In Rides Trouble: Black Knights Inc.

by Julie Ann Walker

Instead of punching Bill for his unwelcome insight, he satisfied himself by slamming his palm down on the scarred surface of his wooden desk. He regretted the move when it caused a stack of papers, precariously perched close to the edge, to slip over. The stack fluttered to the floor in a giant, disorganized mess.

  “Shit, shit, shit!” He yelled and then glared at the lone sheet remaining from the stack. It sat there, partially hanging over the side of his desk, taunting him with its tenacious presence. He imagined that sheet of paper was his ridiculous infatuation with Becky Reichert, hanging on despite the odds and the overwhelming current of events surrounding it.

  With a vicious swipe of his hand, he sent it flying down to join its wildly strewn compatriots.

  He should’ve felt better afterward…

  He didn’t. Especially when he heard Ozzie’s voice drift through the closed door, “What the hell did you do to Boss?”

  “Hit him with a violent torpedo of truth, I think,” Bill replied.

  Ozzie barked out a laugh. “Good ol’ Charlie Sheen.”

  Frank had no idea what that meant. Probably something to do with pop culture—of which Ozzie was a master. Still, regardless of the meaning behind the phrase, the truth of Bill’s words had hit him like a violent torpedo of truth.

  Because Bill was absolutely right. If things were different, if Shell hadn’t been part of the equation, he’d have given into his base desires months ago. Hell, probably years ago. And that made him no better than the man who’d sired him, the man he swore he’d never become.

  The rotten apple sure doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it? Gee thanks, Dad.

  Chapter Twelve

  “It’s unseasonably nice outside,” Becky announced around a Dum Dum as she popped her head into Frank’s office, interrupting the situation report Ozzie was giving to all the Knights. Everyone—excluding Ghost, who was staying with his fiancée, Ali, on the East Coast until she finished teaching the semester’s classes—had finally returned from whatever conference, assignment, or mission they’d been tasked with, and the small office was full to bursting with hardened operators.

  But there was someone glaringly absent from the group. Who could that be? Oh, right. Her.

  It irked her to no end that she wasn’t allowed in on such meetings. She worked with these guys, and gal—let’s not forget Vanessa Cordero, the new hotshot communications specialist—every day. She cleaned their wounds and their underwear. They were her frickin’ family, for Pete’s sake, but when it came to their missions, she was treated like a nosy civilian, and that just really, really, really pissed her off.

  Not that she didn’t know what was going on with her guys out in the field…

  She used the hacking skills Ozzie taught her to break into their computer system and make herself privy to all of the Knights’ confidential files. Anytime there was an update on one of the guys out on a mission, she got an email notifying her of their new status, so yeah, Frank might try his best to keep her out of the loop, but she was definitely smack-dab in the loop and, just to irritate him, she’d made it her life’s mission to impinge whenever possible, whenever she knew the information being discussed wasn’t critical—like now.

  “How nice is it?” Ozzie asked, his blue eyes lighting up like a kid being offered a shiny new bike.

  Good ol’ Ozzie.

  She could always depend on him to have her back, especially when it meant they’d likely get to go do something fun. And a warm day in Chicago in October absolutely demanded that they go do something fun.

  She popped the grape-flavored lollipop out of her mouth so she could blow him a raspberry, then grinned and wiggled her eyebrows, surveying the rest of the group. “It’s sixty degrees outside, likely the last day it’ll be nice enough to take the bikes out. What do you say we all mount up, ride over to Delilah’s, and have ourselves some dogs? Frank?” Last night, when she freaked out, he’d held her safe and warm in his arms. But today? Today he was back to treating her like a plague-carrier which was just… perfect. Not. “How long before you can’t eat or drink?”

  “I’m supposed to begin fasting at eighteen-hundred,” he grumbled, obviously biting his tongue on the harsh scolding he usually had ready for whenever she interrupted one of their “confidential” gatherings.

