Harder (Stark Ink Book 1) (11 page)

Adam awoke early the next morning and hobbled to the shower. The hot water managed to knead out of most of the soreness. He left the shop with only a slight limp and locked up tight; well, the back door anyway, which remained unbroken. As for the front door, he’d resorted to nailing it into the wooden frame so that it couldn’t be opened despite the fist-sized hole in the glass. He still hadn’t bothered to clean the place up. It seemed to be the least of his worries at this point.

He slid onto his Harley as slowly as possible. He had to try twice to start it. His knee was not having it. He finally sparked the engine and aimed it across town. He’d taken this ride a few times before and knew the way from memory. After sailing past Maria’s Bar and the Rainbow Motel, he caught sight of the dark gray, low-rise building on the left. The sign hung above the large bay doors read “Burnout” but Adam had always thought of it as simply “Shooter’s Place.” The garage was as familiar to Adam as Maria’s Bar, even though technically it hadn’t been here nearly that long.

Like Adam, Chris “Shooter” Sullivan had built his own business from the ground up. Shooter’s business was custom cars, trucks, and bikes, or at least it was these days. Before he’d opened the garage, he’d been in the Army, and not just a grunt. Sullivan had done three tours as a Ranger, Army special forces. The story was that Sullivan would have stayed on forever, he was that damn good at whatever it was he’d done. But an IED had cut his career short.

Sullivan himself didn’t look any worse for the wear in Adam’s opinion, which he supposed was lucky. The man’s former unit member, Jimmy “Easy” Turnbull was missing a leg, though the blonde Cajun stood in front of Adam now like an immovable stone. In fact, all four men who worked at Burnout had been in Sullivan’s unit. Rumor had it they (and ex-cop Doc Barnes who had his own job) were all that was left of the entire team.

It must have been one hell of an explosion
, Adam thought, to kill so many men. Adam didn’t know anything about serving, but he could imagine that if some of the men had escaped without scars on the outside they probably still carried a few around with them.

It stood to reason that anyone who’d survived something like that would be no one you wanted to fuck with. And Adam had been in Maria’s Bar on plenty of nights to see Shooter and his friends “helping” a few unruly drunks out to the parking lot. The men of Burnout rivaled any MC, in Adam’s opinion, despite their relatively low numbers. He was counting on the Buzzards thinking twice about their shakedown when Adam showed up with Sullivan and his friends in tow, if he could get them to agree.

Not a rumor, in fact a part of Rapid City’s colorful history, Shooter Sullivan’s father had himself been a Badlands Buzzard. Not just any Buzzard, either.
The
Buzzard. The club’s president.

Who knew exactly why Shooter had traded a Buzzard patch for one that read “U.S. Army.” Adam thought it might have something to do with Shooter’s old man getting shivved in prison. Maybe Shooter, due to his old ties with the local MC, wouldn’t want to get involved. Adam was a loyal Burnout customer, having had his Harley worked on there several times. He and Shooter, being the same age, had gone to school together, as well, though they’d hung out in different crowds. They were friendly, but not exactly friends. Adam was prepared to be turned down, even though Shooter was his only option for coming out of the meeting unscathed, so he at least had to ask.

He approached the garage and nodded at Easy, Daisy’s man. Easy nodded back but didn’t say anything. Adam’s eyes skipped past him to the largest of the men, the one who Adam knew as Hawk. The large, dark-haired man glared at Adam from across the garage bay. Adam didn’t retreat but avoided his piercing gaze just the same. Adam had tattooed Hawk’s woman a while back and though the ink was a testament of her love for the large Sioux warrior, Hawk had not gotten over the fact that someone had seen his woman with her pants down. In truth, Tildy’s tat was less intimate than Calla’s, and especially modest compared to the ink that Adam had emblazoned on
Tex’s
woman. Tex didn’t seem to hold a grudge over it, though. He grinned at Adam as he ducked under the bay door and into the garage proper. Tex had always been friendly with Adam. Tildy’s tat had been an actual hawk. Adam figured when your woman went that extra mile and put your name right on her ass, you weren’t too worried about having to prove whom she belonged to.

