Reckless Rebel: A Cocky Hero Club Novel

by Matson , TC

  “Hold on to me,” he instructs.

  He could drive us straight to hell and I wouldn’t let go.

  The rumble is instant the second he cranks it. Deafening. Thunderous. Guttural. It vibrates everything, from the bottoms of my feet to the top of my head, and all in between. I’m going to be mortified if I have an orgasm on his back.

  As he pulls away, I focus on not digging my fingers into his abs as a rush of exhilaration and fear bombards me, creating a weird concoction of anxiety, adrenaline, and relaxation. It’s an intense rush of feelings.

  When you travel by car, you’re protected by a bubble. But this? It’s so much different. We’re at the mercy of the world. We pass through pockets of warm and cool air—some fresh and pleasant scents, others not so much. Lights whip by me as my hair rides the wind. The road rushes past my feet. Everything feels faster.

  It’s a freeing high I’ve never experienced before.

  After we pull in front of a restaurant, Ash helps me off the bike before handing over his key to the valet. He grabs the guy’s hand, forcing him to face him. “Do not do what you did last time.” His warning is heavy with a deadly promise.

  “What did he do last time?” I whisper as Ash guides me inside.

  “Picked up his girlfriend and took a joy ride,” he says nonchalantly, like it wasn’t a big deal.

  My jaw hits the floor. “And you put the keys in his hand again?”

  “I made my point.” His tone is stoical. “I would’ve pressed charges but I’m positive facing his uncle is worse than jail.”

  The maître d looks up when we enter. His eyes land on Ash and he beams. “Mr. Asher! I was hoping that was you.” His accent is thick Italian. “We have your table. Like you requested. Follow me.”

  We’re guided to a table in the back corner with a small lit white candle. The lighting around us is dim. The music sounds symphonic and incredibly romantic like we should be touring the city canals in a gondola.

  “I let Gino know you’re here. Yes?” The maître d nods, smiling at us both. “He’ll be so thrilled to see you.”

  Ash must see the questions in my eyes as the man rushes away. “I’ve done some work for Gino. Personal things. Not tattoos,” he elaborates.

  I’m about to ask more, but a man with thick jet-black hair in a white chef jacket pops out from the back with a bottle of wine and a huge toothy smile. “Asher!” he greets, his Italian accent thick too. “It’s good to see you, my friend. It’s been a while. I bring my finest Sangiovese.” He hands it to the waitress at his side so she can open it and pour our glasses.

  “This is Kenlyn,” Ash introduces.

  “Ah!” Gino cups my face and kisses both cheeks. “Kenlyn. Such beautiful name. This a date?”

  “First, actually,” Ash butts in.

  Something flickers in Gino’s eyes. “Oh. Many more. He’s such a great guy. I cook you something special for the special occasion.” He plucks the menus off the table. “I’ll be back.” He winks at me and rushes away.

  “Wow.” I exhale with a giggle, reaching for my wine. “He’s full of energy.”

  “All the time. The man never slows.”

  “What kind of work did you do if it wasn’t tattoos?” I ask and then take a sip of the cool, tart liquid.

  Ash ponders his answer for a second. “His son got in with the wrong crowd. Gino came to me asking for help. I ended up scaring the shit out of the kid and now he’s in college doing what he should’ve been doing all along.”

  “Well aren’t you a do-gooder.” Too flirty. “How’d you scare him?”

  Ash’s smile spreads to a grin and it lights up his eyes. “You’re giving me hell for being a do-gooder. Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?”

  Biting the inside of my cheek, I try to conceal my smile. “How would you know if I’m a do-gooder?”

  He cocks his brow. “It’s obvious.” He chuckles and takes a swallow of his wine. “As for Gino’s son. How I scared him is not important. Just know it worked.” He sets his glass down, places his forearms on the table, and leans forward slightly. “We’re in private. Talk.”

  Straight to it. No warning.

  My smile drops as do my eyes to where I run my fingers along the stem of my wine glass. I know I said I’d talk to him, but this topic is a hard one. It’s a story I hate reliving and I’m positive he won’t understand why I think the way I do.

