Riding Dirty

by Jill Sorenson

  “I said you could shower.”

  “I’ve been in the Jacuzzi tub a lot,” Cole said, stretching his neck. “Sore muscles.”

  Vargas used the key to unlock the device and remove it for a closer study. Cole felt ten pounds lighter as soon as the damned thing was off. Good riddance to that ball and chain. Vargas placed the monitor on the table, still attached to the charger. “This system isn’t cheap. If you fuck it up, you’ll have to pay for a replacement.”

  Cole shrugged. He didn’t care about money. Never had, never would.

  After a series of tests, Vargas deemed the monitor acceptable and prepared to attach it to Cole’s ankle again. Cole tensed at the man’s touch. He didn’t like being poked and prodded and shackled, his every move tracked. He felt sick about the whole fucked-up situation.

  It took Vargas a minute or two to lock the device in place. Cole grew increasingly uncomfortable with Vargas’s proximity and resentful of his ultimatum. “You look good down there, Investigator,” Cole said. “You sure you haven’t done time?”

  Vargas released Cole’s ankle. “If you think I look good, you’ve done too much.”

  “Your shrink girlfriend would look better.”

  Without changing his expression, Vargas fit the key into his fist and punched Cole in the calf with it. The pain was exquisite.

  Cole swung his arm toward Vargas, ready to backhand him into the stratosphere. But the blow didn’t connect. Vargas ducked and grabbed Cole’s wrist with his left hand, yanking him out of the chair. Cole wasn’t sure what happened after that. It was a red blur of fists and fury. One minute he was trying to put Vargas in a headlock. The next Cole was facedown on the carpet with his hands wrenched behind his back.

  Mia burst into the room, drawn by the commotion. Her eyes widened with distress and disapproval.

  Some of the tension left his body, replaced by a twinge of regret. He didn’t want her to see him like this. Flying off the handle was no way to convince her he didn’t have anger issues. It was no way to get in her pants, either.

  Vargas sensed the change in Cole’s demeanor and released him. Bruce, who’d also joined the fray, scrambled to his feet. Cole didn’t know how they’d taken him down so quickly. Vargas appeared as cool and unflappable as ever, though his dark hair was tousled. Bruce was ruddy and out of breath.

  “What’s going on in here?” Mia asked, frowning at all three of them.

  Vargas didn’t answer. If there was anyone he wanted to impress, it was Mia. Cole felt a surge of possessiveness and pride, because she’d never be with Vargas. She belonged to Cole. She was his.

  “Mr. Shepherd became agitated when I replaced his ankle monitor,” Vargas said. “Maybe I cinched it too tight.”

  Fucking liar. Cole didn’t dispute him, but he wouldn’t forget.

  “Does it need to be adjusted?” Mia asked.

  “It’s fine,” Cole said, rolling down his pant leg.

  “I can take him early, if you boys are done wrestling.”

  “We’re done,” Vargas said.

  Cole rose to his feet. He made a point of towering over Bruce.

  “I need to see you after the session,” Vargas said to Mia.

  She paled at the request. “Of course.”

  “Get some ice for Shepherd,” Vargas said.

  Bruce hurried to do Vargas’s bidding. Cole followed Mia into the hall, his body still surging with adrenaline. Before heading into her office, he stopped by the men’s room to check his injuries. His cheek was scraped. He rinsed his face with cool water and donned the neoprene muffler over his ankle. Then he joined Mia in her office.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, clearly upset.

  Bruce brought the ice pack a second later. Mia thanked him and closed the door, giving the pack to Cole. It was a freezer gel pack, wrapped in paper towels. He placed it against his cheek, studying her. Remembering how she’d looked with her lips moist and red from that berry drink. How fucking sweet she’d tasted.

  “Relax,” he said. “I didn’t say anything about us.”

