by Cathryn Cade
"Yeah? Or no. Say the word, tita."
He was shaking with the effort of holding still under her. A big, powerful male handing the power of completion over to her.
A heady thrill coursing through her, Shelle sank down on him, her hand over his, guiding him home. "Yeah," she breathed. "Oh, yeah. Fuck me, Matthew Ahuelo."
With a deep rumble of approval, he surged up under her, and into her.
And Shelle realized that oral sex with Moke was fantastic, but it was nowhere near as shattering as being full of him. She may have been the one on top, but as he drove up into her again and again, filling her to the utmost with every thrust, he raked every sensitive nerve in her delicate sheathe.
And he did it with a speed and power and stamina that gave her time to get there all over again. And with her senses and her body full of him, it didn't take long for her to do so. She bowed over him, calling out his name—or something, could have been native Hawaiian or even Swahili, for all she knew—as pleasure burst inside her and exploded outward. He groaned, grasping her hips and holding her there as he stiffened in his own release.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Afterward, lying together—or at least side by side, because in the Hawaiian coastal humidity and warmth, too much snuggling meant you ended up in a puddle of sweat—Moke lay on his side, facing Shelle, who had her eyes closed, lashes fanning her cheeks, and seemed to be dozing lightly. Post-coital nap, a fine thing.
He carefully reached over and lifted her hair back, revealing the healing but still red and angry scar inflicted on her silky skin. Seeing another man's mark of violence on her gorgeous tit, banked fury simmered in his middle, like Pele's lava roiling deep beneath the island. The man who had done this would pay—and he'd take great pleasure in seeing to it personally, if possible.
But first he had to get her to talk to him.
She stirred, and her lashes fluttered, then rose to reveal sleepy eyes. A strange shaft struck home in his chest. Those eyes, so striking in her tanned face. And so guarded. He wondered how many people besides him realized the vulnerability hidden behind those eyes.
"Hey," he said, rubbing the lock of her hair between his finger and thumb. "How you doin'?"
She nearly smiled, then bit her full lower lip. "Fine."
"That's good. You up for talking a bit?"
Any hint of vulnerability was gone, hidden behind her scowl. "About what?"
He couldn't help it, he grinned. Reaching out, he cupped a hand over her sweet, round ass and pulled her closer. "Jesus, tita, so suspicious. Just curious what you gonna do, when you get back to the mainland. Stay in Seattle, or move on?"
"Oh. I don't know." She tensed, and drew a shaky breath. "I have a couple of friends in Seattle, but no job, so I could move. But again, I don't know where I'd go, so...probably not. How about you? D'you like Eastern Washington?"
"Hell, yeah," he said. "Sunshine, easy winters, lot of lakes and rivers, plenty of places to go when you want to get out of town. The traffic's nothing compared to Seattle. And did I mention the sunshine?"
"Uh-huh." She gave him a look that was almost shy. "How 'bout waitress jobs? Plenty of those?"
He grinned at her. "Tita, there's plenty of those nearly everywhere you go. In fact, one of my best bro—uh, buds owns a brewpub. The Hangar, 'cause of the USAF base near town. He always seems to be hiring."
"Uh-oh, is he hard to work for?" Her expression said she'd been there before.
"Nah, his waitresses just keep hooking up and moving away with their men, shit like that."
She nodded, her gaze somber. "Maybe it's time for me to get out of SeaTac, for good this time. The traffic, rain and the crime...I wouldn't miss those. The good things, like theater, shopping—I don't have the money for those anyway."
He grunted. "City's no place to be poor, that's for fuckin' certain. So, where d'you live? An apartment, or share a house?"
"An apartment." She made a face. "Shitty little place, but it's close to my job—my former job, that is."
"Former?" He didn't like the shadows that filled her gaze, not at all. "What happened?"
"I'll tell you what happened," she said bitterly. "Some rich bitch came in and left her fancy wallet in one of my booths at the truck stop where I worked. I...I took it to her boyfriend's place and uh, had some trouble. Turns out her boyfriend is a crook, with bikers at his beck and call."