  Time to rip off the Band-Aid.

  “My mother abandoned us and you remind me a lot of the man she left with.”

  He chokes on his wine, nearly spitting it out, but manages to swallow. He covers his mouth with his fist, coughing a few times. “Come again?”

  I don’t dare look at him. “When I was seven and my brother was a baby, she ran off to pursue a new life. She wanted to be a singer and apparently having a family got in the way.” Resentment creeps into my tone. “I watched her walk away and into the arms of the man she claimed was a friend. I remember his tattoos the most because I couldn’t look him in the eyes.”

  Thankfully, Ash stays quiet. He doesn’t talk and allows me to continue when I’m ready. “Karma stepped in and made her a nobody. The guy was a flake and nothing came of her. But instead of coming home and taking care of her responsibilities, she moved on. I ran into her years later. She’s got two kids and a new husband who—” I cut myself off, feeling sad and horrible all mixed together because I have, in fact, judged him for the ink on his arms. “I know how judgmental I sound, but I don’t mean to be.” I lift my gaze to his. “I grew up with two memories. One where she hopped on the back of a motorcycle with a man who had tattoos all over him and never came back. The other when I was older and saw her with her husband, who was also covered in tats. Apparently, my mother has a type and you fit the bill. I don’t want to follow in her footsteps. Hell, I don’t ever want to be anywhere near the same path.”

  “So all men and women with ink are bad?” There’s an edge to his tone. “We must belong to a biker gang or snort lines from the closest flat surface?”

  Shame makes me drop my head. I give it a quick shake. “No.”

  “You shouldn’t judge someone negatively because of the ink on their skin. Some of the nicest and hardworking people have tattoos.”

  I knew he wouldn’t understand. “Look, I know it was wrong of me. I’m not denying that. But imagine being a child and having that image etched forever into your memory. I conditioned myself to dislike men like you.”

  Something flashes across his eyes, a flicker of some sort. In an instant the dark is gone and staring back is clear blue. The corners of his lips pull up into a smirk. “Then let me prove to you that I’m not that man and you’re not your mother.”

  The combination of his words and the way he’s looking at me causes a sensation to prickle in my chest. I’ve spent my entire life making sure everything I do and who I’m becoming is opposite of anything I remember of her. But in this very moment, sitting across the table with Ash, I feel…right.

  “Who raised you? Your dad?”

  “Yeah.” I smile at the thought of my incredible father. “He took on two children alone. Proved to us he’d never leave. And never talked badly about her even when we were in his bed crying over it after he had worked all day. He raised us to learn from the mistakes. Eight years later, he met Kim. She stepped up to the plate that wasn’t hers and loved us like we were her own. They married and not long later, Amanda came.”

  I titter at the memory. Dad had sweat beading across his forehead. Kim’s eyes were wide with nerves. They sat us down at the table and told us she was pregnant. Being seventeen, I was old enough to realize it wasn’t planned. Chris, on the other hand, was seven and upset he wasn’t getting a brother and it wasn’t fair he was now going to have to protect two girls his whole life. When Amanda was born and placed in our arms, I was in love with my sister and Chris didn’t mind anymore that he had a baby sister.

  Ash opens his mouth to say something but is interrupted w
hen Gino pushes out of the kitchen with a tray on his shoulder. He’s wearing a huge smile as he sets the plates in front of us. “Petti di pollo con salsa al mascarpone. Eh…Chicken breasts in mascarpone sauce and bruschetta with eh…sun dried tomatoes,” he explains.

  I’ve never had true authentic Italian food. Not that I can remember anyway. But the portions on the plates are enough to feed an entire family. No way in hell I’ll be able to eat half of it.

  “If you don’t like, you tell me. I fix.” Gino adds, but the pride on his face says I’ll love it.

  “It looks delicious.” I smile up to him. “Thank you.”

  He winks to Ash and leaves us.

  Throughout the rest of our dinner the conversation lightens up. We talk about work, exchanging stories of our most difficult jobs, the funniest, the easiest. It’s comfortable and pleasant, and if I’m being honest, I love it.

