Dalton: A Savage Kings MC Novel

by Hart, Lane

  I pull over onto the dirt shoulder slowly to stop and kill the engine. After I climb off my bike, I remove my helmet and hang it on one of the handlebars to turn around and see just how angry the hot little agent is with me.

  She’s even sexier than I remember from last night when she gets out and slams her door. Wearing a pristine white pant suit that I would love to get dirty, she struts up to me in her black heels with dark sunglasses covering her eyes. Her long blonde hair blows in front of her face, thanks to the coastal wind, which seems to piss her off even more when she has to bat it away.

  “Good afternoon, Agent Bradley. What brings you to Emerald Isle on a such a lovely day?” I ask coolly with my patented smug grin.

  “Cut the shit!” she shouts when she’s right in front of my face. She grabs the collar of my t-shirt from the opening of my leather cut and balls it up in her fist. “Where the hell is my laptop?”

  Smirking at her beautiful, angry face, I blink innocently and ask, “What laptop?”

  She chokes me with my own shirt collar a little more and I have to say, rather than intimidate me, I’m just turned on by her show of force. Badass women may have just become my new fetish.

  “Give it to me now!” she demands, which only makes my smile widen.

  Cutting my eyes sharply to the left and then the right on the empty road, I say, “You drove all the way here just to finish what we started last night?” I reach for either sides of her hips to pull her body closer to mine while licking my lips, remembering exactly how damn good she tasted. One of my thumbs strokes over the metal badge clipped to her waistband while the other caresses her gun holster. “Okay, baby, I’m in. But, badge or not, if you keep flashing your pussy around town like a bitch in heat, you’re gonna get both of us slapped with a public indecency charge.”

  I was fully expecting her knee to slam up and into my balls, but that doesn’t mean it hurt any less.

  “Motherfucker,” I croak. When she pulls away from me, I double over in pain. Bracing a palm on the seat of the bike to keep myself upright, my other hand grabs my boys through the crotch of my jeans, trying to help them descend again.

  During my recovery is when Peyton stomps around my bike to look in the saddlebag that’s now empty. Coming back around, she pushes her sunglasses up to the top of her head to lean down and look at my face. That’s the first time I notice how pronounced the bags are under her eyes. Again, that stupid fucking feeling of guilt squeezes its fingers around my throat.

  “Last chance to turn over my laptop, Dalton Brady, before I take you in and charge you with theft of government property and...and assault on a federal employee,” Peyton threatens me, but I know she’s full of shit. If she wanted to have me arrested, she would need the U.S. Attorney to take charges against me to the Grand Jury, and then have them indict me. The feds only assemble a Grand Jury once a fucking month and if I had to guess, it wasn’t today.

  That’s right, I’m smarter than I look.

  If I wasn’t in agony at the moment, I’d probably make another smartass comment, like I don’t consider a consensual pussy-licking to be an assault, just to get her even more riled up.

  But I keep my mouth shut.

  And I have to say it’s so fucking hot when she rough handles me. I don’t even try to resist when she spins me around, jerks my hands behind my back, and slaps the metal handcuffs on my wrists. She then shoves me over toward her SUV and hustles me into the backseat, right over the spot where she came for me not even twenty-four hours ago.

  I’m not concerned about her little arrest. If I wanted to, I could run away, head back to the clubhouse, and have one of my brothers get the cuffs off. Instead, I’m curious to see just how far she’s willing to take this charade of hers. The only thing I’m currently worried about is my baby sitting abandoned on the side of the road, with the key still in the ignition.

  “Can I call someone…to come get my ride?” I ask Peyton through the subsiding nut pain after she flops down in the driver’s seat.

  “No,” she answers, pulling her sunglasses back down over her eyes. “I hope it gets stolen!”