  Her mouth, not sweet at all now, pursed with displeasure. She walked toward him, fingertips tapping on her upper arms. She was wearing a boring blouse today. Demure, with prim buttons to her throat. No worries; he had a vivid mental picture of her plump, pretty nipples spilling over the cups of her bra. His dick swelled at the memory.

  She braced her hands on the armrest of his chair and brought her face close to his. “Don’t ever tell me to relax.”

  He stopped fantasizing about her tits and met her gaze. She looked pissed.

  She let go of his chair and started pacing the room. “Do you really want to change, or was that bullshit?”

  Cole didn’t like being scolded, especially when he’d done nothing wrong. It wasn’t his fault that Vargas had attacked him. He also wasn’t sorry he’d told her to relax. Fuck everything.

  “Why should I change if I can’t have you?”

  “You sound like the boy who won’t clean his room unless he gets a cookie first.”

  “I can wait for the cookie.”

  “I’m not a cookie, Cole.”

  He tossed the ice pack aside in frustration.

  “The reward for change is staying out of prison. Living a clean life.”

  “I’ll never be clean,” he said, touching the patch on his chest. Dirty Forever. He might betray his uncle, and the club, but he wouldn’t betray himself. He couldn’t deny his true nature. He wasn’t going to become a productive member of society.

  Her gaze followed his fingertips and her expression grew pensive, as if she was thinking of the men who’d killed her husband. Comparing him to them.

  The other night, he’d told her they could fuck with his cut on. Now he wanted to throw it across the room. Either that or get up and walk out. Her disappointment was destroying him. He’d do anything to erase the sadness in her eyes.

  Talk about your feelings.

  Her suggestion reached out to him like a lifeline. He’d rather wrap his arms around her than talk, but touching her wasn’t an option. He did want to change. He did want to control his anger and stay out of prison. Most of all, he wanted her. Desperately.

  “I attacked Vargas because I was feeling...defensive.”

  She sank into the chair in front of him. “Why?”

  “He threatened to pull me from the assignment if I don’t deliver some specific information.”

  “Is that what set you off?”

  “No,” he said, scowling. “I hate wearing the ankle monitor. I hate having my personal space invaded. So I decided to make him uncomfortable, too.”

  “How?”

  “I told him he looked good on his knees. And when that didn’t get a reaction, I told him you’d look even better.”

  She rested her elbows on her thighs and buried her head in her hands with a groan.

  “He hit me first, but I deserved it. I insulted you.”

  After a moment of contemplation, she nodded her understanding. “You’re both at fault. What about the other bruises?”

  Cole fingered the bruise on his jaw. He’d been goaded into fighting Dimebag, just as Cole had goaded Vargas into fighting him. “I jumped a rival club member for talking shit about my brother.”

  “This story sounds familiar.”

  “Yes.”

  “Has it ever occurred to you that your hair-trigger temper makes you easy to manipulate?”

  He hadn’t thought of it that way before. Most people gave him a wide berth, and anyone who messed with him paid the price. But he paid the price for his impulsive actions, too. Escalating the situation wasn’t always the right choice. Maybe Dimebag had been looking for any excuse to draw on him. Cole was lucky his uncle had stepped in.

  She picked up her notebook, taking a deep breath. “On Tuesday I asked about your relationships with women. Do you want to pick up there?”

  “Sure,” he said, agreeable. This shouldn’t be too bad. He had no issues with women.
>
  “You’ve mentioned intimacy as one of your goals.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What does it look like for you?”

  He pictured her naked, spread out before him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Is it sexual?”

  “Of course.”

  “When have you felt emotionally connected to a woman?”

  Other than her, he hadn’t. Cole thought about the girls he’d dated in high school and the women he’d slept with between prison terms. There was no one special. “I haven’t had a steady girlfriend in a long time.”

  “How long?”

  “Ten years.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I wasn’t ready to settle down, I guess.”