"Bikers?" he asked, not sure he'd heard her right. "Bikers did this to you?"
"Yeah. And then I lost my job because of him, too." Her stormy gaze met his. "How's that for fair?"
Moke's bullshit meter pinged. Oh, he believed her, as far as that went, but he had a feeling there was a helluva lot more to the story. But first and most important, her claim that bikers had hurt her.
"Tell me more about these bikers."
She shuddered. "They were awful—dirty, violent, foul-mouthed—ugh!"
"No, I mean what club?" he asked. "What'd they have on their cuts?"
"Cuts?"
"Their leathers—what was on their vests?" She clearly was no biker groupie.
"Oh, right. They had, uh, rattlesnakes. My friend's husband said they're Prairie Rattlers. One of the worst biker gangs." She sneered. "Like they're not all bad."
Huh? With an effort, Moke kept his voice neutral. "You don't like bikers, why?"
Her brow wrinkled. "Well...everyone knows they're lawless outlaws, riding around causing trouble. I mean, where d'you think they got the inspiration for SOA?"
Moke snorted, and his hand tightened on her ass. "I think some Hollywood screenwriters pulled that shit outta their asses, is what I think. Been decades since the old outlaw clubs like the Hells Angels and Bandidos went down. Got motorcycle clubs now, but they're just brothers who wanna ride free."
"There are too gangs," she said, her lip curling. "Seattle has a terrible gang problem."
"Yeah, but they're not biker clubs. They're ethnic gangs, or drug runners, shit like that."
"Well, then how do you explain the bikers who tried to kidnap me? They were both white."
That was the million-dollar question, and Moke would very much like to have the answer. So much so, that he was gonna phone Stick Vanko and chat with him.
"Those guys, whoever they are, are just wannabes," he said, giving her back a soothing stroke. No hardship, with her silky skin and lithe curves. "The Rattlers are gone, cleaned out. Bunch of them died." And no fucking loss to humanity there.
She shivered. "I remember hearing about that on the news. But they were wrong, obvs."
He was ready to move on. "You mind telling me why these Rattlers were after you? You said you took this bitch's wallet back to her, ended up at her boyfriend's place. You see something you weren't supposed to?"
"Yes." She hunched her shoulders, and he pressed his hand on her back, pulling her closer to him. She came willingly, snuggling into the curve of his body. She was tense, trembling. "I saw...I saw someone being kidnapped. I mean, I didn't know that's what it was at the time," she added quickly. "But then in the papers, they had a picture of a missing Seattle prosecutor...and it was him I’d seen. In an old truck. Those Rattlers were bringing him there."
"Fuck me," he breathed, the hair standing up on the back of his neck. He leaned up on his elbow, peering into her face. "Who'd you see get snatched?"
"A lawyer. He works for the King County prosecutor's office."
"Holy shit." So not some lowlife associate, but a man for whom the Seattle area cops, and the Feds too, would turn Seattle inside out. "And who's this bitch's boyfriend—the crook?"
"His name is Darius Albany," she told him. "And he's...well, he's powerful, at least around Seattle. He sent the bikers after me, he got me fired...and I was afraid of what he'd do next."
"You told all this to the cops?"
She nodded quickly. "Of course. And they were supposed to be watching over me, but...I guess someone dropped the ball. They didn't show up at my apartment, and—well, the bikers did."<
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Unbe-fucking-leivable. The cops had not only dropped the ball, they'd smashed it to bits. She was a witness to the kidnapping of one of their own. They had to know Albany would be on her trail immediately. "How the fuck you get away?"
She wrinkled her nose. "I sort of...pepper sprayed them. Not fast enough, because I got cut, but at least they didn't get to kidnap me, and take me to Albany."
Moke stared, torn between fury at the danger she'd been in—fucking cops—and the urge to shout with laughter. "You pepper sprayed them? You mean with one of those little dinky purse-size things?" These wanna-be Rattlers must be little punks who found the cuts somewhere, 'cause none of the hard-cases who'd terrorized central Washington and the Tri-Cities would have gone down that easily.
