Riding Dirty Read online

  “You don’t have to start tomorrow.”

  “It’ll keep me out of trouble.”

  Bill grunted his approval. “Jose’s there at six. I’ll tell him to expect you.”

  As Cole rose from the chair, his uncle surprised Cole by standing with him and giving him a hug. When they broke apart, Bill cleared his throat and looked away. Cole figured he was thinking about Rylan. And Courtney, Bill’s only daughter.

  Cole was all Bill had left.

  His uncle’s motives were murky and his actions were usually self-serving, but he cared about Cole. They were family. It was possible that Bill had already settled the score with AB, and didn’t want to incriminate himself by giving Cole the details.

  Cole stopped at the front office to check in. The lady at the reception desk gave him a key to the jailhouse suite. Each room had an Old West theme and a sign above the door that said things like “General Store” and “Hitching Post.” His room had a sheriff’s star painted on the stucco and decorative bars on the windows.

  “Cute,” he muttered, letting himself in. He tossed his bag on the bed. Jigsaw had taken him shopping earlier. Cole had picked up some new clothes, a phone and other necessities. Although he’d showered this morning, he stripped and headed straight for the bathroom stall.

  As he stood under the hot spray, letting it hit the tense spot at the nape of his neck, he thought about his uncle’s advice. He could go back to the strip club. He could hook up with Tiffany again. She had a great body. She was beautiful. Uninhibited. They’d had a good time, even if he’d been a little too quick on the trigger. For some reason, he wasn’t eager to spend another night with her.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t consider her worthy of a second date. He wasn’t that choosy. Neither was she, apparently. He got the impression that she’d taken him home because he looked like a thug, and she was the kind of girl who got excited by danger. A lot of women did. If they didn’t, he’d never get laid.

  He wasn’t sure why he was tripping on it. He was a thug, so he couldn’t blame women for stereotyping him that way. But he didn’t feel satisfied with the bad-boy role anymore. He wanted something different. A woman who made a beeline in the opposite direction when she saw his tattoos. Someone who wasn’t turned on by his MC status and rough appearance. Someone out of his league, like Mia Richards.

  Now that was a classy piece of ass. He’d always preferred the opposite, but Mia appealed to him on every level. Physically, she was delicious. He liked her face and figure. She had pale skin, fine brown eyes, a pretty mouth. Pretty tits, he imagined. The fact that she’d never sleep with a lowlife like him, even if she wasn’t his psychologist, made the fantasy sharper. He’d love to stick it to Vargas by fucking her.

  Instead of going back to the strip club for Tiffany, he took his cock in his hand and conjured a dirty mental picture of Mia. He was already rock hard, straining upright. He hadn’t been able to jerk off in peace since he’d gone away. There was very little privacy in his cell, just a narrow upper bunk with a scratchy wool blanket. His calloused palm was no special treat, but stroking his cock alone in the shower was. It felt familiar and revitalizing, a rush of hot water and dizzying pleasure. Yeah.

  Soaping his balls, he pictured Mia perched on the edge of her desk, blouse unbuttoned. Her lips parted in invitation. Sleek thighs, spread wide. No panties under that prim skirt, so her pussy was exposed to his eyes. His touch. His hungry mouth. He’d lick every inch of that pussy. He’d work her until she screamed his name.

  He gripped his cock harder, pumping his slippery fist up and down. He imagined her in a number of positions. Bent over the desk, her ass cheeks spread, tits jiggling as he fucked into her. Going down on her knees to take his cock in her mouth.

  God.

  Widening his stance, he spurted cum all over his knuckles and across the wet tile with a low groan. He shuddered from the intensity of his release. Then he finished his shower in a languid daze. He lingered under the lukewarm spray, letting it wash away his tension. Maybe he’d been in prison for so long that he was permanently damaged.

  Jerking off to Mia had felt more satisfying than fucking Tiffany.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MIA WAS TWICE as nervous to see Cole on Thursday.

  Her determination to go through with her plan had grown stronger since she’d visited her mother. She’d tossed and turned the past two nights. She’d thought about her past, her present, her future. The days without Philip stretched before her, empty and endless. The eyes of her attacker plagued her. The last seconds of her husband’s life replayed in her mind, over and over again, and his hoarse warning echoed in her ears.

  No.

  She imagined that he’d put up a fight after she’d run down the hall. He’d died trying to protect her. He wouldn’t have wanted her to pine for him or drown in sorrow. But the only thing that felt remotely hopeful or even real to her was this. Taking control of the situation. Stealing closure from those bastards who’d robbed her.

  It was possible that Cole Shepherd would do her dirty work without any prompting. White Lightning and Dirty Eleven were sworn enemies. The president of the rival club might already be on Cole’s hit list.

  Mia still had to find out who the mystery man with the “E” tattoo was, however. She’d studied mug shots of the other White Lightning members without a flicker of recognition. Sometimes she wondered if she’d imagined the tattoo altogether.

  Damon had promised not to hang around during today’s session. He really wanted to bust Cole’s uncle, and Cole’s cooperation was key.