  Billy was leaning against the wall beside the door. She grabbed his wrist to glance down at his waterproof diver’s watch. They had two hours. “So we’ll have the blue-hair special. Fine by me. What do you all say? Winter’s almost here. This may be our last chance…”

  Again, she wiggled her eyebrows enticingly. All the Knights suffered from a form of seasonal affective disorder when winter rolled around. Oh, not because the endless cold, cloudy Windy City days caused them to slip into depression, but because the endless cold, cloudy Windy City days kept them from their favorite pastime…namely mounting a couple of tons of hand-rolled steel and rumbling toward the freedom of the open road.

  “But the newbies don’t have bikes yet,” Ozzie shook his head despairingly, referring to the three newest members of Black Knights Inc. “And Boss can’t ride Boss Hog with only one arm. The stretch is way too far.”

  True. Frank’s chopper—the pearl-colored beauty/beast appropriately named Boss Hog—was impossible to operate one-handed. In fact, all their choppers were impossible to operate one-handed. Trying to do so was sure to result in a terminal case of road rash.

  “Boss can ride with me, and the rest of you can take one of the production bikes,” she declared, anxious to get out of the shop and away from the charged atmosphere Frank had created since their return. Or perhaps it’d be more accurate to say the atmosphere had become supercharged. It’d always hummed with electricity anytime the two of them were in the same room together, but now? Man, now the small hairs on her neck were perpetually twanged upright in warning.

  It was getting really annoying, this constant feeling of being on the precipice of something explosive. If only Frank, the big, dumb dill-hole, would let her apologize so they could go back to being normal, then she wouldn’t—

  “I’m not riding with you,” he sputtered, his left eyelid twitching.

  “Well, then ride with Rock. I don’t really care,” she rolled her eyes.

  Although, truthfully, she did care. Why did he have to go and look like mounting up behind her on General Lee was tantamount to jumping face-first into a bubbling volcano?

  Sheesh. What’d happened between them aboard the destroyer wasn’t that bad.

  “I have a single seat, chère,” Rock reminded her. “Only your bike and Ghost’s have the capability to ride double, and Ghost took Phantom with him.”

  “So Frank will miss out on all the fun and drive the Hummer,” she growled, throwing her hands in the air.

  Why was everything always such a production?

  Oh, yeah. Because they were all alpha males, pumped up on testosterone and their own sense of self-importance, used to doing every little pain-in-the-ass thing their own way.

  God save her.

  “Oh, uh,” Ozzie scratched his Einstein-esque crop of blond hair, “I forgot to tell you.”

  She glanced at the guy’s grimacing face. “Sweet Lord, what have you done now?”

  “So, uh…” His mouth twisted into what Billy liked to call a shit-eating grin, though where that expression came from she’d dearly like to know. Who would eat shit and, more importantly, who’d be grinning about it afterward? “So I was off-roading—”

  “Oh, for the love of God! Ozzie, I told you not to do that with—”

  “Hey!” he interrupted her. “That’s what those machines are built for! I was just keeping it in fighting condition.”

  Yeah, right. It had nothing to do with the fact that he was still a kid at heart and liked to play accordingly. Unfortunately, his games were far wilder and infinitely
more dangerous than a happy little bout of hide-and-seek, and those games usually ended with her spending hours fixing one of his “toys.”

  “Besides,” he went on, futilely attempting to smooth down his wild hair as he picked at the peeling appliquéd letters affixed to the front of his T-shirt that read: My Other Ride is a Constitution Class Starship, “I plan to help you fix it.”

  “You bet your ass, you will.” She smiled evilly. “And maybe after you’ve spent days elbow deep in that big engine, you’ll think twice before you take it joyriding again, and one other thing—”

  “Children, children,” Rock interrupted, “let’s not get off track. So the Hummer is inop. Christian,” he turned toward the former SAS officer who was sitting by the window, avidly watching the byplay, “you’ll have to give Boss a lift in your Porsche.”

