My Biker Bodyguard
Read My Biker Bodyguard Online
Authors: J.R. Turner
"J. R. Turner's well-presented, solid characters and plot line
make for a fresh, fast page turner with lots of thrilling action
scenes.
Stark Knight
is a cross-genre must read."
The Big Country Peacock Chronicle
"
Stark Knight
is an action adventure from the first page.
Talent like Turner comes seldom…she is a name to watch
for great things to come. This book is first rate in my
opinion. Thank you so much for the chance to read this
newcomer."
Stark Knight
a pageturner and a must-read for all action-adventure fans!"
Mr. and Mrs. Spy
sitting back and saying 'wow!'"
ending, this book is one heck of a roller coaster ride."
Stark Knight
is an adventure. I knew by page two it was
going to be a good read."
My Biker Bodyguard
J.R. Turner
MY BIKER BODYGUARD
All rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2013 by J.R. Turner
Cover Art © J.R. Turner
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any
manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
For Grandma Dolores,
your house was my inspiration, and will always be the home of my heart.
For my father,
for giving me such rich and wonderful experiences to draw from.
For my Uncle John,
for giving me my first ride on the back of a Harley.
For all the lifelong friends
who taught me family isn't just those who share your name.
"Okay, move over. You're gonna hit bone, you keep
digging at him like that." Jess Owen shoved the rookie aside
and spun the chair around, straddling it as she sat. With gloved
fingers, she lifted the tattoo gun and touched the three-needle
shader to J.D.'s shoulder. "There are seven layers of skin. You
don't want to go deeper than the fifth. Just a touch lighter."
Burly, with long side-burns and longer hair, J.D. relaxed
in the padded chair as the Rolling Stones hammered on about
having sympathy for the devil. Jess added red to the inked
flames climbing his shoulder. He sighed in obvious relief.
"After that butcher, this feels like heaven."
"Sorry, man." Trash, the rookie grinned, sounding not a
bit apologetic. He sounded proud he'd made the big biker
squirm. "But you volunteered."
"Not to be tortured." J.D. scowled. "Your hand's heavier
than your foot."
Jess tossed her dark blonde ponytail back over her
shoulder and leaned further to the right to give Trash a better
view. She had given her first tattoo on her sixteenth birthday.
Now, six and a half years later, she had earned her rep as the
best tattooist in the parlor, and often had to turn away work.
"You should be grateful I bombed out," Trash said, his
gaze fixed on her progress. "Jess don't do freebies."
"You didn't bomb out," Jess muttered, breathing carefully
and moving her entire hand, not just her wrist, as she followed
what remained of the transfer. J.D. was a bleeder and there
wasn't much left of the pattern. "In fact, you can finish this."
"Really?" Trash asked, surprised.
She blotted the tattoo with a paper towel and handed the
gun back to him. "Yep. You saw how deep, right?" She
stood, waiting for his nod as she stripped off the gloves and
threw them in the garbage. "You got a steady hand. Go for it."
"Cool."
J.D. groaned.
Jess stopped at the door to the eight-stall garage, the
second half of Tattoos and Tails. "I'll be back to see how it's
going later. Holler if you need anything."
"Yeah," J.D. said. "How about a tourniquet?"
"Sorry, fresh out." Jess chuckled. "Don't worry, if you
lose too much blood, we can always squeeze some out of
Trash."
"I heard that." Trash didn't turn. He was bent to his task,
dark hair stuck to his sweaty, narrow forehead.
"Ouch, damn it, Trash." J.D. gave Jess a pleading look.
"How about some whiskey then?"
"No way. The city would pull my license if they caught
you with booze. Besides, it'll only make you puke, and you
suck at mopping."
Before they could trap her into another discussion on the
finer points of pain management, she escaped into the shadowy
garage where they rebuilt and serviced Harley-Davidson
motorcycles. No rice grinders allowed, as her father, Dirty Dan
Owen called the Japanese-made crotch-rockets.
One vehicle parked out there wasn't a motorcycle, and she
had been dying to get to her baby all morning. The fully
restored, midnight blue, balls to the wall '67 Mustang was her
most prized possession. The day couldn't be more tempting.
Clear sky, balmy breeze, no humidity–perfect for a drive by the
lake and a quick dip before business picked up for the night
Men's voices carried from the far end, where a bay door
stood open to the day. The gray in her dad's beard glinted
white in the sunshine as he talked with a stranger, scrubbing a
rag repeatedly over his rings. A nervous habit, something he
did only when the city tried to dig up dirt on them or a routine
investigation brought cops to their door.
Couldn't run a tattoo parlor and bike shop without the law
thinking you were into everything from drugs to fencing stolen
goods, which had been true before her father turned legit.
Now, however, no thing or body could drag him back to that
life.
