Shooting Dirty (3 page)

Ace gave her a card with his cell phone number and a business address in Indio. That was near Coachella, where she worked. “Call me if you ever need anything,” he said, his gaze skimming her curves.

She knew what he thought she needed—his dick. She remembered how he’d felt against her, thick and hard. Her skin prickled with awareness and she glanced away, moistening her lips. She hadn’t been touched by a man in months.

Years ago, she’d fallen into the habit of infrequent, no-strings hookups. Casual encounters were easier than long-term relationships, and her options were limited, as far as boyfriends were concerned. Men wanted to sleep with strippers, not date them. Her profession attracted more than its share of jerks, addicts and losers.

She’d all but given up on finding a decent man.

That didn’t mean she had to settle for a common criminal. Especially not this one. It was a shame that he had such a hot body and intriguing face. He knew how to kiss, too. She imagined he knew how to fuck. He might feel bad about what he’d done to her, but his guilty conscience hadn’t stopped him from wanting to do it again.

She trembled at the thought of being bound and naked for him.

Jesus. What was wrong with her?

Pushing aside her twisted fantasy, she opened the door. “Don’t hold your breath,” she said in a husky voice.

He studied her mouth intently, as if he could read her desire in its shape. She went still, wondering if he’d try to kiss her. Instead of lowering his lips to hers, he respected her request and walked out.

Chapter Four

Ace climbed into his battered work truck, feeling surly.

He gritted his teeth and locked his hands around the steering wheel, fighting the urge to slam his forehead against it.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck,
fuck
.

He didn’t want to deal with Jesse “Jester” Arno. The bad blood between them went deep. Ace resented the request for a meeting, and he was furious about the threat toward Janelle. He’d rather shoot Jester than have a sit-down with him.

The problem was, he couldn’t refuse.

Jester was the new president of White Lightning, an outlaw motorcycle club known for its shady dealings. Ace used to belong to Dirty Eleven, a rival club. He was no longer a member but he couldn’t sever ties with them completely, because Dirty Eleven was run by Wild Bill Shepherd, Skye’s legal guardian and grandfather.

Ace felt no loyalty to Bill, only bitterness. Bill had promised to release Skye after the last job. He’d gone back on his word, and he’d been stringing Ace along ever since. Ace couldn’t get custody on his own. He paid child support on time and he never missed a visit with Skye, but he was also a convicted felon. The courts wouldn’t be sympathetic, and Bill would punish him in ways Ace didn’t want to think about.

He was stuck.

Now he had to worry about Jester Arno on top of all that. The White Lightning president must have had Ace followed to Janelle’s trailer. He’d sensed trouble, and he should have listened to his instincts. He shouldn’t have gone near her.

He’d risked her safety. Again.

The day he’d taken Janelle hostage, Ace had promised that no harm would come to her or her son. He might be a killer, but he was also a man of his word. He’d protect her whether she liked it or not. If she didn’t want him around, fine. She didn’t have to know. He could be stealthy.

Ace got the feeling she
did
want him around, however. She just didn’t want to admit it, and he didn’t blame her. They’d met under the worst circumstances imaginable. She had every right to be wary of him.

Even so, he sensed her interest. It wasn’t just wishful thinking on his part. He knew she felt desire for him. He’d seen the evidence when he’d stripped her. He’d watched her stomach quiver as he’d tugged down her panties. Her nipples had been tight pink buds, her pussy slick with moisture.

“Fuck,” he said out loud, raking a hand through his hair. He was getting a hard-on.

Her response to his aggression had played into his fantasies, big-time. He’d been plagued by thoughts of pleasuring her until she begged for mercy. The idea that she might enjoy being under his control was tantalizing. It was everything.

He wanted her to be as turned on as he was. There was something about the way she looked at him, her eyes sliding over his body and jerking away. There was something about her mouth that beckoned him.

Ace understood his appeal to the opposite sex. He did okay with women. He was taller and stronger than average. He showered daily. He had steady work and all of his teeth. Not everyone in this desert wasteland could boast as much.

His mother had also raised him to be respectful. He’d learned to use a slow hand with women, and to listen when they said no. Janelle had asked him to leave her alone. He couldn’t just grab her and tie her up again, no matter how delicious that sounded.

He wasn’t
that
much of an animal.

Instead of conjuring more erotic images of her in bondage, Ace drove away from the trailer park, drumming his fingertips against the wheel. It was a long drive to the White Lightning clubhouse in Riverside, but he wanted to get the meeting over with. He couldn’t take the chance that Jester would come back to harass Janelle tomorrow.

He headed north out of Salton City, wondering what Jester wanted to talk to him about. Nothing good, he imagined.

White Lightning had taken up residence in a dive bar at the edge of a busy industrial area. The place had lost its liquor license and gone under. Now it was open to club members, their old ladies and numerous young women known as hang-arounds. White Lightning’s hang-arounds called themselves White Trash. It was fitting.

Dirty Eleven also had its share of groupies, aka the Dirty Girls, but they didn’t go to the clubhouse. Wild Bill was pretty strict about keeping the headquarters free of sexual activity. If its members wanted to get laid, they could go elsewhere.

“It’s a clubhouse, not a whorehouse,” he’d say.

Bill’s main focus was making money, not partying. He was a serious businessman. Ace admired that.

White Lightning had a different philosophy. The club reveled in chaos, prostitution, heavy drug use and violence. They treated their hang-arounds like dogs, passing them around and pouring drinks on their heads. Its members were the scum of the earth, as far as Ace was concerned. They gave outlaws a bad name.