"No, of course not," she said, giving him that 'are you nuts?' look she'd perfected. "I went to a sporting goods store and bought bear spray. It was yay-big." She held up her hands several inches apart to show him. "Too bad you can't bring that stuff on airplanes. I'm gonna start carrying it all the time when I get back to the mainland."
When he said nothing, she frowned up at him. "What? I think it's a great idea."
He shook his head. "No, no. I'm just...getting a mental picture here, of you taking down two grown-ass men with pepper spray. A big pepper spray," he corrected himself, and grinned down at her. "Oh, tita. You really something, you know it?"
They'd get back to the biker thing later. Now, he felt inclined to reward her for being such a tough tita, and so hot.
He bent and gave her a kiss, a nice slow, wet one. Which she liked, and so did he, and so he didn't get up right away after all.
But when he did, he left her sleeping. Phone in hand, he pulled on a pair of shorts and padded downstairs.. In the kitchen, he grabbed a cold bottle of local brew and took it outside onto the lanai.
Stick Vanko answered the phone with a growl. "Moke. This better be good."
Moke smirked to himself. He'd caught the big Russian in a moment with his old lady, he'd bet.
"It's not good, but it's definitely something you wanna know," Moke said.
Stick sighed and murmured something away from the phone. A woman's voice answered, and then the rustle of clothing or sheets. "All right. Talk to me."
Moke repeated the story Shelle had told him. When he was through, Stick was quiet for a moment. Moke could picture him, icy blue eyes narrowed as his brain worked at lightning speed.
"Fuck me," the club president muttered. "We've been hearing rumors...some new designer drug on the streets in Seattle. Bad shit, kills as many as it gets high. And this Albany's name has come up. But I've heard nothing about Rattlers being involved. She's sure about the cut?"
"Oh, yeah," Moke said. "She got a good look at them."
"Before or after she pepper sprayed them?" Stick asked dryly.
Moke chuckled, and so did Stick. Bad as the situation was, that was funny shit.
"All right," Stick said. "Good you called. I'll get in touch with Sound Whitaker, see what he knows."
Moke grunted with satisfaction. "He finds these guys, maybe he wouldn't mind giving me a moment with the one who cut her."
Bound or free, made no difference to him. He'd pound the garbage into the floor of whatever basement room the Seattle chapter used to hold their prisoners. Poetic justice would be using a knife on the asshole, but Moke wasn't into blades. His fists would work just fine.
"I'll ask," Stick replied. "All right. Talk soon."
"Yeah. Sorry, man. Give Sara my best."
Stick didn't bother to reply, just ended the call.
Moke grinned into his beer. Man didn't like to be interrupted when he was about to get him some.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
In his home office, the door closed, Stick Vanko pulled a new burner phone from a locked drawer. He tapped in a number he knew by heart. "It's your brother from the east. Get back to me as soon as you can."
His phone signaled a return call within moments. Stick picked up the phone. "Brother. How are things?"
"Things have been better," Sound Whitaker said. "We have snakes slithering into our city."
Stick straightened, the hair on the back of his neck standing up as well. So it was true then, Moke's woman wasn't mistaken. "Talk to me."
Without using names, Sound relayed what he'd heard from his friend on the police force. "We're riding oh this, full throttle. You want in, you'd best hurry. Once they arrive, I don't plan to extend my hospitality for long."
"You going after the big reptile as well? The one who hired them?"
"Oh, yeah," Sound said, a chilling snarl in his voice. "I'll get that mother-fucker, if I have to cooperate with the law to do it."
"Good, because to get him, we may all need to work together. He's big—has a long reach."
"He's about to find out that my reach is longer—and a lot more dangerous. Him and his shit will not stand—not in my city."
"I might be able to help with that," Stick drawled, if a man with an ice-cold, Russian accent could be said to drawl, "I can put hands on the witness to his biggest slip-up." Which had been going after the deputy prosecutor. That proved, as nothing else might have, that Albany did indeed have shit to hide from the law.
Sound took a half-second—a long time for him, as he was as canny as he was tough—to catch up. "You. Are. Shittin' me."
Stick grinned. "I shit you not, brother."
