Ridge City Recruits: The Full Seven-Book Collection

by Mazzy King

  I’m sure Tristan’s about to kiss me. Then the loud buzzing, longer and more intense but the same as last night, comes between us yet again.

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, stepping back and pulling out his phone.

  “That thing sure has great timing,” I say flatly. He’s getting that same look he had before. “Something important? Like last night?”

  “It’s, uh, work, actually.” He stows the phone in his pocket.

  “Work? You’ve already started at Gemma’s shop?” I fold my arms.

  He looks into my eyes. "No, not yet. It's…she wants to talk about the job. Expectations."

  Even though that's perfectly reasonable, it still sounds like a lie.

  You’re not being fair. You’re judging him against the past. Give him a chance to prove you wrong…or right.

  “I have to go.” He hesitates, reaching down to scratch Hanzo behind the ears just like he loves. Then he glances up at me. “Maybe we could meet for a drink later? Even a bite to eat? You still like the Corner Iron, over on Main?”

  My lips curve up on one side. “That’s another thing that hasn’t changed.”

  He grins widely. “So is that a yes?”

  “What time?”

  “How about seven?”

  “Okay.” I nod. “It’s…”

  Tristan lifts his eyebrows. “A date?”

  “A joint consumption of a meal,” I clarify, but I can’t hide my own smile. “I’ll meet you there.”

  He nods, scratching Hanzo once more, then backs toward the door, still grinning. “I can’t wait.”

  And as he leaves, even though I’m still unsettled…neither can I.

  Tristan

  All she wants is an honest man, and I’ve already lied to her. It sucks.

  As I walk toward the Corner Iron, the place that used to be our favorite late-night dive, nothing sucks as much as knowing the lying isn't over.

  I met with RCPD this afternoon. Specifically, the detective in charge of the street racing investigation. Detective Saint Rivers. They've used their multiple layers of contacts to get me in with a driver they're particularly interested in, Connor Cavanaugh. He's made a killing as a street racer, but most of his success is because the mob is backing him, and unfortunately, Connor's lost his last three races and cost them a fortune. RCPD thinks they can get him to flip on the mob if they can apprehend him, and that's part of my job—see what kind of dirt he has on the people he's dealing with and bring him to the right side of the fight. And I'm supposed to do this as a mechanic for him because his last mechanic disappeared—something else they like the mob for.

  I start tonight, Saint told me. And though he wasn't a dick about it, I don't think he cared much when I told him I had a date. Because as much as Imogen wants to deny it, tonight is a date, and it's a crucial one. And I can't cancel it. I've already walked out on her early, and she's already suspicious of me.

  More importantly, I don’t want to miss out on any time with her.

  I spot her inside, and my heart stutters. Not just because she looks as beautiful as ever in snug black jeans that hug her curves, a flowing floral top that bares one sun-kissed shoulder, but because she’s sitting at our table. Our table.

  When the restaurant first opened, Im and I went one random night a couple hours before closing and the back-corner table became our table. We went there several nights a week. The staff grew to know us by name, remembered our favorite orders, and always made sure our table was available.

  To see her sitting there now definitely lets me know she’s missed our ritual. Our life together.

  I walk in and straight over to her. “Hey, beautiful.”

  She smiles up at me. “Hey, yourself. Sit down.”

  “You’re at our table,” I tell her.

  Imogen lifts a shoulder. “After we broke up, I stopped coming here. They remembered me when I walked in, and it was open, so it felt…right.”

  I touch her hand. “It does feel right.”

  We spend three hours talking, eating, and drinking. I avoid alcohol, but she goes for one of their specialty cocktails. Their Philly with fries was my go-to order, and I see no reason to break with tradition now. It's every bit as delicious as I remember it.

  Imogen watches me over her Reuben, smiling. “You don’t really like that, do you?”

  “I can’t tell you how many times I dreamed about this sandwich when I was inside,” I say, wiping my mouth with a napkin. “Man. It’s even better than I imagined.”

  “What else did you dream about?”