  “Ha!” Ozzie slapped his knee. “I’d like to see that one. It’d be like trying to fold a whole tuna into a sardine can.”

  “I’ve added racing seats,” Christian explained in his well-heeled British accent. “I seriously doubt Boss will fit.”

  “Oh,” Rock scratched his ear, sending Frank an apologetic glance.

  “I’ll just take the train like we all do when the weather’s shit,” Frank muttered, clearly unhappy, yet obviously resigned to the outing. Becky resisted the urge to pat herself on the back for having secured this one, small victory. With Frank, she had to count her successes when she could. “Or maybe I’ll throw caution to the wind and hail a taxi,” he continued. “Problem solved.”

  “What’s wrong, Boss?” Angel rasped, his dark eyes glowing dangerously. “Are you too proud to ride behind a woman?”

  Whoa, where the heck did that come from?

  The Knights liked to give Frank a hard time on a daily basis, but their ribbing was always in jest. The hard look making Angel’s prominent cheekbones stand out like the wings of an F-22 Raptor was anything but playful.

  “That’s not it at all,” Frank growled.

  “It isn’t?” Angel challenged.

  What in the world? Did Angel think he was helping her situation by provoking Frank? If so, the guy needed some swift lessons in how things worked around here.

  Every pair of eyes in the room swung back and forth between the two men, like the group was watching a raucous ping-pong match—only this contest looked to turn far more physical if Frank’s clenching jaw and Angel’s clenching fists were anything to go by.

  “Is that what you want, Angel?” Frank asked coolly. “For me to ride with her?”

  She couldn’t read the expression on Frank’s face, but Angel obviously could, because the two stared at each other for a very long time. She fancied if she squinted real hard, she’d be able to see little bolts of electricity arcing between the two.

  “I want you to do what’s right, Boss,” Angel finally ground out. “That’s all.”

  What the heck was that supposed to mean?

  “All right.” Frank nodded, his eyes flashing at Angel before he turned toward her. “I guess I’m riding with you then.”

  “Uh, o-okay,” she stammered as Angel said something nasty about Frank’s mother beneath his breath.

  She was completely, totally flummoxed. There was some sort of strange undercurrent swirling around her, but no matter how hard she tried or how many times she glanced between Angel and Frank, she couldn’t seem to determine its cause.

  Men, ya can’t live with ’em, and ya just can’t kill ’em. Sheesh.

  ***

  Frank gingerly mounted up behind Becky, careful to position himself as far back on the double seat as possible—which wasn’t nearly far enough.

  His big thighs still touched her slim hips, the warmth of her skin still seeped through the thick denim of his jeans, instantly igniting a burning sensation deep in his belly. Ah man, and the smell of her. The smell of sugary candy, acrylic paint, skin lotion…and under it all, the hint of warm lace and healthy, vibrant woman.

  This was so not going to work.

  He edged back farther, only to stop when she turned to glare at him. “You scoot back another inch, and you’ll be sitting on the back fender.” The back fender that was painted with the phrase, “I Ride My Own.”

  Sweet Mother Mary, the woman just slayed him. Everything about her, from her spunky, take-no-guff attitude, to her unbelievable talent, to her tight little body.

  “I promise I won’t molest you should you deign to wrap your arm around my waist,” she added, lush pink lips twisted in irritation.

  Yeah, but could he promise the same?

  For the first time in his life, he could honestly admit he wasn’t sure. The dark specter of what lay in store for him the next day was playing havoc with his emotions, his will, and…hell, let’s be honest, it was royally screwing with his head.

  Grinding his jaw, he slid forward until her hips were cradled against his tightening groin. Winding his uninjured arm around her waist, he pressed his chest to her back and realized she was in his arms…again.

  It was heaven…and hell.

  The sweetest, most erotic thing he’d ever felt. Especially when she fired up General Lee, and the bike started grumbling with barely leashed power.

  Holy hell. It was like the two of them were sitting atop a giant vibrator.

