HWY 550 (Rock Point Book 3)

by Freya Barker

  “Most people knock.”

  Jesus, the woman is prickly, but for some reason it makes me grin, which seems to tick her off even more.

  “Didn’t realize you doubled as receptionist.” I return what I know is a jab, intended to fire her up even more. With success.

  “Kiss my ass, Strongbow.” She’s spitting now, rising out of her chair.

  Deep chuckles draw my attention to the two others inhabiting the space. I lift my chin in their general direction. I like Jasper Greene, have had some interaction with him but the other guy—Barnes, I think—I don’t really know.

  “Thanks for coming,” Gomez greets me, sticking his head around a doorway before he turns to the others. “Boardroom?”

  “You nuts?” I bark out, when Gomez lays out his reasons for asking me here. “You’re sending a woman undercover into an MC? Do you know how fuckin’ risky that is?” I plant my hands on the table, ignoring the woman in question, who is turning purple in the face.

  “Let me remind you again,” Gomez says sharply. “Roosberg is a highly qualified agent.”

  “That may be so, but in my world; she eyes like a tasty piece of innocent candy. She’ll get chewed up and spit out.”

  “Only if she’ll let them.” He leans over the table, mimicking my stance. “Besides, we’ll plant her on the back of the bike of one of your most trusted guys. Someone who evokes a lot of respect, both inside and outside of your club, and gives her credibility. One of your officers.”

  “I was thinking Kaga? Maybe Yuma?” she contributes and I shoot her a hot glare.

  “Kaga’s old lady might take issue with that, and over my dead body you’ll get on the back of Yuma’s bike,” I growl, the thought of that goddamn male slut anywhere near this sprite has me see blood. His claim to fame is banging a record amount of pussy at every fucking rally we attend, and he’s none too picky either. Christ, it’s a miracle his cock is still attached.

  “Why?” she challenges me, and I get in her face.

  “Because even just sittin’ on the back of his fuckin’ bike will leave you with a severe case of crotch rot.” Her big blue eyes blink a few times before she shrugs.

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, oh. You ride on the back of anyone’s bike, it’ll be mine.” I realize my mistake the moment it leaves my mouth, and I see the smug grin on Gomez’s face. Should’ve left well enough alone, but I had to fucking hammer it home. Truth is, it probably is the best option. A few of my guys have witnessed the fireworks between her and me, and it probably wouldn’t be hard to convince them something’s going on.

  Jesus. Even just thinking about that tight little body snug behind me on my bike has my dick rise to the occasion.

  “Perfect,” the asshole says. “That’s settled then.”

  “Wait—” she pipes up, but I ignore her protests.

  “Thing is though, in order to sell it, we’ll have to convince my guys first. We can fake it for the outside world, but all it takes is one of my guys getting drunk, getting loose-lipped, and your cover is blown. Can’t do anything about most of them knowing she’s an agent, but we can make it not matter.”

  “Excuse me—”

  “So what are you suggesting?” Damian asks.

  “I’m suggesting I’m picking my date up for a club barbecue tonight, taking her on the back of my bike, so there can be no mistaking in what capacity she’s there.”

  “Over my dead body,” Luna shouts.

  “I’ll be able to introduce her as mine to some of the guys from the visiting clubs. Will make her coming to the rally a lot more credible,” I address Gomez, who turns to his fuming agent and slowly raises one eyebrow. I try hard not to smirk when I see the effort it takes for her to rein her shit back in.

  “Fine,” she bites off through clenched teeth.

  “Excellent.”

  Special Agent in Charge Damian Gomez is fucking looking like the cat that got the cream, way too satisfied.

  “Need your phone number and address.”

  She glares at me. “I don’t share my address with anyone.”

  “I’m not anyone,” I shoot back. “I’m your new man. You want this believable, don’t ya?” She doesn’t take her angry eyes off me, and I can tell she’s pissed I’m making sense.

  “Luna...” her boss gives her a low warning. “Write it down for him.”

