Out for the Count

by Michele Mannon

  “No,” he demanded, as she moved to hold herself up on her elbows. “Relax and enjoy the ride, featherweight.”

  Her breath hitched as the tip of his tongue slid into her. In one long lick, he worked his way up to her nub, twirling moisture over her aroused hood, the tiny pricks from his beard only enhancing the sensation. Pleasure mixed with the slightest brush of pain. She couldn’t breathe.

  He dragged his tongue downward, parting her sensitive lips and expertly exploring the valley between. Deep. Then deeper still as he plunged fully into her, his tongue working her over from within.

  Her hips arched off the table as her world spiraled out of control.

  His hands pushed her back down, rooting her to the table as he laved her core, her ass flexing and her hips gyrating with each taste. His beard scratching the living daylights out of her thighs, her sex. But she didn’t care; her discomfort was mild compared to the wicked pleasure building inside of her.

  Arms wide, she grabbed hold of the sides of the coffee table, a scream billowing up from within.

  He withdrew his tongue, twirling lightly over her nub before sinking back inside.

  Huntley’s world exploded, sending waves of heat throughout her body, accompanied by a long, low moan, a sound as foreign to her as the man between her thighs.

  She felt his eyes on her, just before he spoke. “Jesus. That was fucking hot. Shit. Shit. Shit. I want to wreck you, Huntley. Totally demolish you. Bad.”

  Cool air replaced the fiery glow between her legs as he moved away. She heard him rustling about.

  She couldn’t breathe, her body flushing pink at the thought of him wrecking her, taking her to heaven or biker hell right there on the coffee table.

  Which was why she was surprised when minutes passed without him acting on his heated promises. She pulled herself up onto her elbows, raising her gaze upward across his still-clothed body to his face.

  She felt vulnerable. Empty. Wanting him more than common sense prescribed.

  He stood there, glowering down at her, his fingers rubbing across his beard. As if he was trying to make some important decision. Conflicted. Disturbed.

  Narrowing her eyes, she gave him as good as she got, holding his gaze until his eyes widened. His lips curled up before he shook his head and glanced away.

  “So much for demolishing me, huh?” she commented, tugging the skirt rolled up around her waist back down into place. Sitting up, she ran a hand over her top, smoothing it across her stomach. She shrugged her shoulders. “It’s a wonder my coffee table is still standing, as is.”

  “If you only knew how fucking hard it is to walk away from you right now.” He looked everywhere except at her.

  “So...don’t. I promise not to hold it against you in the morning. How about I start by returning the favor?” said the hussy to the biker. Well, she’d decided that Reno was going to be a fresh start. That she was going to be in charge of her own destiny without having to look over her shoulder, right? Why the heck not go after what she wanted. Tonight, she wanted McBadass.

  “Listen, Huntley, and listen carefully. In a second, I’m out of here. It’s taking all my willpower to do right by you. By leaving, I’m doing you a favor. Trust me on this.”

  He sounded sincere. Except, for the life of her, she couldn’t understand his reasoning. What the hell? “You’re married? In a relationship?”

  “Definitely not. I don’t do relationships.”

  She didn’t know whether to hit him or hug him. “You sound like you just got on your knees to propose instead of going to...town on me.” She could feel her cheeks flush. Yeah, he’d gone to town and back.

  “Keep blushing like that and I’ll do it again. You loved every minute of it. Almost as much as I did.”

  And he was leaving?

  “I’ve got a few things to wrap up before we start training. I’ll be in touch.” He stalked toward the door, and all she could do was watch him go.

  He paused, turning. “The last thing I want is to wreck you. Or demolish you. For real.” His words, his entire demeanor, had turned harsh, serious. She frowned, trying to keep up with the abrupt change in him.

  It felt like he was warning her.

  Without clarifying what he meant, without explaining his swift change of heart, he left.