  And…wow, he’d have never guessed her little cafe-style chopper, with its bright orange and black paint job in tribute to the Dodge Charger made famous by the Dukes of Hazzard, would be so flippin’, blow-your-hair-back tough.

  Although why he’d ever entertained the notion that Becky would ride something less than totally badass was beyond him. The woman lived and breathed motorcycles; of course hers would be a mean machine raised to the power of ten. Just because it was small, didn’t mean it couldn’t pack one helluva wallop.

  Kinda like the woman herself.

  So yessir, with the bike grumbling beneath him and Becky’s slim form against his front, he was in heaven.

  He was also in hell.

  Because in order to keep from springing a boner the size of the flagpole they kept out in the courtyard, he had to picture the razed villages of Herzegovina after they’d been shelled by the VRS.

  Okay, that worked.

  Well, it worked until she revved the engine. Then all he could think of was the long list of don’ts he’d compiled in his head before climbing on the back of her bike. Like don’t bury his nose in the soft curve of her fragrant shoulder, and don’t run his tongue up the side of her graceful neck, and don’t subtly lift his hand until his thumb caressed the gentle undercurve of her breast.

  Like don’t dwell on the fact that but for a few layers of clothes, he’d be inside her, spreading the sweet, warm globes of her ass to push into something much sweeter and much warmer and—

  Damnit.

  What an asshole he’d turned out to be. And a stupid asshole at that, because he was here, now, living through this torture, simply to give Angel—that prick—a giant middle finger.

  He was just about to swing off the bike—he couldn’t do this; it was too much—when Bill gave the thumbs up and the group took off, prowling behind Christian and his Porsche like a pride of steel lions as they exited the shop’s side door.

  They were accompanied by the sound of rolling thunder.

  Usually he reveled in that loud, blood-pumping racket, relished the raw power of a V-twin engine in perfect, growling condition.

  But not right now.

  Because right now that sound meant he was stuck exactly where he was for the amount of time it would take to get to Red Delilah’s—approximately ten minutes, depending on traffic. And those ten minutes promised to be the longest, most agonizing of his life.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Becky licked the last bit of celery salt from her fingers after having wolfed d
own a hot dog and frowned toward the end of the bar where Frank was trying and failing not to stare into the Grand Canyon of Delilah’s cleavage.

  She liked the bar’s proprietress and namesake; she really did.

  Delilah was clever and fun, and she could double pour a Guinness so it formed the perfect frothy head—a real talent in Becky’s book. She was warm and welcoming, always there with a sympathetic ear when a girl had one too many and started lamenting aloud the pathetic path of her love life—or the lack thereof. She had a nearly encyclopedic knowledge of classic rock bands, could diffuse a bar fight with only a high-pitched whistle, and wrangle an uncooperative drunk into a taxi cab…

  She also just happened to be built like a living number eight, with a set of curves that defied humanity. And even though Becky generally liked Delilah, right now she was envious as hell of those curves and the nearly hypnotic effect they seemed to have on Frank.

  Yepper, maybe if she looked like an hourglass, he would finally give her the time of day and let her apologize, because if there was one thing she was sure of, it was she was sick and damned tired of walking on eggshells around him…or having him walk on eggshells around her…or whatever the heck was going on to make the room experience a sudden blast of nuclear winter whenever they both managed to inhabit it.

  “Did that satisfy your craving?” Angel asked as he plunked a sweating bottle of Samuel Smith’s Imperial Stout down on the polished bar and swung a muscled leg over the wooden stool beside her.

  “I could eat two more,” she told him, dragging her eyes away from the pair at the end of the bar. “But I just bought a really cherry pair of 7 For All Mankind jeans, and it’d be a shame not to be able to fit into them.”

  He tilted his head and smiled at her, and she wished she could read whatever it was she glimpsed behind his dark eyes, but…she couldn’t. Even after all the hours they’d spent together, he was still such a mystery she couldn’t help but wonder if there was anyone on the entire planet who knew what Jamin “Angel” Agassi was really all about.