  I nearly choke on my sip of seltzer. There’s no mistaking the sultry note in her voice. I glance over at Imogen. Her luminous eyes glow in the dim light.

  Maybe it was the cocktail she had. Or perhaps it's the crackling electricity between us. That's never left us.

  I reach for her hand. “You were the star every single night.”

  She glances down at our hands. “Do you think…maybe we could get out of here?”

  I swallow. “Are you sure?”

  “I’ve always known what I want, Tristan.”

  I toss money on the table. I don’t know how much. Too much. I don’t care.

  "Hell, yes. Let's go."

  5

  Imogen

  I live within walking distance of the Corner Iron, so Tristan drives us back to my apartment. The drive is only three minutes.

  And as soon as we step inside the elevators, we fly into each other’s arms.

  Our mouths are desperate, frantic. Our kisses are deep, wet, full of need driven by hearts that never healed, by too much time apart. And for me, too much time in general.

  “I’ve never been with anyone since you,” I pant against his lips as his hands make their way under my shirt. “I need you to know that. I’ve always belonged to you.”

  His jaw flexes beneath my palms, and the little growl that comes from his throat sets my already incandescent body even more on fire. "I…can't tell you what that means to me, Imogen. And I need you to know the same—I haven’t been with anyone but you.”

  My lips curve against his. “So it’s been a while for us both.”

  “It has. I went numb after a while.” His lips drop to the side of my throat. “But now I’m feeling everything.” He pushes his hips forward against me as if to emphasize his point, and I gasp at the feeling of him, hard, thick, and long, against me. Sex was never an issue between us. In fact, our sex life before was off-the-charts amazing. And to think we’ve kept ourselves for each other this whole time…

  “Make love to me, Tristan,” I whisper feverishly.

  He kisses me hard in response.

  We rush down the hall to my apartment when the elevator releases us. I yank him inside. The door is barely closed before we start tearing at each other's clothes on the way to the bedroom.

  When we’re bare in front of each other, Tristan pulls me close, running his hands over every inch of my body. “I dreamed about a moment like this. I never thought I’d get to have you again, but thinking of you kept me sane, Imogen.” He kisses me slowly, deeply. “And now, I’m here. Thank you.”

  I want to reply, to tell him how much I care, but his lips move lower, sending tingles and hot bursts of desire through me. His lips and tongue close around each of my nipples, nipping and sucking and teasing as if we have all the time in the world.

  Maybe we do…

  He lowers himself to a knee, kissing all over my belly and moving lower. And lower.

  At the first touch of his warm tongue on my sensitive wet slit, I immediately come like a thunderclap, grasping a tight handful of his hair and crying out like I'm in pain.

  He scoops me up and tosses me on the bed, then leans over me and kisses me. “Sorry, but I need to get my fill for now. You’re just going to have to take the torture…”

  I sob out a laugh as he slowly pushes my thighs apart and returns his mouth to my throbbing, aching pussy. The sensation is almost too much at first, but gradually the heat
overtakes me, one delicious lick at a time. The next time I come, the waves of pleasure are hot, not scalding, and they lap over me slowly like warm waves on the Gulf. It goes on and on until I’m delirious with pleasure.

  The next time he brings his mouth to mine, I kiss him fiercely and suck on his tongue, tasting my essence. I reach down and wrap my hand around his steel shaft and guide it to me.

  “I might be like you,” he warns, holding himself back.

  “I might be like me again,” I moan, pulling him closer. “Please, I need you inside me.”

  With a low groan of pleasure, he works his way inside me. The stretch is unreal, a sharp mix of pleasure and pain. He's always been generously endowed, but now he feels enormous, stretching me in a way I nearly forgot, filling me in a way no one else ever will.

  “Jesus,” he murmurs. “You feel even better than I remember.”

  His thrusts are slow at first, slow and leisurely, and then as he starts to lose control, he plunges into me faster, harder. I cling to him, my thighs gripping his hips, my nails digging into his back. The fire building inside me threatens to burn me alive from the inside…but in the best possible way.