After a closer look, she saw the stranger was far from a
cop or a city inspector. Dirty Dan hit six feet and this guy had
to be at least four inches taller. Large across the shoulders,
narrow at the hips, he looked like one of those guys who
pumped iron in the gym across from Rudy's Auto Parts. No
beard, no mustache, and his close-cropped hair covered a welltanned scalp. Okay, so not a drifter–too clean-cut, too athletic.
She heard the deep vibrato of his voice, but not the words.
Running a hand along the curving flank of the Mustang, she
found a better angle.
He must have muscles on top of muscles
under that leather coat
. Who was he? A knee-breaker for the
mob?
Sunglasses hid his eyes, but not the strong jaw or the
mouth that looked as hard as the rest of him. His nose wasn't
quite as crooked as J.D.'s, but it could have been broken more
than once. Maybe a bouncer for one of the downtown clubs?
He spotted her, and she felt the intensity of his gaze
behind those sunglasses. Startled to be caught staring, she
lifted her chin and tried on a smile that felt as phony as Trash's
old I.D. She joined them and gave her father a probing look.
"Hey Dad, thought I'd come give you a hand."
He looked at the array of parts on the work bench, then
raised a brow at her. "With spark plugs?"
She held back a groan. Like he needed help with spark
plugs. "Well, y'know, whatever."
In the following hellish seconds of uncomfortable silence,
the stranger's shadow drained her brain like oil from a severely
abused Harley. The weight of his presence felt…dangerous.
"Jess," her father said, clearing his throat. "This is Mitch,
a friend from back in the day. Just passing through."
"Really." It came out flat, disbelieving. As far as she
knew, her dad didn't have any bodybuilding, Mafia kneebreakers for friends, and anyone from his past was either in
prison–or should be. This guy didn't look old enough to have
ridden with her dad either. He was closer to her age.
Mitch stuck out a hand. "Been a good ten years since I
saw your old man. You must have been twelve or so, right?"
"Must have." The jolt from touching his hand, completely
unexpected, left her less curious about how he knew her age or
who he was, and more interested in the color of his eyes.
She tried to hide her reaction, no easy task under her dad's
miss-nothing scrutiny. She could feel him scolding her. A lazy
smile worked across Mitch's face before he let go of a hand she
no longer knew what to do with.
Oh for Pete's sake, Jess. What are you gonna do, never
wash it again?
She shoved it deep in the back pocket of her jeans. For all
she knew, he might be up from Chicago or over from New
York, setting up a drug connection or asking her father to fence
stolen jewelry. If that was the case, good looking or not, he
could go back to wherever he called home. Dirty Dan Owen
had retired.
"What brings you here?" she asked.
"Just passin' through, like your old man said. Sold off
what I owned back in L.A. and headed for greener pastures."
Mitch waved at the garage. His jacket spread, revealing the tail
end of a black-work tattoo across one collarbone. "Looks like
you're doin' okay for yourself."
"Yep." Her dad's blue eyes were sharp beneath a bandana
tied pirate-style over his black and grey mane. "Can't
complain."
Something's wrong
. Her father backslapped his pals, took
them across the alley and into the yard behind their house.
He'd give them a cold beer, maybe fire up the grill, but he
hadn't even invited Mitch inside the garage.
Air brakes from a city bus hissed on the busy main street
and those dark sunglasses turned to watch it rumble away. She
cleared her throat, risking a foot in her mouth. "So, which way
you headed?"
Okay, not too bad, casual, unless he thinks you're trying to
get rid of him.
She hadn't been exactly welcoming so far.
"Am I intruding?" That rich voice carried a hint of humor
as it rumbled up from his chest.
"No, not at all." Now she sounded like she wanted him to
stay. She turned to her father.
C'mon, Dad, don't leave me
hangin' here. What do you want to do with this guy?
"Mitch's gonna stay with us a few days." He sounded
disgruntled and no smile lifted his beard as he turned to Mitch.
"You can toss your stuff upstairs, clean up if you want, and join
us for chow tonight."
"Sounds good." Mitch glanced past the fence and the
'Beware of Dog' sign, to the two-story house shrouded by
hundred-year-old oaks. He didn't move, and Jess didn't offer to
take him. She knew better. Her dad would never allow her
inside, alone, with a strange man. It was Dirty Dan's golden
rule–if you want to live, don't even think of touching his
daughter.
Made for a great dating life.
Then, aliens possessed him. "Give him a hand, Jess. Give
'im the drunk tank."
Jess snapped her jaw shut on his don't-dare-argue-with-me
look. She sent one back of her own.
Wait until we're alone
–
I'll
make your head spin with questions.
Mitch adjusted the pack on his shoulder. "Drunk tank?"
"You'll see." Her father went into the garage, ending the
conversation.
Jess hurried to get the chore done. At times like these, she
really wished she had known her mother, learned a little about
playing polite hostess, no matter what you thought of the guest.
As it stood now, she didn't want to be alone with Mr. Hunk-orama and risk morphing into a drooling moron.