  “That’s just wrong,” I tell her. “Did your laptop have sentimental value? I’m guessing it didn’t. But you see that bike right there? It’s a classic 1947 Harley Knucklehead. I helped my dad restore it before he…” I stop myself before I tell her my whole goddamn life story. “Look, it’s fucking priceless, okay?” I huff. “The only material thing I give a shit about in this world is that damn bike.”

  Peyton freezes with her hands on the steering wheel at ten and two for several long, silent moments before she exhales, then thankfully, gets out to go and retrieve the key from the bike’s ignition.

  Back in the car, she throws the key ring at me, hitting me in the face with it before it falls between my legs since my hands are restrained behind me.

  “Thank you,” I tell her when she starts to drive away to who the hell knows where.

  I begin to get an idea when she not only hits her turn signal to get on the highway headed west but makes a call to someone, simply saying, “I’m on my way back to Raleigh.”

  Shit.

  So, either she’s really taking me all the way back to Raleigh for questioning and holding until a warrant for arrest comes through, or this is all just one crazy, intense game of chicken. Since New Bern has the closest Eastern District of North Carolina federal building in our jurisdiction, not Raleigh, I’m gonna go with the chicken option.

  “So, you’re pretending like you’re arresting me?” I ask Peyton as I scoot over toward the middle of the backseat until I can get a clear shot of her face in the rearview mirror, even though her sunglasses are hiding her eyes again.

  She doesn’t respond.

  “Fine,” I mutter. “Here, let me help you write up the arrest report.” I get comfortable and rest my head back against the seat. Clearing my throat, I begin narrating our steamy meeting. “Late on the night of October sixth, the theft is believed to have occurred sometime between the half hour when the victim was face down in the backseat of her government-issued SUV, screaming through her orgasm in the Main Street parking garage. She alleges that only the handsome suspect was in the vicinity, but the wrongly accused suspect assures authorities that there were plenty of opportunities for the theft to occur since the suspect was so busy shoving his tongue in the victim’s mouth and pussy that he was not aware of their surroundings…”

  Peyton refuses to meet my gaze in the rearview during my narrative.

  “Does that sound about right?” I ask.

  “If it wasn’t you, it was one of your gang buddies while I was…distracted,” she huffs.

  “Gang buddies? I don’t have gang buddies. At least not anymore,” I reply. “What I have are MC brothers. But they are upstanding gentlemen. None of them would ever steal from a federal agent while she was getting her pussy licked. That’s just plain rude.”

  “So it was you,” Peyton asks, her cheeks now a nice rosy red that I imagine is similar to the one she was probably sporting last night.

  “I didn’t say it was me. You just think it was me because I’m the easiest person to…finger for it,” I say, unable to prevent my snicker.

  “Just tell me where the damn laptop is!” she yells.

  “If I was stupid enough to steal a federal agent’s computer, I definitely wouldn’t cop to it. Giving up a location would basically be admitting guilt, wouldn’t it?”

  “I have no idea why I ever found you attractive for even a second,” she mumbles to herself.

  “You wanted me so badly that it never occurred to you, with all of your higher education and law enforcement training, that I could be a thief. Now, you’re mad at yourself for that lapse in judgment and you’re taking it out on me, a completely innocent man.”

  “Either tell me where the laptop is, or I’ll gag you, so you can’t talk,” she warns.

  “Isn’t it bad enough that you’re kidnapping me?” I ask. “I mean, we both kn
ow that you’re not taking me in and admitting what happened last night. If I had to guess, you already have a tough time making the men you work with take you seriously without adding the tongue-fucking in the public parking garage to your resume.”

  “Stop talking about that!” Peyton yells at me. “Believe me, I regret it. I’ll regret that half hour for the rest of my life. I’m trying to forget it—you should too.”

  Her words sting, but I tell myself they’re coming from a place of anger and not actual regret. She sure didn’t sound like she was regretting anything at the time…

  “That’s not the whole truth, though, is it?” I question her since I was there, and she loved every second of what I did to her. “The problem is that you know you won’t be able forget that the best sexual experience of your life was with an outlaw.” When she doesn’t answer, I go on to add, “And you can’t help but wonder how good fucking would’ve felt if I hadn’t walked away on you…”

  “I’m gonna pull over and gag you,” she threatens again.