  Chapter Five

  “She on board, Bracken?” Stefan answered his cell in his usual obnoxious manner. After their last conversation, Numbnuts had a right to be concerned. Hell, Bracken had surprised himself with his uncharacteristic flash of conscience, one as alien to him as knowing what it’d be like to have grown up in a loving, nurturing family.

  Man alive, he was still wound up thinking about last night. He’d been at various stages of hardness for hours. The quicker he got off the phone, the better. He and his cock had some personal business to attend to.

  “I’ll take your silence as a yes. So, how was she?”

  “What do you mean, how was she?”

  “Spill. Not your usual type. But man, she’s hot.”

  Bracken glared at the cell, wishing he could stuff it inside Stefan’s mouth to stop him from talking. He’d be eating plastic instead of spewing out his silly crap.

  In his lifetime, Bracken had seen—done—a lot of shitty things. Working undercover quickly hardened the softest souls. Lies, deception, false promises came with the turf. Given that Bracken’s had started out darker than most, his soul was on the brink of extinction.

  He should have been getting his shit together. Somewhere quiet, like his cabin. Regroup after one motherfucker of a year. Instead, it was like the snap of a finger. Snap and return to everyday life as if nothing had happened?

  Shit, he felt like a soldier returning from war. Except soldiers could seek help for their PTSD issues. Not the case for Bracken—he was left to his own devices on how to readjust. To deal with the endless days and sleepless nights when he couldn’t fucking think straight. The standoff in Flagstaff played out in his head, over and over. Mayhem’s Last Stand had been the fuck-all-to-end-all assignments

  At least I have Stefan. The sarcastic thought made him crush the cell harder in his palm. Sure he disliked the guy. But, he hated working blind like this even more so, with Stefan calling the shots based on the intel he received. Fuck that. Bracken wasn’t without contacts, even if the thought of reassociating himself with the Mayhem had him on edge.

  Stefan was too busy setting up play dates with the babies back at headquarters to be an effective cop. The guy spent more time trying to get noticed, when what he should have been focused on was making a difference. Too easily distracted, too much of a pussy. And his fixation with Huntley—hard to tell if he was looking for a piece of her, or held some irrational grudge against her.

  Stefan, Huntley, they weren’t his problem. He had enough shit to worry about.

  “I keep forgetting. You’re not a kiss-n-tell kind of guy.”

  “I keep forgetting that you need a fistful of teeth.”

  “That good, huh?”

  He resisted the urge to smash the phone against his kitchen counter.

  “We’ve gotten word that the Warehouse is about to be turned inside out. That whoever arranged for this delivery is bringing in foreigners to collect, who’ll then push the meth out into West Coast cities. A fortune in the making.”

  Bracken fisted his fingers. “Listen, Numbnuts. You haven’t told me anything I don’t already know. Except for the foreign angle—or didn’t your sources get more specific information? Italians? Colombians?”

  Stefan sputtered, and Bracken didn’t have to see him to know his face was flaming red. “Russians,” he yelled. “You satisfied now?”

  Russians. Fucking terrific. The goddamned Italians looked like pencil pushers compared to these brutal bastards. “Tell Sarge and whoever else
you’re trying to impress, game on.” Man, he hated depending on this guy.

  “He’s going to miss your sweet disposition around here while you rot away in a jail cell,” Numbnuts threatened. Then like the little snitch he was, he added, “Don’t forget, you need me.”

  “Yeah, I need you lurking around like a goddamned hangover.” Bracken hit the disconnect button and abruptly put an end to the nonsense.

  Fucked-up politics. He didn’t know what was worse, having been partnered up with Stefan, I.A.’s hard-on for him, or his reputation being shot to shit. Or bedding an innocent woman so he could get into position.

  Or how about not finishing what you started?

  It would only take one phone call to set up a meeting. A long shot? Hard to say, but he had to give it a try. No one would be the wiser. Except possibly himself, if things fell into place.

  Now if he could only steady his hand enough to hit dial.