  Outside of prison, he could get sex whenever he wanted. He preferred the freedom of being single, the excitement of bedding a lot of different women. But something had happened to him after Courtney and Rylan died. His needs had changed. Instead of excitement and variety, he longed for a deeper connection. Things that had never appealed to him before, such as sappy kissing and hand-holding, sounded just about right. He wanted more than a quick get-off. His previous experiences were like a porno, focused on body parts, zooming in on the money shot. With Mia, he saw the bigger picture.

  “Are your parents happily married?”

  “They’re comfortable together. I don’t know about happy.”

  “Why not?”

  They bickered a lot. The last time he’d seen them they’d looked skinny and weathered from the desert sun. “They’re crackheads. How happy can they be?”

  “Was she peripheral in his meth dealing?”

  “No, she was right there with him. Like Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “Was she a good mother before that?”

  “Yes,” he said, clearing his throat.

  “How so?”

  “She was affectionate. She took care of us.”

  “Why do you think she got involved in drugs, like your father?”

  “It was either that or lose him.”

  “Did he drag her down?”

  “She went willingly.”

  “Do you feel abandoned by her in particular? Because she was your primary caretaker?”

  Pressure built behind his eyes. He blinked it away, frowning. Most of his anger had been directed at his father for being such a loser. Or his uncle, for being such a hard-ass. His mother inspired a different sort of anger. Sad-anger. The kind that sucked the life from you, like marrow from the bone.

  “My father was distant and unemotional. I never expected him to be there for me. But my mother had been. So I missed her more.”

  “Do you have any other nonsexual relationships with women?”

  “My cousin, before she died.”

  “What about your aunt?”

  Cole reached for the ice pack and pressed it to his burning cheek. He couldn’t tell Mia what had happened between him and Shawnee. Not in a room he didn’t trust, with no confidentiality agreement. Revealing a secret like that wasn’t just shameful, it could have deadly repercussions.

  “We’re close,” he said shortly.

  “Did she fill the space your mother left?”

  “Sort of.”

  A crease formed between Mia’s brows as she examined his body language, his uneasy expression. “Are you related?”

  “Not by blood.”

  She wrote something down in her notebook and showed it to him.

  Nonsexual or sexual?

  Cole refused to answer.

  “Have you ever been with a married woman?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She pointed to the notebook, indicating that she meant Shawnee. “How old were you?”

  “Old enough.”

  “An adult?”

  He nodded, though he’d been underage. Seventeen.

  “What would her husband do if he found out?”

  “Kill me.”

  “So she holds your fate in her hands.”

  “And her own.”

  “He’d kill her, too?”

  “Probably not, but he’d go apeshit.”

  She set the notebook aside, considering. “How did you hear about your cousin’s rape? Did Courtney tell you directly?”

  “No.”

  “Who did?”

  “My aunt.”

  “Did she want you to retaliate?”

  “It doesn’t matter what she wanted. All that matters is what I did.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I took care of him.”

  “Do you wish you hadn’t?”

  He dropped the ice pack again, staring out the window. “I wish I hadn’t gotten caught, but I think it was a fair punishment. He was in the hospital for a few weeks, and in prison for almost as long as I was.”

  “I’m concerned that you’re too easily manipulated into violence.”

  His gaze returned to hers. “Like I said before, I’m responsible for my own actions. I’m not a victim. I understand right from wrong.”

  “You don’t think you have a problem?”

  “I know I have a problem. I just refuse to blame anyone else for it.”

  “Do you have a soft spot for women?”

  “Maybe I do,” he said, lifting his chin. “Are you going to cure me?”

  She frowned at the question. “The way you express yourself is often physical.”

  “Yes.”

  “With men, your emotions manifest in fighting. With women, it’s...”

  “Fucking.”

  “How are these impulses related?”

  “They both release tension.”

  “And anger,” she theorized. “Fighting is a way to punish men.”

  “Fucking is no punishment.”

  “Denying yourself love is.”