Adam pointedly ignored Hawk and turned to Shooter.

“You look like you’ve seen better days,” Shooter commented as he eyed Adam’s injuries.

Part of Adam, a small part, but still, wondered if his ‘better days’ would now be a thing of the past. Not wanting to give voice to a dark thought like that, he simply nodded. Shooter seemed to understand that Adam didn’t want to discuss it. The slightly older man nodded across the parking lot, instead.

“Something wrong with your ride?” Shooter asked.

Adam shook his head. “I need to sell it,” he said, getting right to the point.

Shooter frowned. “You’re not getting seduced by a younger model, are you? Because there’s nothing wrong with the ride you’ve got.”

Adam took a deep breath. “I need the money. I’m in a bind. I need a full ten grand for it.”

Shooter looked surprised. “Sorry to hear that. Seemed like the shop was a go. I know a lot of people who’ve gotten ink there.”

Adam couldn’t be sure, but Hawk might actually have growled at that point.

“Some kind of mix up,” Adam explained. “A misunderstanding.”

Shooter’s brow furrowed. “Misunderstanding?”

Adam couldn’t hide the truth from these men. It would all come out when he asked them for help anyway. “The Buzzards say I owe them more money.”

The other men gathered a bit closer at the mention of the biker gang. Shooter carefully set down the tool he was holding. “
More
money? How’d you come to owe them anything at all?”

Adam didn’t miss the disapproving tone in the man’s voice. It’d been a risky decision going to Prior for the loan, but there had been no other way. He still didn’t know how things had gotten so fucked up, but he couldn’t change what he’d already done. “Loan,” he told Shooter. “I needed some cash to open the shop.”

There were grumblings from some of the men listening, Shooter not the least among them. “Not smart, Adam.”

“Prior treated me okay,” Adam insisted and hoped it didn’t sound like he was making excuses. “We never had a problem. Of course I paid on time.”

Shooter shook his head. “Prior’s anything but nice. If he made it easy, he had plans for you.”

“What plans?” Adam couldn’t think of any business he’d have with Prior other than the short-term loan.

Shooter leveled his gaze at Adam. “Cash business,” he mused. “Money laundering, I’d guess.”

Adam’s chest constricted and he nearly stumbled back. “No. No fucking way. I’d never agree to that shit. That shop is my life.”

Shooter seemed unimpressed. “Seems Prior has his mind up. And he can usually get what he wants.”

The youngest man in the group, Easy, spoke up before anyone else could. “I don’t want Daisy associating with you if Prior’s around. I’m sorry, Adam, but there’s just no way.”

“That’s the thing,” Adam told them. “Prior’s
not
around. It was some guy named Hook who showed up at the shop. He says Prior’s out.”

“There is no out,” Shooter argued. “No one gets out.”

Adam held up his hands in an ‘I don’t know’ gesture. “That’s what he said.”

Shooter considered this news for a long moment before he said quietly, “I don’t know anyone named Hook and I haven’t heard of anything happening to Prior.”

Tex cleared his throat loudly. “Maybe the… trouble… Izzy warned him about.”

Adam looked back and forth between the two men. “What trouble?”

There was a pause, then Shooter replied, “Doesn’t matter. How long did they give you?”

“Three days. That was yesterday. I’ve got the money. Or I do if you’ll buy the bike,” he amended. “I have to deliver it to their clubhouse.”

“Well, you’re not going alone,” Shooter declared and to Adam’s relief no one in the garage argued with the man.

“That’s one less favor I’ve got to ask for,” Adam replied.

“I can give you the full ten for the bike,” Shooter told him.

Adam nodded solemnly. “I think owing you is going to be less painful. But I won’t forget that I do.”

