Kinkaid (Bad Boys of Retribution MC Book 2) (3 page)

I USUALLY HEADED ON over to the Retribution MC compound after my GQ shift to clean up the bar after I’d cleaned up myself. Scud work came part and parcel with the Probie title, and I didn’t mind. The clubhouse was usually quiet that time of almost-morning, apart from the tank engine snores from various dudes occupying the bunkrooms in the back. Gave me a chance to clear my head, and reacquaint myself with all the other parts of my life.

I knew Solange Curry, my grampa’s night nurse, would be at our house long enough for me to take care of biz there first. After breakfast with my grampa and catching some shuteye, I’d hang with him, playing Scrabble, or messing with my bike while he watched from a La-Z-Boy I’d hefted into the garage.

He was my right hand man, doling out the tools before I even asked for them, having grown up with his head under the fuselage of C17s. He’d been an Air Force mechanic—knew the ins and outs of engines whether they ran in classic Bonnevilles, to Boeings, to my ’08 Harley Road King. His hands didn’t work well enough now what with the rattling and shaking, but Grampa was still sharp as a tack most times, and he didn’t like to have an idle mind. Bad enough he had idle hands, he said a time or two.

Those were the quiet times between us, the moments I cherished.

As soon as Solange returned in the evening, I’d motor back to Retribution and stay there most of the night so long as I didn’t have other GQ obligations. For two years I’d kept all parts of my life separate. Too bad that was over. My big-time collision of worlds with Sadie finding out had put a stop to all that.

Three days later she was not talking to me. I’d never had a fight with her before. Not a real one anyway, maybe just a scuffle or a few friendly insults traded before we were all good again. This time I hadn’t contacted her nor had she me. We usually messaged a couple times a day, saw each other a few times a week, and went out on a Sunday motorcycle run. Not this time.

Losing my best friend sucked balls, but it hurt even worse because there was an unfamiliar ache in my chest.

Like maybe I was losing something I’d never considered with her.

A girlfriend.
Fuck
. A lover. A life.

In full leather from my pants to my jacket to my boots, I rumbled up to Retribution MC on the night of December thirty-first for the New Year’s Eve bash. My Harley Road King lowrider spun wheels on the tar. Big, black-on-black, and
all that
, the machine thrummed between my thighs, sweet as any honey’s orgasmic cry. People stared at the right-angled ape hangers and drooled over the custom-tooled night train—faint flames of fire leaping out all over the engine block.

This was one of my nights off from stripping. I’d offered to stay home to celebrate with Grampa, but he’d told me to slip him the bottle of bourbon instead and go out and be young while the young was still gettin’ good.

Life was too short, and love too hard. I had first hand knowledge of that.

Man alive, it was hot as Hades when I stepped inside the clubhouse, ready to take my turn as bartender, crapper slosher, table-wiper. Someone had decked out the place in party poppers, colorful streamers, and strings of lit up red-hot chili peppers.

Folks yammered loudly, the music pumped even more raucously, and drinks covered every square inch of tabletop as far as the eye could see, empties rolling unheeded to the floor like fallen soldiers.

New Year’s Eve at Retribution. I might end up bunking in the back this time, too. Someone shoved a pool cue in my hand as soon as I entered. Someone else—Handsome, I thought it was, although I couldn’t make out his face through the long hanks of hair—thrust a shot glass into my free palm.

Prodded to the pool tables that sat opposite the long gleaming bar, I broke the balls, drank the shot, settled in for a night to remember and a girl to forget. I figured between the two of us, Cole and I could wait until morning to make the place shipshape instead of shit-shape.

I lost the pool game to Tail, the dude with the long black hair who usually had a trail of drooling honeys following in his wake. I chalked up my loss to the fact he practically ate, slept, and lived at the clubhouse and spent at least three hours a day on the tables. He oughtta take it professional. He already had a Tail fan club.