  Ripping a page from her notebook, with vicious scratches of her pen, she writes down her phone number and address. I’m pretty surprised to find she’s not even five minutes from the clubhouse. Small fucking world.

  “Be ready at seven,” I warn her, tucking the paper in my pocket. “I’m doing the meat so I can’t be late.”

  With a handshake for Gomez and a chin lift for the other guys, I head for the door, when I hear her voice behind me.

  “But I don’t have anything to wear.”

  LUNA

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I don’t know why I’m so nervous and it’s pissing me off.

  I should be pumped about the undercover assignment—those kinds of opportunities are rare for female agents—but instead of plotting moves, I’m contemplating fucking outfits. Nothing in my closet at home screams biker chick. In fact, all I have in there are suits for work, cargo pants and T-shirts—also for work—and an unhealthy amount of athletic wear. I own precisely one pair of jeans, and those are of the mommy variety and don’t exactly scream biker babe.

  With only an hour and a half left before I have to be home because he’ll be knocking on my door—no time to go fucking shopping—I know there’s only option open to me. One person who might be able to help on short notice, because she has a gasp worthy collection of fitted and flimsy.

  “Bella, I need help,” I come right out and admit when she answers her phone.

  Bella is my teammate Jasper’s better half, and a clothes horse. She’s also short, like me, perhaps a bit more curvy, but she likes stuff super tight so it might fit me just right.

  Thirty torturous minutes later, I’m pulling myself into a pair of stretchy designer jeans with holes. It’s a concept I still don’t understand, paying exorbitant amounts of money for jeans that look like they’re ready for the trash can. I’m told it’s fashionable. All right then. They look like they were painted on my legs, they fit so snug.

  “Your ass looks outstanding in these!” Bella, of course, was all over my dilemma and has been using me like some overgrown animated Barbie doll to dress.

  “I don’t need an outstanding ass,” I grumble. “I just have to look believable.”

  “Then you do need ass, and tits,” she informs me, and I look down at my scant B cups. Not even a handful, maybe just a palm. I shake my head, knocking loose the image of Ouray’s large calloused hands. “Don’t worry, this tank has a built-in push-up shelf.”

  I have no fucking idea what a ‘built-in push-up shelf’ is, but I’ll take her word for it. She hands me the teal-colored bit of material I don’t think is going to do much to turn my tiny bumps into the required ‘tits’ she talks of, but I would be wrong. When she turns me to face the mirror, I suddenly have a fucking fruit basket under my chin.

  My, “Holy shit, where’d those come from?” is immediately followed by, “I can’t go out like this!”

  Bella just chuckles behind me, fitting me into a soft, three-quarter sleeved, powder blue cardigan with sparkly glass buttons. “The jeans are rough and tumble, the tank is pure sex, but adding the sweater brings out the sweet. It makes for an irresistible contrast. You look delicious.”

  “Jesus, fuck, Bella, what have you done with Roosberg?” Jasper walks into the bedroom. I immediately blush red, feeling a little too exposed, and have a ridiculous urge to cover myself up with the bedspread.

  “Doesn’t she look amazing?” Bella coos.

  “Squirt, we want her believable, not have every guy within fifty yards swallow his goddamn tongue.”

  The off-handed compliment feels good. Too good. It’s messing with my hea
d. I don’t like to stand out, but the prospect of turning heads is also secretly exhilarating. Turning one head anyway.

  “Do I need high heels?” I ask Bella, feeling a little bolder and wanting a little extra height.

  “Can you walk on them?”

  “I can try,” I offer, because I haven’t really.

  “Then no,” Bella firmly shakes her head. “You’ll totally ruin the sexy vibe if you stumble around. It might be cute with Keds or Chucks.” At the blank look on my face, she throws up her hands and dives back into her bottomless closet, coming out with a pair of white tennis shoes.

  “I have a pair of flip-flops at home,” I suggest, but this time Jasper has an opinion.

  “Not on the back of a bike. Also, those aren’t great if you need to move fast.”

  He’s got a point.

  After a hug from Bella, wishing me good luck, and a brotherly word of caution from Jasper, I’m on my way home, checking out my enhanced boobage at every stop. Who knew?