  Chapter Twelve

  Instead of taking me home, Ash has different plans, ones he’s not filling me in on. Before we took off on his bike, all he said was it was a surprise.

  Now we’re pulling into a parking garage. He hops off first and helps me get off. “Let me have your purse. You won’t need it.” He lifts his seat revealing a small compartment underneath. I don’t hesitate when I hand it to him and watch as somehow it fits in the little area. He locks the seat and shoves his keys into his pocket. “You okay to walk in those?” He nods to my heels.

  Of course I’m wearing the steepest heels I own. “For a little bit.” I look up and down the street. “What are we doing?”

  The excitement on his face paired with the disarming grin set me on fire. “Something you should’ve done long before me.”

  The sidewalks are lined with groups of people gathered every so often and watching different street performances. Ash peeks over heads and moves like he’s looking for something in particular. He does this for another block until we come to a small cluster congregated around a group of boys. Up front is a guy with sandy blond hair, shaggy and falling over his forehead. He holds a guitar, strumming it as he sings a popular Maroon 5 song. The guy behind the keyboard looks identical to the singer, but younger. And the one playing the drums—well, buckets—must be the middle. If they’re not brothers then bears don’t shit in the woods.

  When the singer sees Ash, he grins, tipping his chin without missing a beat. The drummer is killing it on the buckets, his hands moving quickly and his feet lifting the white bucket in front of him to give it a different sound. If I wasn’t seeing it, I’d swear it was a true drum kit without the cymbals.

  The song ends, but the music doesn’t. As they instantly transition into another, I recognize the beat immediately. Because let’s face it. “Senorita” by Camila Cabello and Shawn Mendes is the hottest and definitely the sexiest song. No way you can’t like it.

  I watch, wonderstruck, never hearing Camila’s part performed by a male. He’s nailing it and I swear this kid’s version sounds better. The moment the drums/buckets kick in, I feel Ash’s eyes on me. Suddenly, he grabs my hand and pulls me into the empty spot where the crowd doesn’t touch and in front of the band.

  Embarrassment slams into me and I drop my head wishing I could sink under the cement beneath our feet. He wraps an arm around my waist, lifts my face to his, and pulls my body close to his as he runs a hand down my arm to grasp mine.

  Hell’s flames creep up my calves.

  His silvery blue gaze is fixed on me, intense and fiery, as a tantalizing tic plays at the corner of his lips. He begins to move, and I follow his lead, stepping with him. It’s half salsa, half something sexy, and a lot of passionate foreplay. The audience around us disappears as I keep my eyes anchored to his. Our movements are sharp (thank you, Lucia). Our bodies are pressed tightly against one another as our hips roll and grind. His muscles flex and tense under my fingertips. His warmth disappears as he spins me out but is replaced quickly when he secures me back against his hard body. His pupils dilate, darkening with desire.

  The way his jaw tenses… The way he’s looking at me, it’s like he wants to devour me. Right now, I’d let him. Toss out the morals I’ve followed all my life and allow him to take me. With movements like this, I’m sure he screws like a god. My body begins to pulse with need. My face flushes. And like he’s reading my mind, he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, tightens his grip around my waist, and moves me closer as the end of the song brings the beat slower.

  He brings his face closer, his nose against mine and his lips mere inches away. Our eyes are locked. I’m panting, positive it’s from being turned on from the steamy foreplay and not the dancing. We’ve quit moving and his mouth grazes mine just as the song stops. Then the audience claps. Cheers and whistles. We’re not alone. People watched us, our steamy foreplay of a dance.

  The embarrassment from before floods me.

  Dropping my head, my face on fire, I take a reluctant step away from him.

  “Where’d you learn to dance?” His voice is beside my ear creating a shiver of cold chills to flurry through my body.

  “You’ve met my best friend. Right?”

  He brings a free hand to my face and cups my cheek. I’m swallowed by the way he’s looking at me, like I’m the one who holds his world, and it rattles the cage of butterflies. “I need to send her flowers to thank her.” His tone is gravelly.