  “With what? Your tongue? You shoved it down my throat like you couldn’t get enough…”

  My words are cut off when she growls and then reaches to turn up the volume on the radio. “Sex Type Thing,” the absolute last song I would expect to blast from her radio, erupts at ear-deafening levels from the speakers.

  I’m sure that my laughter is still loud enough for her to hear before I shout, “Didn’t peg you as a Stone Temple Pilot fan! You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

  Chapter Five

  Peyton

  What the hell am I doing?

  That’s the question that I’ve asked myself way too many times since last night in the bar.

  I was blinded by one man’s good looks and now I’m screwed. Not getting any sleep is wreaking havoc on my common sense.

  But there are hundreds of confidential documents on my stolen laptop. In the wrong hands, someone could breach the entire federal network!

  And while I wish it were as easy as taking the asshole in and having him locked up, I can’t even begin to prove he took it. Sure, I could request the surveillance video from the parking garage, but only if I get a judge to sign off on a warrant, which means my superiors now and for the rest of my career going forward, would know that I fooled around with the suspect in our parking garage! If I admit to all of that, my career will be ruined. Not that it won’t be if I can’t get him to tell me where the hell he’s hiding my laptop.

  If I had to guess, it’s probably back in the MC’s clubhouse. I’m not stupid enough to try and go into the lion’s den on my own, or in this case, the Savage Kings’ den. We may not be able to prove that they’ve done anything illegal, but it’s obvious that they’re not just a bunch of good ole boy, motorcycle enthusiasts. The club president’s pregnant wife was murdered in cold blood, so they no doubt enacted some sort of vengeance for that heinous crime. A normal man would kill for that, so I can only imagine the wrath of an MC gang leader who lost a loved one.

  So, while I was happy that I was able to track down the bastard this morning and identify him leaving the clubhouse, now that he’s handcuffed in the back of my car, I have no freakin’ clue what I’m going do with him. And he won’t shut the hell up!

  Of all the songs that could’ve been on the satellite radio, why did the first one that came through the speakers have to be about the physical act I’m trying so hard to not think about?

  The last thing I need is him throwing last night in my face over and over again. I feel stupid enough about it as it is. What I did was crazy and reckless, and I know better.

  So why did I do it?

  Because Henry, I mean Dalton, is ridiculously hot and irresistible.

  At the time, I thought he was attracted to me too. But now I know that he was playing me all along, and I fell right into his trap.

  My plan was to start driving in the direction of Raleigh and hope that he would panic, then confess before telling me to turn around so that he could return my property. Unfortunately, he didn’t fall for my ploy.

  I guess that means that my new plan is to hold him hostage and offer to exchange him for my laptop.

  It’s not the best idea, but it’s all I have right now.

  Besides, it’s too late for me to do anything else.

  I’ve already kidnapped him.

  It feels like I’m sliding down an extremely slippery slope on my ass and I can’t seem to stop myself.

  Rather than make things better, I keep making them worse.

  * * *

  Dalton

  “Get inside and don’t think about trying anything,” Peyton threatens when she stops the SUV in front of a row of nice, new townhouses and holds open the rear passenger door for me.

  She brought me to her house? Why the hell would she do that? Guess she really is freaking out about my theft even more than I expected.

  I hope that she’s a more cautious agent than she is with strange men she meets on Tinder. If not, she’s gonna find herself in all sorts of trouble. Why I give a shit about her safety, I’m not entirely sure.

  “Can you put my bike keys in my pocket?” I ask, nodding to where they’re still sitting on the seat.

  With an annoyed huff, Peyton grabs the key ring and stuffs them in my front jean pocket. Then, she pulls her fucking gun on me, like that would stop me from overpowering her if I wanted, and motions for me to walk up the steps to her place.