  By the time there’s a knock at my door, I’ve been to the bathroom three times already and have had to resist pulling a plain T-shirt on for a little extra coverage. Too late now anyway.

  I can’t say I don’t feel a pang of satisfaction when I pull the door open and the smug grin Ouray is sporting drops right off his face.

  “Fuck me,” he almost groans, looking me up and down before pulling me out the door. “I’m gonna regret this.”

  CHAPTER 5

  OURAY

  Jesus.

  Who knew the woman could look like goddamn sex? Not that she’s flaunting it, not in the way of some of the groupies, but just that hint of cleavage peeking out from the innocent sweater makes her look sexier than any other woman prancing around in lacy lingerie. Even her eyes, those big blue deceptively guileless orbs, hold a promise I know most men won’t be able to resist. Fuck. The normally tightly wrapped and bristly agent looks like a sonofabitchin’ wet dream.

  Not what I expected at all when I pulled up her driveway to the small cabin, half-tucked in the trees, nestled high above the road below. From what I can tell, she has one neighbor, but behind her is nothing but space, and in front, a killer view. Nice. A surprise, actually. Just like the address she handed me earlier today, only minutes down the road.

  “Put this on,” I growl when we get to my bike, and I hand her the helmet I had to pick up this afternoon. I don’t take women on the back of my bike, not ever, so there’s never been need for a spare. I was tempted to pick her up in the truck instead, but I know damn well, nothing would make a statement like driving up to the clubhouse with her on the back of my bike. It would eliminate any question around why she was there and instantly identify her as someone important to me. “Been on a bike before?” I ask, brushing away her hands when she fumbles with the strap under her chin.

  “Dirt bike. Once,” she says with a self-deprecating grin, pointing at a scar in her hairline. “A singular experience I didn’t care to repeat.”

  I can sense her nerves and throw her a grin back. “No worries. I won’t crash us. Just hang on tight to me, and let your body lean in with mine.”

  Something I can’t quite identify flashes in her eyes, gone as fast as it came. I swing my leg over and am about to instruct her how to get on, when I feel her swing up behind me, her body way too fucking snug against my back. When I glance back, I see her hands have a firm grip on her knees. “You gotta hold on, Luna.” She moves them tentatively on my waist, trying to avoid as much contact as is possible, already wedged against me. “Yea, that ain’t gonna work,” I tell her, before I grab both her hands and pull them around my middle, biting down a curse when I feel her spectacularly wrangled tits press in my back. “Better get used to touching me, and having my hands all over you, if you want to pull this off. We’re not shy at the clubhouse, it’ll raise eyebrows if you act like I have the plague.”

  “So noted,” she mumbles against my back.

  The short ride up the mountain road is a good test she seems to pass with ease. Pulling up to the gate, manned by Rowtag and Wapi, one of our other cubs, we draw some raised eyebrows, but when Rowtag recognizes who’s on the back of my bike, he scowls. I’m going to have to keep an eye on that one.

  I have to help her again with her helmet and hang it off my handlebars while she fluffs out her hair. She’s wearing it loose today, the thick blonde waves framing her face like a halo. She looks even fucking younger like this.

  “How old are you?” I can fucking hear her hackles go up, so I add under my breath, “A pretty fucking important detail for your man to know, Sprite.”

  “Forty-one. Birthday in October. You?”

  “Forty-eight and May.” From the corner of my eye, I notice some eyes on us, so even as I’m answering her, I weave my fingers into her hair and cup the back of her head, my other landing on her ass. “Showtime,” I whisper, just before covering her lips with mine.

  Fuck. Her mouth is sweet, and despite the tension still coming off her, she plays her role really fucking well. Hands snaking around my neck, up on her toes, and her tits pressing against me. To someone watching she probably looks like she knows what she’s doing, but her kiss betrays her. Her response is hesitant, apprehensive, when my tongue slips between her lips for a quick taste. A small groan escapes her, and I quickly pull away before I fucking bend her over my bike.

  “Well, I’ll be fuckin’ damned.”

