now, but I didn’t give a shit. The owner of the motel was in debt to our MC for some past protection we’d given him, so I knew I had nothing to worry about. Besides, just about the only people renting rooms in this place were doing it by the hour, same as me.

Which is why the sudden pounding at the door came as a complete surprise.

“Goddamnit,” I growled. Raising my voice, I called out: “Go the fuck away!”

“SHARON!” came a male voice from the other side. “SHARON! I know you’re in there!”

“Shit!” gasped Cheryl/Sherry. Her eyes were frantic. “It’s Bill!”

“Who the fuck’s Bill?” I grunted.

“My husband!” she whispered.

The pounding resumed. “SHARON! Open this door or I’m going to kick it down!”

Candy/Bambi rolled her eyes. “There’s no way he’s kicking that door down. He’s too much of a pussy.”

A hand on the other side jiggled the knob. It turned.

Apparently, no one had thought to lock the damn door.

“Fuck,” I groaned, and pushed the women off me. Shit was about to get messy.

In the open doorway stood a wild-eyed, skinny guy with a scruff of a beard. Both of the women screamed and instinctively tried to cover themselves with their arms. A low, agonized moan escaped the man as he took in the scene of his wife fucking some other dude. It wouldn’t have been anything I hadn’t been through before. Except for one thing.

In his left hand was a Glock 19.

“Jesus, Billy!” Cheryl/Sherry/Sharon cried out when she saw the gun. “What are you doing with that thing? This is not what it seems, baby! Just calm down, okay?”

“Not what it seems?!” he yelled. His eyes grew wilder as his shock slowly turned to rage. “What the fuck does that mean? What the fuck else could this be, Sharon? A goddamn scrapbooking party?”

He raised the gun and pointed it in our general direction in a menacing gesture, but old Billy looked a little uncertain as to exactly what to do with it. Maybe he had never fired a gun before, I thought. He didn’t really look like the type to own a Glock.

The other woman had started to cry hysterically. I had to try to de-escalate this before things got out of hand. “Look, man, I’m sorry,” I said, holding my hands up slightly in what I hoped was a gesture of apology. “I didn’t know anything about this. If this is your wife, I didn’t have any idea she was married. All I know is she and her sister and I were just having a good time. Nothing serious. This was clearly all a mistake.”

“Her
sister
?!” Bill yelled in surprise. “That ain’t her sister!”

Well,
shit
.

“Okay, okay. Not her sister,” I nodded. I took one side step toward the chair where my jeans were hanging… with my own gun in the back pocket. “Look, if you’ll just let me get some pants on here, let’s calm down and discuss this man to man.”

“NO!” he cried suddenly. “Don’t fucking move!”

“Okay. Not moving,” I nodded, freezing in my spot. Over on the bed, Cheryl/Sherry/Sharon had started to cry as well. Candy/Bambi was clutching a pillow in front of her, in some sort of instinctive but useless attempt to protect herself. Fuck. I was gonna have to disarm this guy before he did something stupid. “Hey, Bill, look. Let’s let the women get some clothes on here, okay?” I said, nodding toward the two sobbing women on the bed.

He looked at me uncertainly, then finally gave me a slight nod. The two girls scrambled over to the floor where their clothing lay. The guy’s eyes flickered toward them, and then back to me. “You stay right there, you hear? Don’t you fuckin’ move!’

I nodded. “Sure, of course.” The gun trembled a little in his hand, and he steadied it. His breath was coming in quick gasps. “So,” I continued, trying to keep my voice low and soothing. “Like I said, man, I had no idea that Sharon was married. Pretty slick of you to figure all this out. How’d you work out that she was here?”

“Her car’s in the parking lot,” he said dully. “I been following her. I knew she was cheating on me for a while now. I just knew it!” Instead of calming down, he began to show more signs of agitation, waving the gun around wildly toward his wife.