  Peyton unlocks the door and then shoves me inside with a push to my back. For some reason, she thinks she has all the power in this situation of ours because I’m restrained in her apartment. But actually, it’s the opposite.

  I have all of the power.

  Only I know where her laptop is, and only I can give her that information. She can’t go to the authorities now that she’s illegally kidnapped me against my will. And if Peyton was suicidal enough to go marching into the clubhouse full of my brothers searching for it, she would have done so already.

  I may as well be holding her hostage and have her tied up in my bed because she is well and truly fucked. Not that I would be opposed to Peyton restraining me in her bedroom…

  “Take a seat and get comfortable,” she says, pointing with the muzzle of the gun to the empty wall across the sparsely decorated living room. It’s the spot that’s furthest from the door.

  My back slides down the wall and then I’m sitting with my knees up in front of me, shoulders starting to ache since my wrists are still restrained behind my back.

  I did what she asked to make her think she has power over me. Now it’s time to get to the fun part where I remind her who’s really in charge here.

  “Take off your shirt,” I tell her once I’m as comfortable as I can get. I didn’t get to see her titties last night, so I need to remedy that oversight now.

  “What?” Peyton asks as she comes to a stop in front of me and lowers her gun so that it’s now pointing down at the pristine ivory carpet. Who the hell has white carpet? More importantly, how does she keep it so clean?

  “If you take off your shirt, then maybe I’ll be able to recall a memory of what happened to your laptop,” I explain to her.

  She scoffs and rolls her eyes. “That is never going to happen, buddy.”

  “Then you’re never gonna get your shit back,” I respond. “And you and I both know that you can’t keep me here forever…”

  Her shoulders slump just a tad when the truth of that statement hits her.

  “There has to be something else you want,” she counters. “Do you want money? Give me back the laptop and I’ll…I’ll pay you five grand and let you go. We can call the payment a finder’s fee.”

  I’m already shaking my head before she finishes her sentence. “Nope. Believe it or not, I have plenty of money. Do you know what I really want but don’t have?” I ask, and then immediately give her the answer. “Titties.”

  Peyton barks out a non-humorous laugh. “You’re out of your damn mind. Don’t you th
ink you’ve had enough fun at my expense when you humiliated me?”

  “Fun at your expense? Humiliated you?” I repeat in confusion.

  “Yes!” she exclaims, the indignation at what happened in the parking garage written all over her face. How dare she get pissed at me for having an orgasm when I got nada. And it was never my intention to embarrass her. I should’ve left after the kiss, but I didn’t.

  “Jesus, woman. Do you think it was fun for me to get you off with a rock-hard cock and then walk away without getting any relief for myself?” I ask.

  “Poor pitiful you,” she mutters sarcastically. “I’m so sorry you had to stoop so low to get what you wanted from me.”

  “I’m not sorry,” I tell her. “The only thing I’m sorry about is that I had to meet you under false pretenses…”

  “Ha! So you admit it then! You set me up to rob me!” Peyton shouts.

  Shit. I almost said too much. Reel it in, Brady.

  “The only thing I’m admitting to is wanting to fuck you,” I contend. “That’s all men on Tinder want, right? I set up a date just so I could try to fuck you. That was the false pretenses. But when my conscience caught up to me, I couldn’t go through with it.”

  “Liar,” she spits. “You are so full of shit. Men like you don’t want women like me.”

  “It’s the truth! The whole truth and nothing but the truth,” I tell her. “Hook me up to a polygraph machine. The feds have them, right?” And what the hell did she mean when she said men like me don’t want women like her? Criminals like me don’t want to get their hands on hot, curvy, badass agents like her?

  “Your MC is the only thing that’s getting fucked,” Peyton replies. “You busted our CI, he told you about my investigation, and you’re trying to see how badly you’re screwed.”