  “Imogen,” he breathes in my ear. “I love you.”

  As I crest to my climax, tears leak from my eyes. “I love you too, Tristan.”

  Together, we burst into flame. Healing, consuming, non-destructive flame.

  For a long moment, neither of us moves. I focus on the rhythm of our breathing, the way our heartbeats sync.

  Finally, he smooths my hair away from my face, his gaze drifting to the clock on my nightstand. “It’s eleven.”

  I smile, trailing my fingertips up his spine. “Good thing neither of us has anywhere to be. And good thing I’ve got a lot of energy.”

  He lowers his gaze and sighs softly.

  I freeze. “Wait. You have somewhere you need to be?”

  “Imogen…”

  I sit up so fast, I almost headbutt his nose. Part of me wishes I had. "Are you fucking kidding me? What's going on, Tristan? And don't give me some bullshit answer. I know you. And I know you aren't telling me the whole story." I pull the sheet up over my breasts.

  He faces me, taking a deep breath. “I can’t… I’m not at liberty to talk about it yet. But I do have somewhere I need to be, Imogen, and I’m sorry. If I could tell you—when I can tell you—I will.”

  I gape at him. “Wha—is it the Draconians?”

  “No. Hell no. They’re my past.”

  “Then what is it?” I cry. “You’re scaring me, Tristan!”

  He stands up and pulls on his clothes. His jaw tenses as he does, and he looks miserable. When he’s dressed, he leans over and kisses my lips. “I have to go now, Imogen. But before I do, I want you to know how sorry I am for fucking things up so badly. I thought I was doing the right thing for my family. Somehow. And I wasn’t. And I lost you. And I lost a good chance at a good life. But now I have a second chance. And I’m part of something way bigger than myself. I don’t want you to get mixed up in it because… It’s not safe.”

  I grab his wrist. “Tristan. Stay with me, please. Whatever it is, it’s not worth it. You don’t have to go. You can stay right here with me. We can be together. And it’ll all be okay.”

  He runs a hand through my hair, kisses my hand, and gently removes it from his wrist. “I have to go.”

  I watch him walk out of my room.

  Then I burst into tears.

  6

  Tristan

  The self-hatred continues as I reach my car. What kind of an asshole leaves the woman he loves after having mind-blowing sex and exchanging “I love yous” after almost two years?

  An asshole, that’s who.

  But I do have to go. The race is on for midnight, and I have to make Connor’s acquaintance in less than an hour.

  The race is set for a usually abandoned road behind the city’s industrial area, not unlike the area where the Rogue Draconians used to set up shop. In fact, where the race is taking place is on a stretch of road we used to frequent during our drug runs. The memory should maybe make me cringe, but it doesn’t. It’s part of who I am and how I got to where I am. But the irony that I’m heading to my old stomping grounds in a different capacity and on the other side of things isn’t lost on me.

  I push the BMW faster, flicking the shifter from gear to gear with the tip of my finger. I was halfway truthful with Imogen about the origins of my car. I did get it off a guy fresh from a divorce looking to move ASAP, and Gemma did help me locate it. It’s just that RCPD “acquired” it for me.

  And they’ll get every penny back. With interest. Tristan Black doesn’t owe people.

  On the way, I call Saint to let him know I’m heading there. He tells me he and a couple of undercover cops will be in the crowd keeping an eye on things, but there are no plans for a large sting—this time.

  There are already a ton of people gathered on the "track." Cars are everywhere—on the road, off the road in the grass. I park damn near half a mile back and jog toward the crowd. Saint gave me the number of a contact to text when I arrived. He doesn't know who I am, but the person who does is insulated by several layers of trusted people. We exchange a few messages, and I meet him at his suggested rally point. He's a lanky young dude with shaggy blond hair.

  “I’m Brad,” he says. “Connor’s waiting. Let’s go.”

  So much for small talk.

  As I follow him, he glances over at me. “So you’re the genius mechanic?”

  I’m not sure what to make of that. “I know my way around an engine or two.”

