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Authors: Jill Sorenson
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deliver it to a third party.”
“What went wrong?”
“Wild Bill decided they needed a babysitter, so Roach joined the crew. It turned into a total clusterfuck. The girl they took had a kid with her, along with her bodyguard. Somehow they all got away. Roach had to follow them, and you know he was a good tracker. I think the bodyguard spotted him and doubled back to attack.”
Cole had seen the bodyguard’s picture in the news. He was former Aryan Brotherhood, a bad guy turned hero. Like the assassins in The Dirty Dozen . Cole couldn’t blame the bodyguard for acting in defense of a woman and a child, even if Rylan had meant them no harm. His brother had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“Fuck,” Cole said, rubbing a hand down his face. “Why would my uncle get mixed up in that kind of crime?”
“The money was good.”
“Is that the reason you did it?”
“No,” Ace said, glancing away. “Bill promised he’d convince Shawnee to give up Skye. But he didn’t follow through.”
“He blamed you for Rylan?”
“Either that, or he’s just a fucking liar.”
“Do you know who was he collaborating with?”
Ace hesitated.
“Was it a member of AB?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Who else would it be?”
“I heard he was doing side jobs with another MC.”
It wasn’t unusual for two clubs to pair up for a common goal. There was power in alliances and money to be made. “Which one?”
Ace didn’t speak, but Cole read the answer in his friend’s cold blue eyes. They were the same eyes Ace shared with Skye, sort of eerie in contrast with his ink-black hair, and too fine for the rest of his weathered face.
There was only one group Cole hated more than the Aryan Brotherhood. They were bitter rivals of Dirty Eleven, known for hard drugs, home invasion robberies and human trafficking.
Cole had earned his nickname by shanking one of them.
White Lightning.
CHAPTER SIX
M IA ARRIVED EARLY to sabotage the air-conditioning.
She’d thought about Cole all weekend. Wondered how his rough, tattooed hands would feel on her. If she’d respond to his touch with enthusiasm or freeze, retreating inside herself. Would her body accept him, even while her mind stayed distant? Before meeting him in person, she’d imagined faking everything, from attraction to orgasm. She’d planned to use lube to mimic natural arousal, and rouge her nipples. Now that they’d interacted, she wasn’t sure the deception would be necessary.
Since Philip died, she’d been numb. Not just emotionally, but sexually. She’d masturbated once, about a week after his murder, lost in a haze of crushing grief and insomnia. Seeking comfort, any kind of comfort, she’d climbed into bed with a shirt he’d worn. It smelled of citrus soap and shaving lotion. She’d spent hours with the fabric pressed to her face and her hand between her legs. When she couldn’t orgasm anymore, she’d cried. Deep, raw, gut-wrenching tears.
The next day, she’d washed his shirt and tucked it away. She’d been allowed to pack a suitcase full of belongings from their home, mostly her own clothing. The items she had to remember him by were photographs, his favorite wristwatch and a small sculpture of Aphrodite he’d meant to give her for their fifth anniversary. He’d always called her his Aphrodite. His titian-haired goddess.
She kept those things in a drawer, along with hisshirt. And she might as well have placed her sexuality in there, too. Set it aside, under wraps, like an object to mourn and weep over when she was feeling weak.
She hadn’t opened that drawer this weekend. Instead she’d gone shopping to fill another drawer—a naughty one. She’d stocked up on provocative lingerie and sexual aids. While browsing for new outfits, she’d caught a glimpse of a black leather corset. She’d bought it on impulse and donned the garment at home. Stomach fluttering with excitement, she’d touched herself in front of the mirror.
“What went wrong?”
“Wild Bill decided they needed a babysitter, so Roach joined the crew. It turned into a total clusterfuck. The girl they took had a kid with her, along with her bodyguard. Somehow they all got away. Roach had to follow them, and you know he was a good tracker. I think the bodyguard spotted him and doubled back to attack.”
Cole had seen the bodyguard’s picture in the news. He was former Aryan Brotherhood, a bad guy turned hero. Like the assassins in The Dirty Dozen . Cole couldn’t blame the bodyguard for acting in defense of a woman and a child, even if Rylan had meant them no harm. His brother had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“Fuck,” Cole said, rubbing a hand down his face. “Why would my uncle get mixed up in that kind of crime?”
“The money was good.”
“Is that the reason you did it?”
“No,” Ace said, glancing away. “Bill promised he’d convince Shawnee to give up Skye. But he didn’t follow through.”
“He blamed you for Rylan?”
“Either that, or he’s just a fucking liar.”
“Do you know who was he collaborating with?”
Ace hesitated.
“Was it a member of AB?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Who else would it be?”
“I heard he was doing side jobs with another MC.”
It wasn’t unusual for two clubs to pair up for a common goal. There was power in alliances and money to be made. “Which one?”
Ace didn’t speak, but Cole read the answer in his friend’s cold blue eyes. They were the same eyes Ace shared with Skye, sort of eerie in contrast with his ink-black hair, and too fine for the rest of his weathered face.
There was only one group Cole hated more than the Aryan Brotherhood. They were bitter rivals of Dirty Eleven, known for hard drugs, home invasion robberies and human trafficking.
Cole had earned his nickname by shanking one of them.
White Lightning.
CHAPTER SIX
M IA ARRIVED EARLY to sabotage the air-conditioning.
She’d thought about Cole all weekend. Wondered how his rough, tattooed hands would feel on her. If she’d respond to his touch with enthusiasm or freeze, retreating inside herself. Would her body accept him, even while her mind stayed distant? Before meeting him in person, she’d imagined faking everything, from attraction to orgasm. She’d planned to use lube to mimic natural arousal, and rouge her nipples. Now that they’d interacted, she wasn’t sure the deception would be necessary.
Since Philip died, she’d been numb. Not just emotionally, but sexually. She’d masturbated once, about a week after his murder, lost in a haze of crushing grief and insomnia. Seeking comfort, any kind of comfort, she’d climbed into bed with a shirt he’d worn. It smelled of citrus soap and shaving lotion. She’d spent hours with the fabric pressed to her face and her hand between her legs. When she couldn’t orgasm anymore, she’d cried. Deep, raw, gut-wrenching tears.
The next day, she’d washed his shirt and tucked it away. She’d been allowed to pack a suitcase full of belongings from their home, mostly her own clothing. The items she had to remember him by were photographs, his favorite wristwatch and a small sculpture of Aphrodite he’d meant to give her for their fifth anniversary. He’d always called her his Aphrodite. His titian-haired goddess.
She kept those things in a drawer, along with hisshirt. And she might as well have placed her sexuality in there, too. Set it aside, under wraps, like an object to mourn and weep over when she was feeling weak.
She hadn’t opened that drawer this weekend. Instead she’d gone shopping to fill another drawer—a naughty one. She’d stocked up on provocative lingerie and sexual aids. While browsing for new outfits, she’d caught a glimpse of a black leather corset. She’d bought it on impulse and donned the garment at home. Stomach fluttering with excitement, she’d touched herself in front of the mirror.
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