Sound exhaled roughly. "You big Russky, you never fail to amaze. That'll make our op a whole lot easier. Way I want that mother-fucker to go down, don't want to take any chance on being wrong."
"Da," Stick agreed. "We can make sure he gets a double dose of medicine—first from us, then from the law."
Sound chuckled. It was not a sound of amusement, but of chilling satisfaction. "Oh, yeah. So you'll hold her till we say go?"
"Give the word, I can have her there in a couple of days. That works for you?"
"That works for me—long as she's somewhere he can't get to her."
"She's with one of my men—and where they are, believe me, they're safe. He'll get her to you and stay to help out."
"All right. Who you sending with her?"
"You've met him. Islander, the size of a small truck, and good in a fight."
"Jesus. I remember him. Please tell me he won't get drunk and brawl with my boys."
"Not him. Got some who would, but I'll keep them home unless you call for us."
"Nah, thanks. Got plenty of men here who'll be more'n happy to stomp a few snakes."
"Do me a favor, make sure he gets a piece of the one called Grinder, da?"
"For you, I'll do it. But he'll owe me. 'Cause my brothers here don't like sharing our fun, if you take my meaning."
This time Stick chuckled. "Oh, I know. But I'm sure you can think of a way for me to repay you."
"Ah-huh, I'm sure I can. Anything else?"
"Plane tickets," Stick said. "He and the woman are at present on an island. Need to get them back from there."
Sound sighed. "All right. I'll make it happen. Text me his number, and I'll get him the info."
"Da. Later, brother."
"Later."
Stick ended the call, texted Moke's phone number to Sound, and then took the phone apart and smashed the sim card and battery, before tossing them in the trash. There would be no tracing this, or any other call between their chapters, for he knew Sound followed the same protocol.
His business accomplished, he rose, unlocked his office door and stopped. He looked down at the two small, sturdy blond boys who knelt on the carpet just outside the office door. They returned his frown with looks of wide-eyed innocence.
"Sasha. Alexi. Just what are you two doing out here?" he growled.
The twins exchanged a look. Sasha, also known as Dash, nodded. Alexi, or Kick, looked up at Stick and smiled angelically. "We're practicing, papa."
Stick set his hands on his lean hips. "Practicing what? Spying on your papa?"
"Uh-h
uh. We're going to be speck pops."
He raised his brows. "Speck what? Oh, you mean special ops? And where did you get this idea?"
"From the movie you letted us watch this weekend," Dash said indignantly. He and his brother climbed to their feet and faced their father, mimicking his pose. "Don't you even 'member?"
Stick's lips twitched. "How could I forget? It was such a good movie." It had been some silly thing about a family of junior spies that Sara deemed appropriate for children. Then he squatted, bringing his face to their level. "But boys, you know when Papa is in his office, that's private. That means no spying, da?"
They both sighed heavily. "Da. And if we hear anything we never, ever repeat it."
"Good boys. Now go and find Sara, and tell her I'm taking you all out to supper."
"Sara's in her shop," Kick informed him. "An' she said to stop bothering her and let her finish Rav's new cut, or she'll tickle us till we pee our pants."
This time Stick did chuckle. "Oh, she did? Well, maybe we'll go and tickle her instead."
"Okay! ‘Cept, do ladies wet their pants when you tickle them?"
"Sometimes." Their father's eyes twinkled.
"I don't want Sara to wet her pants," Kick objected. "Then we'll never get to go to supper. And I'm hungry."
"Me too," Dash agreed.
Stick chuckled. "All right, then we'll be nice."
"We're always nice to Sara," Dash assured him.
Stick placed a light hand on both tow heads as they walked with him through the house. "Da. We're nice to all girls. That's how we get the good ones, they notice these things."
"We only want Sara."
"That will change." And then, if his boys were anything like him and their uncle Pete, Sara would lose her mind, because she'd have a front row seat as the two dropped panties and broke hearts.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
That evening, Moke and Shelle ate leftovers—no hardship, considering this meant more of his delicious fish, served with spicy pineapple-jalapeno salsa, some rice that Shelle sautéed with a little onion and some odd-shaped but delicious summer squashes.