Kinkaid (Bad Boys of Retribution MC Book 2) (18 page)

“Sadie, what’s mine is yours, body and soul.”

“Yes, Kaid.” She shivered.

And the flame burst to life.

Bo: Bad Boys of Retribution MC #
3

From the world of the Carolina Bad Boys! A four-book spinoff series speeding your way one after the other summer 2015!

Hunter
is available NOW! June 2, 2015:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00UWHWMO8

BO IS AVAILABLE FOR PREORDER NOW!
Release July 14, 2015:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00ZDWEBJQ

Coletrane
, the final book in the MC summer series, coming in August:

https://www.goodreads.com/review/new/25070007-coletrane

I GASPED FOR BREATH, fighting against the arms holding me down. The arms changed, becoming slender and pale with fingernails that dragged down the length of my body. My struggling ceased. My body seized up in a knot of hot arousal. The fingers teased, landing with soft strokes on the muscles of my lower groin. My cock lifted, hard and rearing against my stomach as the fingers coasted lightly up and down my aching shaft, never reaching the swelling head.

My hips kicked. I needed more contact. The woman was driving me out of my mind. The distinctly feminine hand finally wrapped around the heavy base of my cock. I grunted in relief then hissed as warm wet lips stretched over the helmet. I gripped the pillow beneath my head in both hands, trying to keep my body still even though all I wanted to do was force my dick straight into the throat of the woman softly coddling the tip of my shaft with her sleek lips and massaging tongue.

Finally she sucked me farther into her mouth, one inch, two, three, four. She stopped halfway and looked up at me with cat slits for eyes. Her body took form, her face, too. The lush lips I impaled smiled with devilish intent as the woman’s cheeks hollowed, and she sucked back up my cock.

Fuck!

I woke with a start, my heartbeat pounding through the pulsing veins of my dick. Before the dream had morphed, I’d been back in the desert, my body and my brain detached. Black and white torture—I’d lived through it. Moments when I believed I’d be executed, blindfolded, waiting for the final shot only to be blinded again by the sheer white sun when the mask was removed and I was left, kneeling, stoically not crying while they pissed rings around me in the sizzling sand. Afternoon delights that included asphyxiation at the hands of my captors while I fought the natural-born fear of suffocation. They’d wanted information I’d never give up even if it meant they took me apart piece by piece.

I was a soldier. A marine.
Ooo-rah!

I flicked on the light beside my bed.

Despite the earlier night terrors, my body was firmly linked to the now.
Fuck. Fuck. Shit.
I didn’t know what was worse: the memories of fake executions or the mind-blazing arousal knifing though me.

My dick didn’t care either way.

I kept my hands locked on the pillow. If I so much as brushed a fingertip against my cock I’d shoot off all over the covers. I hadn’t had a wet dream since I first learned what to do with my dick other than piss from it. Wasn’t about to start now, especially when the starring role in this little erotic fantasy had been none other than Ronnie. Somehow she’d replaced the usual fury and fear and fighting of my nightmares with one hell of a hot show.

I tasted blood in my mouth. I’d bitten my lip, wishing it was hers.

Jeeesus.

Ronnie
. Fuck that bullshit.
Veronica
. Doctor Hartley. It wasn’t normal to have erotic dreams about a headshrinker I’d only met once, was it? If the woman wanted to crawl inside my mind and take up residence in my body, she could consider the job done.

It’d been too long since I’d had a woman. That was the only reasonable explanation for the fact I wanted to fuck Veronica to within an inch of her life, pound her into the mattress or through a door, find out if the hair on her pussy was the exact same vibrant shade of red as the strict tight bun on her head. The suit, the attitude. She’d put paid to that player Tail and spun me ass over end with just a few curt words.

She’d earned my grudging respect and apparently a massive boner that wouldn’t go down.

Hunter, on the other hand, would die by my hands for putting me up to this therapy shit. With a sexy chick no less, who looked like she’d just as soon bust my balls as ride my cock. I shouldn’t even be thinking about her like that, not if I was supposed to spill my stupid guts to her.

I went for easy, easier, easiest. Clearly Veronica Hartley wasn’t that, and I didn’t need any more challenges in my life.