“So you have the rest of the money?”

Adam sighed. “It’s at the bank. Just have to make a withdrawal.”

To Adam’s relief, Shooter didn’t take any time to think it over. “Be here tomorrow morning. Same time. I’ll have your ten for the bike and we’ll pay the Buzzards a visit.”

Adam rode his Harley back across town. He didn’t want to think about that fact that it was probably the last time he’d ever do so. He’d owned the bike his entire adult life. The thought of giving it up made him sick to his stomach. At every stoplight, he checked for a tail, but didn’t see one. He hadn’t noticed anyone following him lately, but he hadn’t known he was anyone’s target, either.

If the Buzzards were keeping tabs on him, it hadn’t been obvious. He might have put Calla on their radar. They hadn’t mentioned her at the shop, but she’d been there just hours before they’d broken in. Who knew if they were aware of her? If she’d stayed that night, she would’ve been in his bed when they’d tossed his place looking for cash. His fingers tightened on the handlebars’ grips at the thought.

He circled her block twice, just to be certain he hadn’t been followed before pulling in behind her Mustang. There were no Buzzards in Calla’s middle-class neighborhood. No one would happen to recognize and report him. He hopped off and strode purposefully to her door. Logic said to stay away, to keep her out of this, but he knew he couldn’t do it. No fucking way. He needed to see her, right now, and set his mind at ease. He knocked sharply at her front door feeling caught between being close enough to protect her and distancing himself to keep her safe. He’d half convinced himself to walk away and simply call her on the phone when Calla opened the door. Her smile quickly faded as she took in the sight of him. “Oh my God!”

Adam smiled. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

She reached out to touch his face but then stopped herself as though she was afraid to cause him pain. “What happened?”

He sighed. He’d debated all the way over here what to tell her. “I had a break-in at the shop,” he told her, which was technically true and therefore he didn’t feel quite so guilty about any lies of omission.

“Oh my God,” Calla repeated and yanked him inside. “Are you alright? Did you call the police? When did it happen?”

“I’m fine,” he repeated.

Calla frowned though. She didn’t look like she believed him. He couldn’t blame her. He had half a dozen small cuts on his face. He’d definitely looked better. He tried to hide the limp, though, as he entered her living room. “Seriously,” he half-joked, “you should see the other guy.”

She continued to frown and he scowled.

“They didn’t get anything. There’s nothing really worth stealing. They did bust the place up a little,” he admitted.

“And you walked in on them? You’re lucky they didn’t kill you!”

He sighed. “Nah. Just some punk-ass kids. Not a big deal.” It was the first outright lie he’d told her and he felt like shit about it, but what could he do? He didn’t want to panic her. She might transfer her concern to Ava, and Adam couldn’t risk losing his little sister.

He’d get the money, he’d pay, and whatever this misunderstanding was would go away.

“Oh, God. Come here.” She shut the door behind them. Adam resisted the urge to lock it, just to be safe. She eyed him skeptically. “Did you even clean this?” She reached toward his forehead.

He shrugged. He had, a little, but in truth he’d had more important things on his mind. Calla touched the skin just beside the cut above his eye. It wasn’t, in his estimation, deep enough to need stitches. Calla must have agreed with his assessment because she didn’t insist they go to a hospital or a doc-in-the-box. “Come on,” she ordered and tugged his hand. He dutifully followed her through her cozy living room to a closed door that lay beyond. She opened it to reveal her bedroom. Her curtains were yellow, not frilly but pretty, and her bedspread matched. She pushed at his chest and he took the hint, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“What am I going to do with you?” she sighed.

Adam grinned at her. “I can think of a few things.” He patted the mattress. She scowled at him, though, and walked away. He heard her rummage through the cabinet in the adjacent bathroom. He sighed as he felt the tension seep out of his body for the first time in several days. He could fall asleep right here, he thought. Stretch out on Calla Winslow’s padded comforter and plump pillows and not wake up for an age.