  She let herself into the office and spent several minutes pacing in front of the desk. Her outfit was stylish and sedate again today, but her skirt was shorter. Her blouse was sleeveless and feminine, ruffled down the front. Underneath the ensemble, she was wearing nude lace panties with a black garter belt and stockings. Philip had bought the lingerie, and Cole wouldn’t see it. The point was to feel daring.

  Instead, she felt nervous.

  Although she was ready for his knock, Mia jumped at the sound. She released a slow breath and squared her shoulders. “Come in.”

  He opened the door and stepped inside, pulling it closed behind him. The action wasn’t sinister or suggestive. They needed privacy, and he was saving her the trouble of crossing the room to shut the door behind him. Even so, she felt a sharp stab of panic. He was a large man, clad in black leather. She flashed back to the day of the robbery. In her mind’s eye, she was standing on the threshold of the study, looking in on the robbery. She was pinned on the floor in the guest room, struggling to breathe.

  Mia blinked to clear the disturbing images. She reached out to brace her hand on the desk and missed, stumbling sideways. Her assailant—no, Cole—strode forward and caught her before she fell. His strong grip on her upper arms was reassuring, rather than aggressive. There was no menace in his gaze. No ill intentions. But his torso felt like a brick wall, and his motorcycle vest loomed before her. As her palms flattened against it, she pictured another man clad in leather. The edges of her vision went dark and her knees buckled.

  Cole picked her up with ease and deposited her on her desk carefully. Her water bottle tumbled off the edge, hitting the carpet with a thump. The sound snapped her out of her stupor. She straightened, trying to regain her bearings. Her skirt had ridden up a little. Although the tops of her stockings weren’t showing, his calloused fingertips made contact with the garter on the back of her thigh, and he went still.

  He knew what she was wearing.

  Removing his hand from her leg slowly, he retreated with his palms raised, as if he expected to be arrested for touching her. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded, moistening her lips.

  “Should I get someone?”

  “No.” She closed her eyes and listened to her pulse pounding, her blood rushing with life. She was almost too shaken up to worry about her lingerie. Some women wore garters every day, so he might not think anything of her sexy fashion ch
oice. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to look at him. “I was just...startled.”

  “I scared you?”

  “Not you. Your vest.”

  “What about it?”

  Mia hadn’t planned to reveal the details of her past this early, but the words spilled out. “The men who killed my husband. They wore black leather.”

  “Like mine?”

  “Long sleeves,” she said, remembering how the leather had felt against her fingernails. “When I tried to fight and scratch his arms, I couldn’t.”

  His amber eyes glinted with something that made her never, ever want to cross him. “They hurt you? Who were they?”

  She stared at his vest with trepidation. He was wearing a basic white T-shirt and jeans with scuffed motorcycle boots. The only difference today was his gang regalia.

  Cole shrugged out of the leather garment and tossed it on a chair. His expression was a mixture of pride and contempt, as if the vest was a rowdy dog he loved that had nevertheless bitten a small child.

  “I can’t share specific details of my personal life,” she said. “For professional reasons, and because of your...unique situation.”

  “My unique situation,” he said, studying her face. “Is Mia your real name?”

  The question rattled her. Cole was a high school dropout with a long criminal record. He was smarter than she’d figured, and quick to read between the lines. Most convicts weren’t that bright. “Richards isn’t my last name.”

  “Of course not,” he said in a curt tone. “You wouldn’t give your personal information to a violent felon. I might hunt you down.”

  Mia swallowed hard, feeling uneasy. He seemed insulted by the basic safety precautions. He was resistant to therapy and distrustful of law enforcement. He scanned the room, a muscle in his jaw flexing. She could see him becoming more defensive, more guarded. “That’s not why I’m using an alias.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “It’s not the only reason.” She folded her arms over her chest. “The men who killed my husband are still at large. I take pains to protect my identity because I’m worried about them coming after me. Not you.”

  He fell silent for a moment. “Why would you tell me that?”

  Another good question. “I doubt you’ll repeat it. You don’t want your uncle or your club buddies to snoop around this office and find out what you really do here.”

  “Maybe they already know.”

  It was possible that he’d disclosed his informant status to his uncle and planned to give investigators false tips. Or play both sides. “You went to prison the first time for retaliating against your cousin’s rapist.”

  “So?”

  “So I know your club code about violence against women, and I know your personal history. I’m making a judgment call in assuming that you won’t go out of your way to help two killers find a female witness.”

  “Club code doesn’t stop my mouth from running. I could tell anyone.”

  “Will you?”

  After a short hesitation, he said, “No.”

  She believed him. He didn’t strike her as a loudmouth. He had a soft spot for women, which worked to her advantage. Even if he shared the information, no one was looking for Michelle Ruiz. She was dead.

  “You shouldn’t trust me,” he said.

  “Are you a liar?”

  “Isn’t everyone?”

  “Most liars try to convince people to trust them, not the other way around. I don’t think you mean me any harm.”

  He picked up the bottled water from the floor and handed it to her. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

  Her pulse accelerated at the warning. She took a sip of water, contemplating him. She didn’t know if she was excited about her plan, or him. It had been so long since she’d felt...anything.