When I deemed it safe enough to move my hands without setting off a cock-explosion, I grabbed my phone and glared at the screen.
Zero three hundred hours.
Three hours until dawn. I suffered from a huge erection. And I had an appointment with Doc Hartley at ten o’clock.

Fuck my cock.

Shoving off the damp sheets, there was nothing else for it. I couldn’t shut down my brain at this early hour, and I didn’t want to start tanking back the coffee just yet. The vodka would have to wait until a reasonably decent time of day. I’d been trying to get my shit together, which meant not going ballistic whenever a backfiring car sounded like indirect fire aimed at my head or hitting the bottle before . . . say . . . seventeen hundred hours.

I’d set myself up as a personal trainer. I didn’t have much in the way of equipment yet, but I didn’t need too many extras. I believed in the old school ethic, not fucking spinning classes and treadmills. All I needed was a back forty, a nice spring day—although shit got even more fun and reminded me of boot camp when the rain came pouring down to create a muddy swamp perfect for a little bust-yo-ass obstacle course. Tires, concrete blocks, two-by-fours, and absolute mud runs.

I wasn’t about to cater to pussies too scared to get their hands dirty by doing it the old-fashioned way.

Didn’t have much in the way of a client list yet either, but I wasn’t afraid of hustling, and I’d hit up every veteran hangout I could find. Brodie and Boomer Steele—the head honchos of Retribution MC—had helped, putting out the word with their Chrome and Steele Auto Parts regulars.

Hunter hit up the Mt. Pleasant police force. It was weird, people having my back, some of them little more than strangers. Sometimes it felt good. Sometimes it became motherfucking claustrophobic. Leaving the Marines had been like leaving my family, but surprisingly, others had taken me in. It hadn’t been a mistake throwing my patch in with the MC.

But Hunter was still on my shit list.

After pulling on a pair of gym shorts and my sneakers, I moved through the house on silent feet. After three months inhabiting the place, I’d finally stopped checking around all the corners before entering a room, or sitting against the farthest wall so I could see all entry points at any given time. Paranoia, thy name is Bo Maverick.

I still didn’t recognize myself in the mirror. I oughtta stop checking that shit. Tanned, tattooed, dark auburn hair cut close, no muss, no fuss because morning muster used to happen when I was deep in the z-z-z-zone.

Those were the days.

My last botched
operation with Force Recon had done such a number on my head I was still a scrambled mess. At least the house I’d bought on the foreclosure auction block was in better shape. It wasn’t a huge spread, but I didn’t need more than the basics, and it was a damn sight better than my last containerized housing unit by a long shot. The small ranch was up-to-date with a decent yard and a high wooden fence in one of Mt. Pleasant’s older neighborhoods off of Rifle Range Road. Maybe there’d been a rifle range here decades ago. Now the only one was in my backyard.

Howdy, neighbors.

The area was supposed to be prime for raising kids, not that I was anywhere near daddy material. But maybe someday. If I lived that long.

The neighbors had done the whole welcome wagon thing with piping hot casseroles and platters of brownies. I’d almost nut-punched the civvy idiot who’d thrust out his knuckles to bump mine, shouting, “
Semper fi!
” in my face. The only tour of duty that asshole had ever seen was the video game while I bore the scars on my skin.

The Brady Bunch neighbors had backed off after that. Couldn’t blame them. I liked to oil my M39 while I sat on the front porch. They probably thought I was more unhinged than I really was.

Good impression, I did not make it.

Oh well. What can I say? I have problems making nice with the friendlies.

My ’56 Blackbird sat in the garage, babied and pampered and ready to rumble. I actually had edible food in the fridge, an entire set of dishes and silverware, a bed with a comforter instead of my military-issued
woobie
. Six rooms, four walls, a roof over my head Uncle Sam wasn’t paying for. Thus, this place was my palace.

I made my way out the sliding glass doors, ghosted across the back porch, walked onto the dewy grass. Three thirty a.m. and all was quiet in the hood; only the waning moon and the night insects kept me company. Silvery light outlined tall trees. Flowers from the previous owners had started blooming along the bricked in borders. I stretched in the cool air, knowing I’d be working up a sweat soon enough.