She returned with a small first-aid kit and stood in front of him.

“Has this ever happened before?” she asked as she ripped off the top of a gauze package.

“No,” he said truthfully. “Just a fluke.” He hoped so, at least. He’d pay the money and be done with the MC and Calla never had to know.

She dabbed carefully at the spot above his eye. “You should have taken care of this.”

“You’re doing a fine job,” he replied. “Maybe I left it this way so you could fix it.”

She smirked at him and kept cleaning the wound. She crowded him as she stood between his spread knees. Her scent was flowery and clean and he lowered his eyelids as he breathed her in. His hand brushed her knee.

“Hold still,” she ordered.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Calla carefully applied some antibiotic ointment and replaced the cap. “Does this happen a lot with you?” she asked.

Adam tried to shake his head.

She grabbed his chin. “
Hold still.”

“Believe it or not, shit like this never happens to me.”

“Never?”

“Nope. For a guy in an underground profession, I know criminally little about the
actual
underground. I only care about two things. And my art is the other one.” He slid his hands up her hips, closed his eyes, and groaned.

“I can’t believe you’re thinking about that right now,” she scolded.

“Unfortunately, seems like thinking about it is all I can do at the moment.”

“Hmm. That is unfortunate,” she teased.

“Let me rest for a while, baby,” he told her softly. “Then I’ll be ready. I promise.” He tugged at the waistband of her pants playfully. Calla swatted his hand away.

“I think you’ll live,” she announced.

“Good to hear.”

She tossed the tube of ointment into the open kit and took hold of his shirt. Her nimble fingers started on the buttons.

“I’m alright, Calla,” he told her. “It was just my head they tried to crack open.”

She shot him a sour look but kept undressing him. As she stood in front of him, she held his shirt in her hands. “There’s blood on it. I’ll wash it.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

He lifted his arms and she removed the offending garment, tossing it onto a nearby chair. Then she sank to her knees in front of him and reached for his fly. He caught her hands in his. “There’s no blood on my jeans.”

She looked up at him from underneath her wild hair. “I told you to hold still.” Once again she reached for him.

Adam watched, simultaneously too fascinated and too tired to do anything more than that.

Calla unzipped his Levi’s and reached into his briefs. She released his cock, already half-hard just from being so close to her. That wild, untamed hair tickled his lower stomach as she leaned in and touched her tongue to the head. She swirled and sucked, licked and laved with maddening precision. Adam watched as she parted her lips and slid him in deep.

Body aching from both pain and pleasure, Adam finally leaned back and collapsed onto Calla’s bed. Her mouth was warm, her sheets were cool. This was all he needed in the world right now.

Calla made love to him with her mouth. It was the only way he could describe it. This was no sloppy slurp from a slut at Maria’s bar, a quick lick to get him hard then abandoned for her own pleasure. Instead, Calla trailed kisses down his shaft and back up again. Her tongue dragged over the slit to catch the bead of cum she’d brought to the surface.

Adam briefly considered destroying her bed, tearing at her sheets in an effort to make this last as long as possible. But he was tired and sapped of his energy. He reached down and took her head in his hands. With one thrust of his hips, he was nearly balls deep in her mouth again. A few quick pumps was all it took to bring him to the edge. He held her away from him then, lifting her hair gently in deference to the mess he was about to make. Thick jets of cum pulsed out over his taut stomach but managed to keep her clean.

She stood up slowly and wiped her swollen lips. “I’ll get a towel. Hold still.”

He closed his eyes and grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”

As he awaited her return, perfectly still as ordered, he briefly considered never leaving this bed. It was not out of the realm of possibility to lie here forever, go to sleep and never wake up. Well, perhaps he’d wake up occasionally. It seemed like a better fate to remain in Calla Winslow’s soft bed than face the more unpleasant things that lay ahead. He could steal a few precious moments, though. The calm before the storm.