Hunte (2 page)

I’d learned something from this brotherhood.

Sometimes you followed protocol. Sometimes you went with your gut. I’d gone with my gut with Brodie and Ashe. Detective Kingston had survived because of it, but I’d been smacked around with rules and regs and psych follow-ups because of my decision to bring Brodie onto the case.

My decision to save Kingston’s life.

I’d lay my career on the line again for any one of them. No questions asked.

So what if I got slapped with my own probationary term because of it?

It wasn’t my gut leading me now though. More like my cock. Straight up, hard as a rock, and wanting release in one babe only. JB. Getting involved with the girl could mean one of two things:

A trip to prison if she was as underage as she looked and as her nickname implied.
Jailbait indeed
.

Or a trip to heaven because she was nothing if not sex in the flesh.

She was way too young for me to be messing with, not to mention I was absolutely unsuitable for any woman, anywhere, all the time. Didn’t matter. I hadn’t been able to take my eyes off her since the moment she’d entered the MC, and I wanted my hands on her, too.

Unfortunately she was dancing. So were a bunch of handsy dudes all around her. I wished I’d carried my Glock on me. I could pick ’em off one by one. But then Cole would be on cleanup detail, and we were buddies. He hadn’t had to mop up one of my bloody messes yet, probably best to keep it that way.

Instead of shooting all the assholes trying to feel up JB as she danced with her hips swiveling, her arms reaching high, her head thrown back, I decided to cut in.

Paving a path through her groupies and gropers, I’d just about reached her when Cole called out across the noise of music and laughter, “Say, why you called Hunter anyway?”

JB glanced back at me with a smile then glided away.

I watched her sinuous moves, answering Cole, “Maybe Hunter is my real name.” Approaching the bar, I splatted Cole’s hand onto it. I took my sharpened Ka-Bar knife from my belt and stabbed it between his fingers. “Or maybe I’m just damn good with my knife. Wanna double down?”

That got big guffaws all around and drew JB’s large inky eyes to me.

“What about Sexton?” Cole pulled his hand back, making sure all the skin was intact.

“You’d have to ask the ladies about any sexin’ . . . ”

MC dudes converged on me with back slaps, but JB spun on her heels with a huff. In an apparent outrage, she marched to the far reaches of the clubhouse.

I had to follow up on that. Usually I liked my liaisons jealousy-free, but considering I’d already imagined putting bullet holes in just about every man in the room for so much as looking at her, I’d give her a free pass to get all green-eyed about me anytime she wanted.

When I made my way to the darts, JB ignored me; her head high and those amazing brown curls tossed back.

I stood in front of the bull’s-eye.

She stomped around me to retrieve her darts.

I blocked the way again, lightly touching her arm. “There a problem?”

“I’m not easy, if that’s what you’re after.”

“That’s not a problem.”

With a stamp of her foot, she went back to the throw-line. I’d barely stepped out of the way before she let rip with a dart that whistled past my ear. “I don’t fuck around, either.”

“Even better.” I grinned at the spitfire.

“What she means to say is
BTDT
. The T-shirt was not that awesome.” Rayce—the wrench shrew from Stone’s garage—intervened. She was JB’s fake dyke girlfriend from earlier and apparently a bulldog on a mission to put me in my place.

“No need to go rabid on me. I’ll step off.” Almost relieved by her interruption, I backed up with my hands raised. I needed a reason to stop pursuing JB anyway. “For the record, I’d never harm your friend, but I’m glad you’re looking out for her.”

An hour later, I slid onto my motorcycle. Helmet in hand, I ramped the Deus Grievous Angel to life.

JB materialized next to me, huddling inside her padded leather jacket. “Sorry about before. Rayce has issues.”

“And where’s your bodyguard now?”

“I don’t need one.” She unfolded her arms, and her jacket gaped open at her chest. She took my helmet from my hands and slung it onto the handlebar.

“Beg to differ.” She definitely needed protection from me.

JB made the first move, I’d testify to that shit in court. She leaned over me and licked her lips. Then my hands were in her hair, burrowing deeper, and I dragged her to my mouth. She straddled me when I lifted her onto my lap. The moist touch of her tongue parted my lips.