Cole motioned me to the bar, and we decided I’d handle the beers, shots, and mixed drinks while he started collecting three to four recycling bins worth of empties. Wise move. Hardass Brodie Steele was likely to do a Retribution inspection just for the malicious fun of it.

We exchanged places, and I kept the drinks rolling out. The large room swelled to capacity, the stream of people entering through the doors never dying down. The place was so maxed out I couldn’t see the far end with the pool tables anymore. The stage was used as an extension to the dance floor. Women in tight pants and tighter tops danced with each other and any man they grabbed hold of. They weren’t lacking admirers to say the least. Above the tables huddled in the center of the room, the graffitied beer lights glowed down on groups of folks talking, laughing, breaking out the poker chips.

One guy stood too fast and cracked his head on the pot-toking Miller High Life lamp above the table. He promptly passed out. His friends assessed his injuries by using the age-old technique of throwing a glass of high-octane alcohol in his face. Passed-out-dude woke with a gasp, flopping around like a half-dead fish before two of his buddies helped him to his feet. With a shake of his wet hair, the dude steadied his legs, let out a booming laugh, and immediately downed another drink.

And it was all good again in the clubhouse.

What little I knew about Retribution MC came from Cole. We’d met a few times through mutual Harley riders and hit it off. He’d been Probie version 1.0 to my 2.0, as Brodie Steele liked to call me. Cole had vouched the club was one in a million, and after hearing the stories, I could believe him.

Word was a bunch of shit that could’ve sent this MC down and torn them apart member-by-member had only made them stronger.

Boomer Steele was the Prez—big and badass was how I’d describe him. His younger brother Brodie was VP. Also big and badass with a lot of hardware in various parts of his anatomy if rumors were to be believed. I tended to believe them one hundred percent.

The bad shit had started last summer when Brodie’s old lady, Detective Ashe Kingston, had been kidnapped and almost killed by an MC member. Then right about the time I threw my helmet in the Retribution ring, Hunter Sexton went up against a Cuban gangster. That mess in the making ended with his lady JB being held at gunpoint right here at the club. I didn’t know all the ins and outs although the Cuban threat miraculously vanished into thin air. AKA in a body bag, at the bottom of the Cooper River, or buried in a landfill.

Sadie was pretty close to JB—Jessica she was called. She’d even volunteered in JB’s kindergarten class to help with art projects.

That was as far as Cole had clued me in. I knew Hunter was also Mt. Pleasant Police Department Vice. An odd combo for an MC to have such legit ties to the local police, but this club was clean and clearly vouched for.

Chrome and Steele Auto Parts stood right next door to the clubhouse in the compound. Boomer, Brodie, and their sister Catarina managed the business. Cat was married to a huge bestselling romance novelist. They showed up from time to time along with the hubby’s best bud, one Josh Stone whose family operated the lowcountry’s favorite garage for almost a century running. His missus was another famous romance writer, Leelee Stone.

It was all one big fam-damn-ily and included the Sisters of Redemption charter. Good guys, big bruisers, businessmen, and life-longers. Kids, crew, old folk, too. Talk about a melting pot. Much like The Gentleman’s Quarters.

A huge commotion went up in the center of the barroom, and suddenly Hunter and JB appeared above the throng, marched ceremoniously to the bar on the shoulders of several Retribution brothers. Deposited safely to the ground, the newly married couple shared a searing kiss to shouts of congratulations and applause.

I set out drinks for the newlyweds before they even came up for a breath.

“So, Hunter
Sexy Town
, get any skiing done out there in Vail?” One yuckster yelled out to heckles all around.

Hunter’s gaze roamed all over his lady who glowed like a candle from his attention. “Nope,” he said, sporting a shit-eating grin. “And the last name’s Angelo now, remember? ’Cause I’m legit, and oh so angelic.”

The cool dude’s answer went down as well as the next round of brews.

When the gang moved on to the next unfortunate soul to gain their often rude and crude comments, Hunter leaned over the bar toward me.