“That’s rough, man. But maybe shooting someone ain’t the solution, you know? I mean, why risk jail time for some bitch who cheated on you?” I took a small step closer. He didn’t seem to notice.

“Yeah, yeah… fucking
BITCH!
” he yelled suddenly. The girls shrieked in fear and backed themselves against the wall.

I took another step forward. “Look. Why don’t you put the gun down? It ain’t worth it, brother. Believe me, I’ve done time. It ain’t worth spendin’ the rest of your days on the inside for one second’s worth of revenge.”

“Oh yeah?” he sneered. “Then what should I do? Just fuckin’ let y’all go? When you made me look like a fuckin’
pussy
?”

“I’m pretty sure you made your point, dude. You’re no pussy.” Nodding my head toward Cheryl/Sherry/Sharon, I continued. “And I’m pretty sure she’s not gonna do this again. She knows you are not a man to be fucked with. Ain’t that right, Sharon?”

Bill took his eyes off me for a split-second to glance at his wife, and I had my opening. Barreling toward him, my shoulder connected with his chest, knocking him off balance. As he fell, he began to scream, and before my hand could make contact with the Glock to disarm him, a loud shot rang out. A feeling of sudden numbness in my left thigh was soon replaced by searing, burning pain. “Fuck,” I rasped, gritting my teeth against it. I grabbed the barrel, wrenching it out of the other man’s hand before he could shoot again.

“Jesus! Oh, Jesus!” he wailed, scrambling away from me in a frantic crab-walk toward the door. His eyes were wide and half-crazy with terror. “Jesus, I shot him!”

“Oh my God!” one of the women began to scream. “Oh my God! Look at the blood!”

“We have to get out of here!” the other one cried. They were babbling and freaking out so much I couldn’t really tell which one was saying what. Whoever this one was ran toward the man. “Billy, we have to go! NOW! What if someone calls the cops?”

I lay there in a near-stupor as the three of them, suddenly unified in purpose, flew around the room grabbing the women’s belongings, then raced to the door. Bill flung it open with a loud bang. Then the three of them, the women still half-dressed, ran outside and disappeared into the night.

“Goddamn. Goddamn,” I muttered.
Well, at least it was finally fucking quiet in here
. With difficulty, I raised my head to look at the damage. The bullet had entered my left thigh close to the groin. There was blood, plenty of it, and I was already starting to go woozy. This wasn’t good. Not good at all.

I lifted myself painfully into a sitting position and pulled myself over to my clothes. Pulling them down, I grabbed my T-shirt and ripped, working as fast as I could to make a tourniquet to tie around my leg above the wound as best I could. Then I fumbled in the pockets of my jeans until I found my phone. I managed to unlock the screen and punch in the contact I was looking for.

“Repo,” I groaned when he answered. “I need you to bring a cage to the Hi-Lo Motel on Highway Five. Room Number Twelve. And bring Patch with you. I’m shot.”

T
he only thing
more awkward than having a disastrous first date, is having a disastrous first date with someone you have to see at work the next day.

And the day after that. And the day after that.

I knew I should never have let Vanessa talk me in to accepting a date with Dr. Kevin Larkin. He was hot, yes. He had the perfectly sculpted body of a male model, and just-messy-enough dirty-blond hair that could make a woman want to run her fingers through it. He was also, as my best friend and colleague Vanessa so bluntly put it, “making serious coin.” If the fact that he was an emergency room doc wasn’t clue enough that his salary was well into the six figures, the late-model Jaguar he drove would tell you all you needed to know. And, as Vanessa had also been so helpful at to point out, “he’s been following you around like he’s a starving man and you’re a piece of meat.”

What more could a girl ask for, right?

Dr. Larkin had asked me out four times in the last two months, and every time, I had found an excuse to refuse. And every time Vanessa found out I’d refused again, she went ballistic.

“Eva, are you freaking crazy?” she would say. “He is hot! He is rich! He is into you! Good God, girlfriend, what more do you want?”