  * * *

  Huntley ignored her racing heart and picked up her pace into a full-blown sprint. So representative of her life this past week, where she’d been pushed to her limits and feeling winded, with a finish line that seemed to keep moving farther and farther away.

  Heading off the main strip, she took to the alleyways used by garbage trucks to collect trash from backyards. Less traffic. Fewer neon signs to draw her attention when she desperately needed to focus on regulating her breath. Because the three sucker punches that her Pop had hit her with via a late-night phone call had not only stolen the breath out of her, but spit it back at her with double the force.

  The first punch landed hard. Someone had set fire to Wittaker Fine Smokes’ warehouse and burned it to the ground, the day after it had been filled to the gills with a lucrative tobacco crop. A financial catastrophe, the last in a long list of troubles that had plagued the family business. Stolen shipments, damaged machinery and several previous fires at the warehouse had undermined the company’s bottom line during a time when a poor economy, a decline in sales for their hand-rolled cigars, and higher production costs had already hurt them. Which is why, just prior to this catastrophe, Pop had taken out a home equity loan on their house to help ride out the tough times. Now Wittaker Fine Smokes was on the verge of going belly-up and their ancestral home at risk of foreclosure. A residence constructed by the first Wittaker settlers back in the 1800s and in the family for generations. The only home Huntley had ever known. The house her mother had been murdered in.

  They’d barely survived her mama’s death. All three of her older brothers had struggled. Drugs, depression, run-ins with the law. Especially Aiden, who’d been battling one addiction after another. Huntley always thought it was because he was the most sensitive of them all. Yep, her brothers’ vices were as varied as their personalities, but the reason behind them was exactly the same.

  Would it have been any different if Mama’s killer had been caught? It was a pointless question, a cold case growing icier with each passing year.

  Wittaker Fine Smokes had kept them grounded. Gave them a purpose. Kept them close and working together to rebuild their lives, to heal, together.

  The second blow from Pop had Huntley running an extra mile in an effort to ease the outrage. Seems they’d received an offer from her ex to bail them out. Robert’s attorney had sent them a letter, proposing financial support in exchange for a majority share in the company. Perfect timing too, like he’d been lurking around Savannah, waiting for a prime opportunity to pounce. Yeah, the man was a master manipulator, all Southern charm on the outside and pure psycho-obsessive asshole on the inside. Just like his father.

  When Huntley was younger, Mr. Harding Sr.’s creepy antics had always set her on edge. He was always showing up at the oddest times, like at a Wittaker company party or during mass when he wasn’t even Catholic. Always watching her mama. Always coveting what the Wittakers had. Always, always with a smile on his lips that never quite reached his eyes. He’d been dead for a few years now, but the memory of him still creeped her out.

  Yeah, turns out the rotten apple doesn’t fall from the twisted tree. Though from all outward appearances, Robert had seemed like a golden one. How wrong she’d been.

  Damn it. What the hell was I thinking, dating a Harding?

  In truth, dating Robert had been like giving her brothers a stiff middle finger. She knew it would cause them to go ballistic. But they’d crossed that fine line between protective brotherly love and stifling obnoxiousness when Geer had removed her name from the roster of The Georgia Peach Annihilator, telling the organizers she’d been injured and couldn’t fight. How dare them! And Robert made it so damned easy. He’d returned to Savannah from Atlanta University a changed man. Kind. Caring. He knew all the right people, in all the right places. A real smooth talker.

  Oh, they’d warned her all right. Even Pop had gotten involved with her love life, trying to reason with her. “There are things about the Hardings you are better off not knowing.”

  Well, Pop, there are things about Robert Harding you are better off not knowing, not the least of them that diamond ring, she thought, as she exited the quiet alleyway and jogged in place, waiting for the light to change.