I groaned, opening up to her talented lunges, following the sleek kisses into her mouth where our tongues collided. I wanted to thrust down her throat with my cock. Rip her pants apart and fuck her until she screamed. Take her on my motorcycle and spray my come all over her body. The intensity of my reaction steered all coherent thought from my head.

The soul-searing kiss lit me up inside. I wanted more.

Bad move. One of my worst. I’d regret it later. Right now I’d savor the way JB moaned, riding my thigh, getting off on me.

I wanted to have this for one more minute.

I wanted her.

I couldn’t have her. I shouldn’t stain her. My soul wasn’t even intact.

With a growl, I pushed her off me. I steadied her with a hand on her hip as she found her footing.

“What’s
your
problem?” JB frowned, her lips swollen from my kisses.

“I can’t. Not with you. Not like this.” I wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“Damn right you can’t. I’m too good for you.” She zipped her jacket all the way to the chin.

Nothing hotter than a woman with an attitude who knew what she wanted, but I couldn’t take advantage.

“Exactly.” I throttled my raging black bike, shouting over the roar of pipes, “We agree. Never gonna happen.”

Peeling out of the parking lot, I glanced back one last time. Big mistake. JB stood under the halo of a streetlight with one stiff middle finger raised in my direction. And I wanted her even more.

Not gonna happen.

Only one good thing had come out of my life, and I had nothing left to give.

Chapter Two

“DADDY. DADDY. DADDY!” JACK’S high-pitched five-year-old voice shattered my not-so-sweet dreams.

“Too early,” I groaned and rolled over, planting a pillow on top of my head. “Remember how we studied how to tell time? This is not wake-up time,” I grumbled.

He tickled the soles of my feet kicked out from the sheets until I shot up and tackled him to the bed.

“What time is it?”

“The hour hand says seven and the minute thingy is on twelve. Time for breakfast!” Thick black hair hung over his wide golden eyes. He even had a miniature cleft-chin like mine.

He vibrated with excitement. I should never have taught him to read analog clocks.

I scrubbed my palms over my face. “You sure?”

“Double-checked. Like you told me.”

Christ. The boy was too smart for my own good. “I think IHOP closed down.”

“
Nuh unh
! I checked the website.”

Good God, I was raising a master hacker in the flesh. It all started with baby steps. Sitting up, I pulled him under my arm. “IHOP again?”

“You promised.” Jack sat back with an expectant look, adding a chin wobble for good effect.

“Yeah, yeah.” A promise was a promise. Save someone’s life. Destroy another. Spend Saturday morning at the local IHOP with your kid. I didn’t try to tally up my good deeds against the bad ones anymore.

Besides, Jack put up with getting shuttled back and forth from his mom’s to mine a couple times a week.
He
was the one good thing in my life. He was the reason I stayed put in the lowcountry instead of moving onto deeper darker X-Ops pastures.

“All right, little monster. Up and at ’em!” I lifted him in a fireman hold, setting him on his feet in the hallway bathroom. “Brush your teeth, twice.”

He scrunched his face.

“Brush your hair, once. Bath tonight.”

“Do I really haveta?”

“If I do, you do.” I just hoped he only picked up my good habits—like proper hygiene—instead of all my bad ones—like being a gun for hire.

Back in my bedroom, I checked on the gun cases in my closet: top shelf, all locked, keys hidden. Being a dad was the most natural thing I’d ever done. At the same time it freaked me the fuck out. I knew what people were capable of. The worst. This wasn’t really the type of world to raise your kids in, nor was it ever a good time to fall la-di-da in love.

I listened to make sure the water ran in Jack’s bathroom before I entered mine. One week later, JB was still on my mind, furrowing deeper. Her body, her wit, her kissable lips.

JB didn’t fit with my lifestyle. No woman did.

I shaved and showered and stepped out in clean clothes to find Jack jumping on my bed. If he’d combed his hair I’d like to see the rake he did it with. I ran a brush through it. He immediately shook all over like a wet dog, destroying my good work.

Taking his hand in mine, I mumbled, “Hopeless.”

Jack paid no never mind as we walked downstairs. He rambled on, “Not Waffle House because the waffles are soggy. I like IHOP, and that waitress knows us . . .”

My phone rang, the one shoved deep inside my pocket. The cell that got little use these days, and I was happy for that.