  “Well, if Connor likes you and your work, you could be looking at a permanent gig instead of the substitute-teacher thing.”

  “What happened to the last guy?”

  Brad glances at me again. “We don’t know.”

  He leads me to where a sleek white Toyota Supra sits, glowing blue light coming from underneath it. The hood is popped and leaning over it is a youngish guy with dark hair, wearing jeans and a plain T-shirt. I don’t know why but I guess I expected Connor Cavanaugh, the hotshot of street racing, to not look like a totally normal dude.

  But when he lifts his head as Brad, and I approach, there's something else he's wearing I wouldn't expect an illegal racing star to be—a look of total panic and fear.

  “I have to win,” he babbles immediately. “I have to win.”

  "It's cool, Connor," Brad says, both hands out in a calming gesture. "Look. I brought the mechanic. He's going to make sure you're in top shape."

  Connor shifts his gaze to me. “I’m Connor.”

  I hold out my hand. “Tristan.”

  He shakes it. His palm is clammy. “You came highly recommended. I have a lot riding on this race. A lot. I have to win.”

  I gesture to his car. “Is there a problem with it?”

  “No. I don’t think so. I just…I’m just nervous. My old mechanic, he was here for every race I’ve won. And I’ve lost every race since he’s been gone. I can’t lose any more.”

  “A lot of money on the line?” I ask carefully.

  He snorts, but there’s no mirth in it. “Yeah. Money. And my fuckin’ life.”

  I lift my brows. I don't know this guy, but there's something in his tone that makes me think he's not being dramatic. He speaks in a resigned tone like he knows the worst awaits. "Who wants you dead?"

  Connor opens his mouth, then seems to think better of what he was going to say. “Look, just check me out, huh? Make sure I’m good to go. I have one hour until the race.”

  Under the hood and inside the car, Connor’s Supra is like Frankenstein in the best possible way. The whole thing is full of aftermarket parts to make it light, efficient, and fast as fuck.

  I tinker around under the hood, but everything looks pristine to me, including the NOS tank. I glance over at Connor. "That a wet or a dry kit?"

  “Wet.”

  I nod. “How many times have you used your tank?”

&
nbsp; “Just once.”

  I whirl around to look at him. “Seriously?”

  “I’d rather put money into the quality of the car, not the accessories.”

  “Fair enough,” I murmur.

  I continue my inspection of the rest of the car, including the tires. I'm thorough—I take forty-five minutes of the hour to examine the inside and out, sit behind the wheel, test the engine myself, and make sure the brakes are good, though he won't be using them much.

  “Well?” he says when I finish my examination.

  “Looks good,” I reply, tilting my head toward the car. “More than I can say for you. No one likes losing, but you look like you’re not coming back from this.”

  Connor studies me for a long moment, then sighs. “Shit. If I don’t win, I won’t be.”

  “You can’t win ’em all.”

  “No, you don’t get it.” He shakes his head. “If I don’t win this race and the money, I’m a dead man.”

  “I guess I don’t get it.” I fold my arms. “How is that possible?”

  Connor looks away. “I shouldn’t say anything.”

  “What do you have to lose?” I shrug. “It’s not like I’m some beacon of virtue here. Besides, you look like you need to get some shit off your chest.”

  Connor sags against the car. In the distance, the high-pitched whine of speeding cars skims the top of cheers and screams from the crowd.

  “Back when I started making a name for myself,” he starts in a low voice, “I got the attention of some bigshot dudes in the city. The…”

  “Mob?” I supply.

  He nods. "They had some of their guys come to the races. You know crime and illegal racing go hand in hand. You can usually find some guy willing to walk on the dark side to get money for parts and put money in the pot. They liked what they saw in me, I guess, and they gave me a lot of money to put in my car and start entering the big races. They just kept giving me more and more. And they told me I'd need to pay them back with interest since I was winning. It was like never winning those races at all in the first place. I'm broke, and I still haven't paid them back entirely. The pressure got to me, and I started losing. Then my mechanic disappeared. And I think…"