“What about you, Kinkaid? Kiss anyone under the mistletoe yet?” The man’s eyes were an unusual topaz color, his voice low, and his looks as deadly as he was said to be.

I got the itchy-all-overs as he stared at me as if he was reading me inside and out. Like he knew that thing about me I didn’t want anyone else cottoning onto.

“Nah. No special lady for me.” Relaxing my stance, I clinked a bottle against his.

As if the fucking fates mocked the words just released from my lips, the clubhouse doors opened, and in walked . . .
Sadie
.

Tonight she wore a pair of unbelievably hot black leather pants and her usual kickass dirt bike boots. Once she shucked her jacket I stopped blinking and stopped breathing altogether. The top she wore was red, crimson red, sexy vixen red. The curve-clinging shirt hung off one shoulder. No way in hell was there a bra underneath.
Aaaand
the shirt matched her glossy lips.

Was she trying to kill me dead?

The place was full of dudes smashed out of their gourds, and one look at her fuck-me-hard outfit and suck-me-please lips . . . she had
fair game
written all over her.

My beer bottled clunked to the bar, my forehead not far behind it. Her hair was down again. I still remembered the feel of her silken strands running through my fingers.

“I see. No special lady at all,
huh
?” Hunter chuckled.

I squinted at him from the one eyeball I opened in his direction. “Fuck. Off.”

Ignoring me, he vaulted across the bar, landing beside me.

“You got it bad, my man.”

“Fuck. Off. More.” I peered at Sadie again. Wished to hell I hadn’t.

“Want to talk about it?”

I groaned in response.

Where were the paint splatters that usually covered her ear to elbow? Her ponytail? Her goddamn overalls that covered
all of that
? My heart ping-ponged. My pulse ding-donged. My cock took a second and a third appreciative look before I slipped a hand below the bar and strangled the traitorous motherfucking length in my fist.

Better question? Why did I want her so badly all of a sudden? The whole lifelong friends thing had transformed to fuck-her-brains out obsession in the space of ten seconds flat
—
or one really pent-up lap dance.

Hunter lounged against the bar, tapping his fingers in my line of vision. “
Huh
. Well. You might not want to look at Sadie, but she sure has a lot of admirers.”

I bolted upright. A tight ring of groping, grabby groupie-dudes surrounded her over by the stage. It didn’t matter she looked entirely happy, lapping up the attention. In fact, that made it a hundred times worse.

She is my girl.

I started my approach with a slow stroll. It turned into a predator’s primal prowl. By the time the Nomad biker with the pirate-black goatee latched a hand around her waist, I felt animal-wild inside my skin.

I barged the rest of the way over and had Captain Jack Sparrow’s throat in my fist two seconds later. “You do not touch her.”

Pirate face took a swing at me. I ducked, releasing his neck to go punching bag on his stomach.
Left-right-left-right
. With an uppercut to his jaw, I laid him out flat and kept pounding hard.

Hands grappled at my shoulders, pulling me off the sausaged dude.

My knuckles were shredded. My breath came out chugging like a freight train. Sweat ran down both sides of my face and the center of my back.

“Holy hell, bro!” Coletrane’s huge chains at his wrists and neck rattled as he steel-caged me in his arms.

“He’s usually not such a fucking hothead.” Tail, the club’s hulking road captain, muscled up in front of me.

“Dang. Anger management issues much?” Brodie stared at me from ice cold blue eyes.

“I meant to wake you up a little, Kinkaid. Not make you go all grievous bodily harm.” A frown burrowed between Hunter’s dark eyebrows.

“I’m good.” I shrugged off Cole, stepping away from Sadie’s admirer who Tail and Brodie were helping to his feet.

Man, I’d laid more than a little punishment on the guy who’d done no more than touch Sadie. His face was a starburst of fast swelling bruises, his slit eyes all
fuck you, too
.

Hunter stayed on me like a shadow. “You’re not going to get yourself arrested tonight, are you?”