  He begins to lower his mouth to mine with his gaze trapping mine. My breath catches in my throat. “Ash?” We’re interrupted and everything comes to a dead stop as the singer steals our moment. Ash exhales, glancing over my shoulder. “Feel like old times?”

  Ash nods and beams when he looks back to me. “Give me a minute.”

  He exudes confidence as he lazily strolls to the singer. They discuss something as they look over a piece of paper and then the youngest one points to something, the hopefulness in his expression begging Ash to do it. Ash relents and takes the microphone from the stand.

  “One look at me and you know country isn’t my thing, but they’re making me,” he teases the audience. “If I butcher it, blame the little guy on the keyboard. He suckered me in with puppy dog eyes.”

  Low chuckles emanate from the audience.

  The keyboard plays a few notes and my heart is hammering like I’m in front of everyone about to sing my heart out. My blood is pumping so hard my toes throb. The guitar starts with a quick melody, followed by the drums/buckets.

  Then Asher’s voice.

  And the ground drops from under me.

  He’s raspy and rich, gravelly and deep, giving the country song the sexy scrape of a rock song. My heart melts. My body melts. I’m a melty pile of goo. He’s not butchering it. He’s…incredible.

  He owns the spotlight like he stands on a stage every day of his life singing about the what ifs. The drums and guitar become heavier, launching into the chorus. Ash’s body dips as he bounces with the beat, one hand emphasizing the words, the other holding the microphone to his mouth. Higher notes cause him to close his eyes briefly and then they land on mine when he sings the lyrics about not being a fool and playing games. They remain there for the line about kissing me and liking it and then he winks, releasing the hold.

  My heart squeezes. Holy hell… I’m in trouble.

  As the song comes to an end, everyone claps and cheers again like they did for us dancing. People toss money into the tip box in front of the drummer. Hell, if I had my purse, I’d toss the entire contents in. But instead, I’m frozen in place watching Ash. He and the singer clap hands, pulling each other in for a hug. There’s definite history there. They both grin from ear to ear as they exchange a few words. Then the keyboardist and drummer rush in to do the same.

  They talk for a few minutes and I hear Ash tell them he needs to get back to his date before turning and clutching my hand.

  “You’re full of surprises tonight,” I say, my hand in his, side by side as we walk back toward the parking garage.

  “Yeah?”

  “You dance and s
ing. You had to be part of a boy band that I didn’t know or get to fangirl over.”

  “Shit. You busted me.” Straight-faced he looks at me. “Don’t tell anyone, alright? I don’t like my cover being blown.” For a split second, I believe him. Until he cracks up.

  I shake my head. “How do you do it? I mean. There’s no way I could have gotten up there and put myself out there in front of a group of strangers. Dancing was hard enough for me.”

  He lifts a shoulder. “You can’t worry about what anyone thinks of you. It’ll bog you down. Just let loose and enjoy the moment, exactly like you did when you were dancing. Which by the way,” he twists, stopping in front of me, “we’ll be doing that again.”

  “You’ve decided for me?”

  His gaze falls to my lips. “Yeah.” He holds my face and brushes a thumb over my cheek. “You’re curious now.”

  “Of?”

  He bends, his lips brushing mine. My breath hitches. “Me.” He seals the word with his mouth crashing to mine. Just like the first time we kissed, I feel like I’ve grabbed ahold of an electric fence. Bolts of pleasure shock me as waves of desire rise up from the depths and slam over me. I dissolve, fisting his jacket. I don’t know if it’s to pull him closer or hold me steady. Under my knuckles, his pulse pounds, matching mine. He controls the kiss, playing with the edges of desperate and rough, soft and gentle. His tongue tangles with mine. His hand slides to the back of my head as he deepens the kiss. It’s the kiss of all kisses. The kind that leads to other things or leaves you begging.

  Which is exactly what I want to do when he pulls away with a grin. Dropping his hands, he threads his fingers with mine and tips his chin for me to follow.

  In this moment, high on the taste of him and the feelings he evokes, I’d follow him straight to the gates of hell and knock on the door myself.