  He took a step back as she rose from the desk, but stayed close enough to reach her if she lost her footing again. She brought her notebook and pen to the sitting area. He commandeered the same chair as last time. She took the seat across from him, smoothing her skirt over her legs. She was intensely aware of her bare upper thighs and the lacy garters underneath the fabric. He was aware of it too, judging by his heated gaze.

  Did he think she’d worn the sexy lingerie for him?

  His vest occupied the third chair. She’d seen motorcycle club jackets several times since Philip’s murder, but never at close range, in a private room.

  “I can put my cut away if it bothers you,” Cole said.

  “Your cut?”

  “The vest.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “You weren’t wearing it the other day.”

  “I just got it back.”

  “Where was it?”

  “At the clubhouse. I had to be voted in again, and pay my dues.”

  “Do you decorate it however you like?”

  He smiled at this query, and the sight made her heart skip a beat. The years in prison had hardened him. His tough-guy tattoos and scarred motorcycle boots were intimidating. But he looked accessible—and devastatingly handsome—when he smiled. “These are patches, not decorations. We earn them.”

  “Like Girl Scout badges,” she said.

  His brows rose at the ridiculous comparison. Then comprehension dawned. “You’re fucking with me.”

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t appear offended by her teasing, just amazed that she had the nerve to do it. For all she knew, he’d earned the patches with criminal activities. This one for arson, that one for aggravated assault.

  “What do those letters mean?”

  He tapped the row of patches on the right front side. D-F-F-E. “Dirty Forever, Forever Eleven.”

  “And the one percent?”

  “Ninety-nine percent of MCs are made up of law-abiding citizens. Dirty Eleven is an outlaw club, so we’re one-percenters.” He moved down to the left corner, to a curved patch with the club name. “This is a side rocker.”

  “What’s on the back?”

  He flipped the vest over. It said DIRTY ELEVEN across the top. MC in the middle, next to a symbol of a skull wearing an army helmet. INDIO, CA was emblazoned along the bottom. The patches were black and army green.

  “Can I touch it?”

  His eyes darkened as if she’d asked to touch something else. He passed her the vest and watched her fingertips trace the D-F-F-E. Dirty Forever. She smoothed her palms over the leather as if it was his skin.

  “Why Eleven?”

  He stared at her hands, mesmerized. “The original club had eleven members. It’s a play on the movie The Dirty Dozen.”

  “I’m not familiar with it.”

  “It’s about a team of convicted murderers who go on a mission to assassinate Nazis during World War II.”

  “Bad guys turning into heroes,” she said.

  “Something like that.”

  “Is that how you see yourself?”

  “No,” he said shortly.

  She gave the vest back. It felt heavy and alive, warm from the sun and his body heat. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “I found that helpful. Facing your fears instead of avoiding them often is.”

  “I thought I was supposed to be the one getting therapy.”

  “We all have our issues.”

  He set his cut aside but kept his attention on her. The air between them hummed with tension. She hadn’t expected to feel this with him—a real connection. And she wasn’t sure she’d have been able to fake it.

  Her physical response to him was a relief, in some ways. She wanted to use her body for pleasure again, to revel in sensation. But their mutual attraction caused problems, too. She didn’t know if she could stay detached while she stripped bare and went down on her knees for him, or took him deep inside her.

  Cheeks warm, she reached for her notebook and pen. “Speaking of issues, how are you holding up?”

  “I’m okay.”<
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  “No trouble with anxiety? Loud noises?”

  “I’ve been working for my uncle’s construction company,” he said, shifting in the chair. “It’s loud, but it’s the kind of loud that drowns out everything. I go home tired.”

  “Strenuous exercise is good for stress. Where are you staying?”

  “At the hotel my uncle owns.”

  “Sleeping well?”

  “Well enough.”

  “Any conflict with the investigators?”

  His mouth twisted with scorn. “Not really. They’re trying to shake me down for information I don’t have, which is typical.”

  “Is there anything you want to talk about?”

  He scanned her figure and looked away. Beneath the spider web, his neck was flushed. “Maybe.”

  “What is it?”

  “Are you recording this?”

  “No.”

  “If you were, would you tell me?”

  “Absolutely. You’d have to sign a waiver.”

  “I did sign a waiver.”

  “You signed an informed consent, which we already discussed. It means that anything you say about illegal activities isn’t confidential. It doesn’t give me permission to secretly record our sessions. I’m here to counsel and evaluate, not collect evidence.”

  “What about the DA? Can they do it?”

  She glanced around the room, chilled by the thought. The legalities were murky because of Cole’s informant status. Damon had told her that he’d refused to wear a wire. Cole was still an inmate, and inmates didn’t have full citizenship rights. Even so, the personal details he shared with her were supposed to be private, and officers needed a court order for wiretapping. “I don’t know if they can or not. I’d consider it unethical.”

  “Vargas doesn’t strike me as an ethical sort of guy.”

  She couldn’t disagree. “It’s more likely that they’ll try to listen in on your conversations with your uncle. Bugging this office for two sessions a week doesn’t make sense. You’re not even here to discuss the case.”

  He dragged a hand down his face, nodding.

  “So what were you going to ask me?”

  “That was it.”

  “I could have sworn it was something else.”