Duh…wanna be my boyfwend?
At the chain-linked gate, she threw the latch. Mitch
followed close and she wondered if he could see the pulse
throbbing on the side of her throat. She should have worn a
turtleneck.
The beware sign slapped metal as the gate closed and he
asked, "You have a dog?"
"No. We've got an alarm on the shop that sounds like a
rabid Doberman. The sign's mostly to warn people about my
dad."
She wound among picnic tables, folding lawn chairs, and
the huge hand-welded grill, then up the back deck. The quiet
house made his boots, clumping behind her, sound heavy. She
sensed him looking at everything–every nook and cranny,
every branch off the kitchen and the living room, as if casing
the place.
Thief didn't feel quite right, though. What was his game?
The hairs on the nape of her neck stirred as he followed too
close. By the time she reached the staircase, her heart beat a
rock-n-roll drum solo.
No part of this was normal. Aside from J.D. and Trash,
her dad didn't trust any guy with his daughter. This was the
first time she'd taken a man to the drunk tank by herself.
Trash's brother, Kooch, had designed the room as a
punishment for anyone with guts enough to pass out at an
Owen cookout. She only hoped Mitch would take the decor as
a hint to get lost–like he wasn't taking the hint right now.
He crowded her intentionally. No one remained so close
without meaning to. His heat burned into the bare skin above
the back of her tank top. And damn it all, she liked his heat,
even if his kind thought they were God's gift.
She whirled at the foot of the staircase, nearly burying her
nose in the white of his t-shirt. She stepped back and up a
riser, then another until they were eye level. Hands on hips,
she glared at her reflection in his shades.
Angry that he supposedly remembered her, angry that she
still hadn't gotten a good look at him, and angry that her father
had been taken over by aliens, she huffed the bangs out of her
eyes and asked, "What are you doing?"
He gave another crooked, lazy smile. "Following you."
"I know that." If he didn't take those sunglasses off, she
would yank them off herself. "But why are you here at all?"
Then he removed the sunglasses and she wished he hadn't.
Chocolate brown eyes stared into her. She swore that stare
found her bellybutton and zapped it with a form of sexual
telepathy. Knowledge of her reaction registered in his gaze and
his grin widened.
Dangerous
. Was she breathing yet?
"I came to see Dan."
That might be the truth, but it wasn't all of it. As much as
she knew he had sensed her attraction, she sensed him holding
back. Secretive made him dishonest by omission. Bottom line,
he couldn't be trusted.
Yet her traitorous body practically glowed.
It had to be something like that sensory deprivation thing
she'd seen on cable. She rarely dated and when a healthy male
showed up at her door, lust erupted with volcanic force and
turned her brain to idiotic lava.
Forget the meltdown.
He wasn't being honest and he made Dirty Dan nervous.
That was all she needed. He could take God's gift straight back
to customer service and get a refund. She wasn't buying. "You
can stay for a day or two, then I want you out, understand?"
Surprise hardened his grin. "Whatever you say, Princess."
Jess wanted to kick him in the shin. "Don't call me
princess."
Now that she could see the rest of him, she was positive
they had never met before. At twelve, dolls were a thing of the
past and boys had become more than fellow playground
monkeys. No way would she have forgotten him–especially
since most of the men in her life looked like Hell's version of
Grizzly Adams. Testing, she asked, "Where do I know you
from again?"
"We met once, at a rally in Sturgis."
Liar. He would have stuck out like The Flying Nun.
He ran a hand over his head. "I was hairier back then."
Faltering, she wanted to believe him, though she knew better
than to ignore her gut instincts. Even if he didn't frighten her,
he damned well made her suspicious.
"Is this where I'm camping, or is there a bed up there?"
He jerked his chin at the second floor. "No problem either
way. Whatever keeps the rain off."
Did he really think he would convince her to step aside
and let him… What? What could he possibly want here, with
her father? To blackmail him? What else could it be? Her dad
would never, ever have let him stay in the house otherwise.
Knots sprang in her belly and twisted tighter. Normally,
she kept the door open, gave people a chance, most times two.
She didn't like being forced to lay down the law and hated
confrontations even more.
Nothing and no one would hurt her family though and
despite the hot prickle of nerves, she found the courage to
sound stern. "I don't know why you're really here, or what you
have on my dad, but if you get him in trouble, you'll be sorry."
Again, he seemed surprised, but his smile finally
dissolved.
About damned time.
He stepped onto the first riser, sliding one massive hand
up the banister, the other along the wall. Corralled in the span
of those big arms, she stood her ground. She wouldn't give in
to the invasion of her space, no matter her heart beat a thousand
times too fast.
"I'll be gone in a few days. Don't worry."
"Good." She jerked away from the heady scent of sun-hot
leather, soap, and salty warm flesh. Ignoring the blissful tingly
sensation in her gut, she spun and sprinted up the rest of the
stairs, feeling his eyes on her backside the whole way.