I sighed. “I’m just not comfortable dating someone I work with, Van.” Or dating at all, actually. I hadn’t been on an actual date, with an actual man, since my marriage had ended three years ago. The closest I’d come were late night encounters with Frank, my vibrator. And I was pretty sure that didn’t count.

“Well, you won’t be
working
with him anymore when you
marry
him and become a wealthy doctor’s wife who spends her time doing volunteer work and hobnobbing with other wealthy doctors’ wives.” She cocked a brow at me.

“Ugh. That actually sounds awful.” I loved my job as a physical therapist at St. Luke’s Hospital. I couldn’t imagine giving it up, even if I could afford not to work. “You are not selling this very well.”

“Well, okay, then,” she shrugged. “So, you’ll still work. Give back to the community, and all that. How about you can set up your own clinic somewhere with all that cash? You gotta think of the big picture.”

I laughed. “If and when I get my own clinic, it will be with my own money. I’m not interested in having a sugar daddy.”

“It’s not a sugar daddy if you’re married, girl. Or if he’s as hot as Kevin Larkin is.”

I tried as hard as I could to get Vanessa to drop the subject, but my best friend was nothing short of relentless when she had a goal in mind. Eventually, she wore me down. The fifth time Dr. Kevin Larkin asked me out, I said yes, mostly to get her off my back.

That date had been three days ago.

It had not gone well.

Actually, for a lot of women, it might have been a dream date. But I guess I’m not a lot of women. Dr. Larkin — Kevin — had picked me up in the infamous Jaguar, and taken me, predictably, to the most expensive and most exclusive restaurant in town. I had to admit, he looked absolutely gorgeous. Emergency room docs generally spend most of their time in the same scrubs or white coat, so I didn’t often see him in much else. For the date, he was wearing a clearly expensive charcoal suit that fit him perfectly, and a crisp light gray shirt that matched the color of his eyes. I caught other women glancing toward us as we walked into the restaurant, and I was pretty sure it wasn’t me they were looking at. Even the hostess who sat us seemed flustered, and she was bound to see tons of rich, good-looking guys every day.

The hostess sat us at one of the nicest tables in the restaurant. “First off, champagne,” Kevin announced. “This is a special occasion.” He locked eyes with me, raising one brow seductively. Without looking at the menu, he nodded at the hostess. “A bottle of the Veuve Clicquot. Unless you have the Dom Perignon? Last time I was here, you were out,” he said with a slight frown.

The hostess looked chastised. “Oh, no!” she said quickly. “We definitely have the Dom. I’m so sorry you were inconvenienced last time.”

He flashed her a dazzling smile. “Oh, that’s excellent. The Dom, then,” he said with a wink.

The hostess flushed with pleasure. “Right away, sir.” She hurried away, and he watched her go, clearly assessing her figure from behind.

Kevin made a big show of knowing the menu. “Their beef carpaccio is absolutely out of this world,” he said smoothly. “Do you like carpaccio?”

I felt a little like this was some sort of test. “I’ve never had it,” I admitted. I knew what it was, though: raw beef. Cut in thin slices, and drizzled with olive oil, and some other stuff.

“Well, it’s a bit sophisticated for the normal palate,” he replied. “But when done right, with the highest quality beef, it truly melts in your mouth. Would you like to try it?”

I shrugged. “Sure.” Hell, I’d try anything once. And I liked sushi. That was raw, too, right? So maybe I’d like this.

A waiter appeared and brought our champagne. “To us,” Kevin said, raising his glass.

I resisted the urge to tell him that technically, there was no “us,” and simply touched my flute to his. The champagne was absolutely delicious. I was no connoisseur, but wow, if I could afford this stuff, I would definitely keep a bottle on hand for special occasions.

When the waiter came back, Kevin proceeded to order for me. I was sure he thought it made him look masterful and in control. But mostly, it just pissed me off that he would presume to know what I wanted. When the food came, everything was excellent, and I was almost disappointed to like it so much. Even the carpaccio was good, once I got over the fact that I was basically just eating overpriced raw meat.