“Go hop in the truck, monster. I’ve gotta take this call real quick.”

The door banged closed behind him. I moved to the front windows, watching him skedaddle inside the big black SUV before I answered my burn phone.

“Ghost.”

“Walker here.”

He who walks silently, and wasn’t that fitting for the underground associate of Ghost? The dude wasn’t a government spook so to speak, but he sure as hell was spooky, and I thought I’d said my final goodbye to him in Tampa.

“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying,” I said.

“Hey now, is that any way to greet an old friend?”

Walker was in fact my oldest friend
in the business
, my partner in crime for the good of all mankind. We hadn’t been in touch for half a year, about the time I’d decided to become a real person with a halfway normal life.

I might work in an official unofficial capacity for the police department, but I answered professionally to much higher-ups extending far beyond the reach of the Mt. Pleasant Police Department. I was still trying to cut that goddamn umbilical cord.

The civil force had police and SWAT. The feds had spies, Feebs, the DEA, and Homeland Security. Covert Ops for international exigencies was extensive: Delta, Force Recon, SEALs, and Rangers. When all those routes were exhausted, when all else failed, “they” brought in the big guns to handle all those troublesome “issues” that sparked up like wildfires across the US and around the world. The big guns being people like me who could get in, deliver the intel and/or the kill, and get out, as invisible as a ghost.

We didn’t specialize in one area or the other be it drugs, crime rings, racketeering, espionage, warlords, international warfare, or terrorism.

We didn’t adhere to those pesky things like international laws or civil rights or moral codes either.

What we did was get the job done and fuck anyone who got in our way.

“I. Am. Not. Interested.”

“But it’s all full of flavor. Right up your alley. Cubans, cabañas, Miami-not-vice and I think it’s headed your way. Run-off from Tampa Bay Outlaws takedown.” Walker’s voice dropped. “Want to keep your precious Mt. Pleasant clean? Because I promise you, you got trouble brewing on the home front.”

“Nope. No dice.” As I watched Jack in the SUV, he busily planted his lips on the inside of the window, blowing on the glass so it fogged up. Then he drew pictures on the misty windows. “Don’t care if the POTUS himself is giving the orders this time. I got my kid for the weekend and I am off-duty. Forever.”

“C’mon. We’ll kill some crims, put some baddies behind bars, fuck a few babes. Just like old times. Aren’t you bored playing house yet?” Walker wasn’t used to taking no for an answer.

Tough shit.

I hung up while he was still wheedling and strode outside.

Jack sat in the passenger seat of the black rimmed, black tinted, tank-sized Chevy Tahoe, and you better believe that fucker was bullet-proofed. I stashed my burn phone in the glove compartment alongside my second gun, locking it all up tight. I pointed to his car seat in the back until he scampered into it and buckled in.

“Can we practice baseball later?” He piped up from behind me.

“Anything you want, Jack. It’s your weekend.”

In the rearview mirror, I saw him clap his hands with a squeal. “Lollipops and
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
movie!”

“I didn’t really mean that literally.” I adjusted my shades over my eyes.

Jack was undaunted with all the enthusiasm of a kid about to get his hit of bad movies and an over-the-top sugar dosage. Father of the Year?
Maaaaybe
not. But at least he was happy.

At IHOP, the same waitress greeted us. Her nametag said Wendy, and she served me a flash of cleavage and a lot of eyelash flutters from her pretty face. She was always extra patient with Jack who
always
ordered twice: first something new he swore over and over he was
definitely
going to eat, then two minutes later with a callback to Wendy he switched to his regular breakfast order of the Rooty Jr. with strawberries.

Wendy took it all in stride and even though she flirted continuously, she didn’t cross the line or write her phone number on the bill or make a general nuisance of herself. She may have been hot for me, but I hadn’t been able to get that sexy MC wench JB out of my head. I wondered if I’d pissed her off beyond redemption. If so, it would probably be in everyone’s best interests.

Jailbait. Jesus.

Lucky for me, Jack was a master distractor, especially when he insisted we make pizza from scratch together Saturday afternoon. That father-son experiment ended with smoke alarms going off and a call to Papa John’s. We left the house to air out and played catch while we waited for the pizza delivery.