  What a naïve idiot she’d been. The manipulative jerk’s marriage proposal was Robert’s way of getting into the family, and in turn, Wittaker Fine Smokes. She’d been so focused on thwarting her brothers, she’d read her brief romance with Robert entirely wrong. Missed how he’d hoped to use her as his way into the business. And the lengths he’d go to, the tactics he’d use—marriage, bribery—to do so. She clenched her fists then immediately relaxed them. Distance definitely did not make the heart grow fonder. No siree.

  Sprinting across a side road, she headed down another alleyway. But as hard as she tried, as fast as she ran, she couldn’t shake the feelings of guilt. The last punch in her conversation with Pop had hurt the most, stirring up a kind of pain that lingered deep within her heart. Mama. Always Mama.

  A few weeks ago, a burglar had ransacked the house, focusing on her parents’ bedroom and the study. Taking a handful of money from the bureau and every last one of the private files her brothers had neatly packed in boxes after their mother’s death.

  Except for the two shoeboxes Aiden had found a few days ago in the attic.

  “Looks like she kept every one of our letters,” Pop said, struggling to hide the anguish in his voice. Maybe it would have been better if everything had been stolen or destroyed. Closure, that’s what they needed for the pain to subside. Without it, how could they stop wondering who could have committed such a violent act? And why? Why?

  “With everything going on here in Savannah, I...just...can’t read them...” Pop had choked out.

  “In time, Pop. In time.”

  “Your mama kept a diary. A thick black book with a little key dangling from the side.”

  Huntley had forgotten all about mama’s diary. “Some things in life are private, my sweet,” she’d told Huntley after finding her eight-year-old daughter on her bedroom floor, wearing her lipstick and trying to pry her diary open. “A woman needs a place to voice all her troubles,” she’d said. It’d been their secret.

  “I don’t want anything more to happen to her things, not until my head is in a place where I can read them. Having the first batch of letters stolen like that, they way that crook destroyed the place, it’s a blessing we’ve something left of her.”

  “I don’t know why someone would do such a thing, Pop. Have Aiden put the shoeboxes in the mail and send them to me. I’ll keep them safe for when you’re ready.”

  “That’s what I was hoping.”

  There’d been a long pause while Huntley’d gathered her courage to tell him. Wanting his approval and support. Wanting his respect for her decisions. Wanting him to let her help their family. “If you can hang on for a few months, Pop, I’m fighting a major event, the N
ew Year’s Belles Brawl. If I win, they’ll be enough money to get the business back on track.”

  A second long pause had followed, until Pop had replied, “I’ve had time to wrap my old brain around it, sweet thing. If this MMA thing is your cup of tea, then I’ll add a little sugar to it. My daughter, the fighter.”

  She’d smiled at that, and at the pride in his voice. How he’d come around and accepted her for the person she had become rather than the little girl they’d tried overly hard to protect. Now if only her three brothers would get on the same page.

  “Don’t tell the boys. I don’t want Geer to try and pull another crappy move.”

  “How about we tell them after the fact? Aiden’s got it into his head you’re in trouble.

  “I’ll talk some sense into him. Soon, I promise.”

  Huntley stopped running and began her cool down. Yeah, her troubles had followed her from Savannah to Reno, blindsiding her. But she’d get through it, she was a fighter after all, right? Nothing like a long-ass run to work out your problems. And with every agonizing mile, with each passing minute, her determination rose. She’d do this for herself, and them.

  New Year’s Belles Brawl had a dumb name, but the winnings were nobody’s chump change—two hundred fifty thousand. And if sponsors took an interest in her, cha-ching! No telling how much she could earn.

  She had every reason to win.

  Win...with her wuss of a punch? Win, with a trainer she hadn’t heard a peep from in three days?

  The few sparring matches she’d accepted in the meantime had been a disaster. One guy was too much of a novice, the second female was disinterested in genuinely fighting, and the third guy spent the entire time hitting on her—and not in the way she’d wanted. The harder she pushed, the more excited he’d gotten, until she’d gone cold turkey and stalked away, but not after leaving him cupping his stomach inside the cage.