  I drag my eyes away from the high blush on her face to find Yuma watching us through squinted eyes a few feet away. Ignoring him, I hook my arm around her neck, and walk us right past him inside.

  “Be prepared for the third degree from Momma,” I warn her quietly before aiming her in the direction of the kitchen, ignoring the catcalls and whistles. Momma and Nosh will be the hardest sells. They know me best, they’ve met Luna in her professional capacity, and I feel like shit for lying to them, but it’s important they buy into it. The rest of the club will automatically follow.

  “I knew it,” Momma says when she sees us coming in.

  “That so?” I challenge. I don’t have a clue what she thinks she knew, but I’m not about to argue. It works to our advantage.

  “I could feel the sparks flying with you two in the same room,” she claims smugly.

  Nosh, who’s sitting at the kitchen table—his favorite hangout—scrutinizes our faces closely to the point of uncomfortable, before he finally shrugs his shoulders.

  It could work, he signs.

  “Better get the grill fired up, boy. Them ribs gonna take a while to cook. Not too hot, or you’ll burn them before they tender.”

  “And how often have I burned the ribs?” I raise an eyebrow at Momma, who knows damn well I don’t burn meat. She dismissively waves her spatula and turns her back, but when I’m about to head for the grill out back, a quiet Luna still tucked under my arm, Momma stops us.

  “Leave her here, I could use a hand.” I swear the woman has eyes in the back of her head.

  I don’t really want to subject Luna to the Spanish Inquisition I know she’s about to have put on her, but I don’t really have a choice. Turning to her, I take her face in my hands and tilt it up. “You okay givin’ Momma a hand?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll be out back. Come lookin’ for me when you’re done.”

  I wait for her acknowledging nod before I press a hard kiss on her lips and let her go. One last glance into the kitchen, I catch Momma’s eyes in the reflection of the kitchen window—she hasn’t missed a thing—before walking out to the back, where I know I’ll be receiving a grilling of my own.

  LUNA

  “What would you like me to do, Mrs. Wells?”

  The woman turns to face me with a scowl on her face.

  “You can start by calling me Momma, just like everybody else,” she snaps. “You mister and missus your way around this club, no one’s gonna forget who you are.”

  “All right, Momma, what can I do?”

  “Can ya cook?�
� I grin at the challenge in her voice. I don’t get a chance to cook often but I’m pretty good, if I say so myself.

  “Like a champ.”

  “That a fact?”

  “Try me.” I throw the challenge back with a grin and a wink for Nosh, who is eyeing us with interest.

  The calculating glint in Momma’s eyes should probably have been a warning, but I already threw my hat in the ring.

  “Brussels sprouts. I make them for a handful of the guys, but the rest hate them, including Ouray. I want to see if you can change his mind.”

  “No problem.”

  I am so fucking bluffing and she knows it. I love my sprouts, but I’m not sure they’d be enough to get someone to like them.

  For the next twenty minutes I’m cleaning vegetables, chopping fresh garlic, and mincing shallots. A few times I almost cut off a finger, my mind still preoccupied with the feel of Ouray’s tongue stroking the inside of my mouth, his hand squeezing my ass. I’m mostly confused by my own response: I didn’t want him to stop.

  The club kitchen is large, but still Momma manages to crowd me when I toss the raw, halved sprouts in the wok with the rest of the ingredients.

  “Ain’t you gonna cook ‘em first?”

  “Nope. Stir fry so they keep a bit of bite. Do you have some hot sauce?” She hands me a jumbo-sized bottle from the fridge. I drizzle a little into the wok, stir it around, and pull the wok off the heat.

  “I’ll finish them up when the ribs are ready. Can’t leave them sitting too long or they’ll get mushy.”

  “Whatever you say,” Momma says, rolling her eyes. “Why don’t you go see if Ouray is ready for the meat?”

  I have to say, it’s a lot less comfortable walking out in a crowd of people I don’t know, who all look at me with a healthy dose of suspicion, than it was earlier with Ouray’s arm around my shoulder.

  “Fresh pussy. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”