Kevin basically asked me no questions for the entire first hour of our date. He told me all about his family’s cottage on “the Cape,” how he was at the top of his class in med school, and how he was only working at St. Luke’s, which he called, “a podunk hospital in a podunk town” until he had enough of a reputation to apply to Mass General in Boston.

When he finally did get around to asking me anything about myself, things went south pretty quickly.

All because I said the “C” word.

Child
.

“You have a daughter?” he asked, his nose involuntarily wrinkling. “I see.”

“She’s five,” I told him. “Just getting ready to start kindergarten. Her name is Zoe.”

“Well,” he mused, looking down at his plate. “That certainly doesn’t mean we can’t still see one another casually. No strings attached, I mean.”

That was the end of the conversation about my daughter.

And pretty much the end of the date for me.

On the way home, he continued his monologue, and I got to find out all about his investment portfolio, how much his downtown condominium cost, and his upcoming trips to prestigious medical conferences. (“I’m going to Las Vegas next month. I’ll be staying at the Palazzo. You could spend your day luxuriating by the pool if you’d like to come with me. Oh, that’s right, you’d need a sitter. Well, think about it, anyway.”) He leaned in for a kiss when he stopped in front of my house, but I was out of the car before he could manage it, and thankfully, he did not emerge to walk me up the sidewalk.

I had never been so happy to be home in my life. I paid the teenage neighbor girl who sometimes babysat for me, and watched out the window to make sure she’d gotten back across the street to her house. Then I turned off the porch light, took off my heels, and padded upstairs to Zoe’s room. Tiptoeing in, I leaned over the bed and kissed her softly on the forehead.

“Thank you for being an excellent creep repellant,” I whispered to her sleeping form.

I was never going on another date again, I told myself firmly as I tiptoed back out of the room and shut the door. At least, not until Zoe was grown up and out of the house. That gave me at least thirteen more years to avoid men completely. Hell, maybe by then I’d be almost to menopause and I wouldn’t even want a man anymore.

I just had to keep good old Frank in batteries until then.

U
nfortunately
, even though my play-by-play of my disastrous evening had managed to get Vanessa off my back, Dr. Kevin Larkin was less easily deterred than I had assumed. After the way he reacted to the fact that I had a child, I expected him to avoid me like the plague the next day. Instead, he came up behind me as I was talking to my colleague Sue about a patient evaluation, and whispered in my ear:

“Playing hard to get drives me wild, you naughty girl!”

“Whoa, what was that?” Sue’s eyes were wide as he sauntered away. “I didn’t know you and Dr. Sexy were an item.”

“We’re not,” I said firmly. “I don’t know
what
that was.”
Besides creepy
.

It became clear that Dr. Kevin Larkin and I had very different reactions to how our date had gone down. Normally, as a physical therapist, I could have mostly avoided him, but in the past three days I had seen him on every shift I’d had, sometimes multiple times. He hadn’t asked me out again — yet — but it was becoming clear to me he was under the impression that he was making me crazy with anticipation. I dreaded the moment that he actually approach me for another date. I couldn’t imagine it was going to go well.

I thought the time had finally arrived three days later, when I was chatting with Vanessa over a cup of bad cafeteria coffee. We were standing by one of the nurses stations when suddenly, her eyes went wide at something happening just past my shoulder. She raised her eyebrows and gave me a warning look. I turned toward the sound of footsteps approaching us, to see Kevin with his white coat on over his scrubs. His expression was serious.

I sighed and squared my shoulders, mentally rehearsing the little speech I’d prepared to let him down gently. But instead of asking me out, his tone was strictly professional this time.

“Eva, I’d like you to come with me,” he said, completely ignoring Vanessa. “There’s a patient who’ll need to begin therapy to rehabilitate a femoral neuropathy. And I’m assigning him to you.”