  He didn’t have a response for that. If he’d been denying himself, he’d done so unwittingly. But he also wasn’t sure he deserved love. He’d chosen a dangerous lifestyle. Avoiding commitment was better than letting women down. He would never abandon a family the way his father had.

  The session ended with a chime from her phone.

  “Meet me at the lake again,” he said. “We can both stop denying ourselves.”

  She rose to her feet, hesitant. Cole stood with her. Before she could answer, there was a sharp rap on the door.

  Vargas.

  “Be careful this weekend,” she said. “No more fighting.”

  “What about fucking?” he asked, lowering his voice.

  A pretty flush rose to her cheeks. She moistened her lips nervously.

  He gripped her elbow and leaned in closer. “I jerked off three times the other night, thinking about your mouth.”

  Vargas knocked on the door again. Damn him.

  Mia pulled away from Cole and crossed the room. He wasn’t interested in bumping shoulders with Vargas or instigating another fight, so he waited for the other man to come in. Then Cole walked through the doorway and strode down the hall, secure in the knowledge that he’d left her breathless.

  CHAPTER TEN

  MIA SHUT THE door behind Damon, her pulse racing.

  It was difficult to look him in the eye, but she had to. Smoothing a hand over her fluttering stomach, she lifted her gaze to his. She doubted he’d bugged the office. He didn’t know she’d gone for a ride with Cole on Tuesday, or almost screwed him on a picnic table. They were tracking Cole’s locations, not spying on him.

  She hoped.

  “I have to remove you from this assignment,” Damon said.

  Her heart sank. “Why?”

  “Why do you think?”

  Mia had no idea. There were so many possibilities. She’d violated more professional standards than she could count.

  “Don’t play dumb,” Damon said. “He’s panting over you.”

  She gathered her cell phone and notebook, trying to collect herself. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  Damon didn’t respond to the accusation. “I’m c
oncerned for your safety.”

  “What about his? You asked me to monitor his stress levels and give an evaluation, but you’re clearly not interested in his well-being. You want to make him uncomfortable and force him to take risks.”

  “I want him to give me information, like he promised. If he has to be squeezed for it, that’s not my problem.”

  “It affects his progress, so it is my problem.”

  “He’s a maniac with no self-control.”

  She shook her head in disagreement. “I don’t believe he’s a danger to me. These sessions are helping him.”

  “Right,” Damon scoffed.

  “If you didn’t think he could benefit from therapy, what’s he doing here?”

  Damon couldn’t answer that. His motivations for requiring Cole to see a psychologist had nothing to do with mental health benefits.

  “I won’t be a pawn in whatever game you’re playing,” Mia said. “It’s not fair for you to dangle me in front of him and then yank me away when he reacts in the exact manner you intended.”

  “There’s another complication,” Damon said.

  She folded her arms over her chest. “What?”

  “He says his uncle is working with White Lightning on the sly. Shepherd might not be a direct threat to you, but they are. Continuing to counsel him could compromise your identity. If WITSEC found out, they’d write us both up.”

  They’d discussed this before the sessions started. Cole’s rivalry with White Lightning—the men responsible for her husband’s death—meant that Mia had to take extra precautions. If the two clubs were collaborating, there was even more cause for alarm.

  She could argue with Damon all she wanted. He wasn’t her boss and he certainly wasn’t her boyfriend. But she couldn’t go against a federal agency with the power to relocate her. “Did you call them?”

  “I will if I have to.”

  She retrieved her satchel from the drawer, her spirits low. WITSEC didn’t know the specific details of this case, and they wouldn’t have cleared her involvement. They hadn’t even wanted her to come back to California. “That won’t be necessary.”

  His shoulders relaxed at her capitulation. He wasn’t an easy man to read, but she could tell he was on edge. His commitment to busting motorcycle club members had become an obsession. She didn’t think he felt the least bit conflicted about initiating a physical altercation with a criminal. What he cared about was the appearance of professional ethics, and staying in her good graces.