Not an ounce of fat covered me, just slabs of solid muscle. That was how I aimed to keep it. I stood a good six foot three, broad through the top, narrow through the waist, long and muscled in my legs. If I was serious about this personal trainer biz I had to be my own walking, talking billboard.

I worked out the big guns first, my shoulders and arms. Weighted squats came next until my glutes burned and my thighs quaked. Lying on a backward incline over a plank of wood with a rough concrete block held to my chest, I went at the crunches, digging deep and putting every ounce of energy into each abdomen-biting move. Wrestling or sparring was always a good way to keep fit, but I didn’t have a partner at this ass-crack-of-dawn hour so I did another rep before stretching it all out tai chi style. 

I rounded out my routine with a five-mile run. No iPod. No tunes. No distractions. Just my feet pounding on pavement.

And the goddamn unstoppable circus in my head.

Last night was the first time I’d seen Veronica Hartley. She’d busted into Retribution MC, a woman on a mission to put me in the hot seat,
busting
me for making appointments I never kept.
Ronnie.
That’s what Hunter had said. I’d expected a man, not the soft-voice over pure steel pretty lady shrink.

Holy hell.

My feet ate the pavement. My brain burned rubber.

As soon as she’d exited the clubhouse and I’d gotten my hothead under control, I’d found Hunter.  “You didn’t say the doc was a woman.”

“Does that make a difference?” He’d looked mildly amused at my predicament.

I decided right then and there Hunter was a dick. I didn’t care if he’d saved my life a time or two.

Did it make a difference Ronnie was really Veronica? It shouldn’t. But for some reason it did

I could just kill Hunter and be done with this whole
reentry
into civilian life shebang, but he’d done me a solid getting me into Retribution MC.

Ratcheting down on my speed, I jogged back to my house. I’d burned two hours, only five more to go until it was Veronica time.

****

At exactly ten on that fine March morning, I strolled into Retribution MC, blowing off sexy Doctor Hartley for the third time. I was courting danger and I knew it. I kind of wanted it. Well, I wanted
her
more than I’d wanted any woman I’d ever met. Hence she was more dangerous than any IED.

I couldn’t face her digging into my head and unraveling all my weaknesses just yet.

It was only midmorning but a handful of dudes, including Hunter, lounged around the clubhouse. Tail and Handsome traded covert threats while knocking pool balls on one of the maroon-covered tables. Kinkaid curled over huge sheets of paper spread out on the bar. Coletrane stood next to him with a pencil planted behind his ear.

Kinkaid had just received his MC patch last night. He’d been prime stud real estate, from what I’d heard, but only had eyes for his best friend Sadie from the Ladies of Redemption sister charter. They’d recently shacked up together, and the lovey-dovey was in the air.

I squinted at the plans he flicked through. “Shouldn’t you be at home with your woman?”

“Exam week.”

“Hooked a college girl, huh?”

“She’s a damn fine painter, studying at CofC downtown. Sadie’s gonna be famous one day.” A note of pride filled his voice.

“What’s all this then?” I angled my head for a closer look at the blueprints.

Kinkaid did an awkward shuffle, which was funny on a big boy who’d been, until recently, a very popular stripper. “Plans for a dance school?”

“Who are you teaching the moves to?” I asked.

“Male
exotic
dancers.” The dude with the platinum blond fade grinned at me.

“Tail’s his first customer!” Cole called out to the clubhouse denizen, whose long hair flipped back at the same time he flipped his middle finger at Cole.

Tail cupped his crotch and lewdly swung his hips. “I was just kiddin’ about that shit. Got all the moves I need right here.”

Tuck, the MC treasurer, strolled out of the back hallway with his kegger of a belly and his gray handlebar whiskers leading the way. “I heard Bo Diddley was in the house.”

Cole snickered. “Bo Jangles.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Fuck that. What about Bo Derek?” Tail stroked his fist up and down his pool stick.

“How about Bo-wie”—I unsheathed Ka-Bar number one and sent it whistling past Tail’s ear at the far end of the room until it went tuning-fork, slamming into the wall behind his head—“knife?”