He parked outside the clubhouse, which had blackboards nailed to the front windows. It was unmarked, and you couldn’t come uninvited or without a member. A sign above the entrance said White’s Only.

Real classy.

Ace opened the door and went in. He wished he had a weapon, but he couldn’t bring one inside without detection. Sure enough, he was patted down the instant he came in. A beefy guy with a handlebar mustache shoved Ace against the wall without even asking his name. Ace endured the indignity, having expected as much.

“I’m here to see Jester,” he said through clenched teeth.

The bouncer finished searching Ace and grabbed him by the collar, pulling him away from the wall. “Anyone know this guy?”

“He’s Dirty,” one of the men at the bar said.

“No shit,” the bouncer replied, studying Ace with interest.

Ace didn’t bother to say he wasn’t a current member of Dirty Eleven. It was kind of a lifetime gig, so his presence at the enemy’s camp could be considered traitorous. Or suicidal. “Jester invited me.”

“No shit.”

“No shit.”

The bouncer just stood there. Ace wondered if they were going to keep repeating the same phrase back and forth all night. He knew better than to make demands, so he stayed silent. This wasn’t his territory, and hunting had taught him the art of patience. He’d been told more than once that he had freaky eyes. Maybe it was the pale, washed-out color. Maybe they were devoid of emotion. Either way, he was good at staring contests.

Handlebars gave him a rude shove, as if Ace had been impertinent, and walked away. Presumably to get Jester.

It appeared to be a quiet night for White Lightning. There were less than a dozen people inside, and most of them sat at the bar. A couple of members were playing pool in the corner. Two women had taken over the stage. They drunkenly swayed to the music, giggling and disrobing each other.

Ace liked watching naked women as much as the next guy, but this wasn’t a stellar performance. He thought of Janelle, who danced with skill, commanded a strong presence and knew how to display her curves to perfection. It helped that she was beautiful, with a hot body. These ladies couldn’t compare. Most of the men weren’t even paying attention.

Handlebars reappeared and led Ace to a back office. Jester was inside, sitting behind a large desk that he probably thought made him look important. Two younger club members were stationed at opposite ends of a black leather couch.

Jester was about Ace’s age, and that was unusual for a president. He’d been VP when the former president was killed, so he’d assumed command. Ace wondered if there was tension between him and the older members. They might vote him out next year.

“Have a seat,” Jester said.

Ace took the chair in front of the desk. He didn’t acknowledge Jester’s associates. Handlebars left the room, closing the door behind him. Jester seemed pleased that Ace had answered his summons.

Ace wanted to smack the satisfied smirk off his mouth. There was no one in the world he hated more than Jester Arno. Ten years ago, Jester had raped Courtney Shepherd, the mother of Ace’s child. Courtney had been fifteen at the time of the attack. Ace didn’t think she’d ever fully recovered. She’d lived a short, troubled life.

Jester had spent several years in prison for statutory rape. His club brothers had welcomed him back as soon as he got out, brushing aside the crime as a youthful indiscretion. White Lightning and Dirty Eleven had been enemies ever since.

“How are you?” Jester asked.

“Fuck you.”

Jester laughed, glancing at his companions. They were poised to retaliate, and would act on his cue. Ace knew they were armed; he’d assessed both threats as he came through the door.

The man on the left side of the couch had a gun at his lower back. Ace could tell by his body positioning. He looked nervous, which wasn’t a good sign. The guy on the right had a better poker face, and a well-disguised ankle holster.

“I like your girlfriend,” Jester said.

Ace didn’t react to the provocation. If he hadn’t showed up here, Jester might have believed he wasn’t involved with Janelle. But Jester also might have continued to harass her. That was a chance Ace wasn’t willing to take.

“She works at Vixen, right? Maybe I’ll go see her in action.”

“What do you want?”

Jester leaned forward. “I want you to find out who killed my brother.”

Jester’s brother, Dwight “Dimebag” Arno, had been stabbed in the neck a couple of months ago by Gonzo Lowe, the former president of White Lightning. During the struggle, Dimebag had shot and killed Gonzo. Both men were found dead.

“Gonzo killed him,” Ace said.

“I don’t believe the police reports,” Jester said. “Riverside cops are dirty as fuck, and Dime was working for Wild Bill on the side.”

“Maybe that’s why he got stabbed.”

“No. Gonzo knew about it. He set it up.”

Ace was aware of the secret collaboration between the clubs, and he couldn’t care less. Wild Bill did a lot of behind-the-scenes deals. Cops, outlaws, Dirty Eleven, White Lightning... there were no heroes. “So what?”

“Gonzo didn’t carry a knife, and neither did Dime. Slicing and dicing is more of a Dirty Eleven thing.”

Jester had a point. Cole “Shank” Shepherd, Wild Bill’s nephew, had nearly gutted Jester with a broken bottle after the attack on Courtney. Ace wished Shank had finished him off. Instead of dying from his injuries, Jester had thrived—like a fucking cockroach.

“Funny how Shank disappeared around the same time,” Jester said.

“He didn’t disappear. He cut off his ankle monitor and got arrested again.”

“Have you heard from him?”

“No.” Ace figured he was back in prison. Either that or he’d run away with that sexy brunette he’d gotten pussy-whipped on.

“Here’s what I want you to do—”

“I don’t take orders from you, fuckface.”

A hush fell over the room. The nervous guy started reaching for his piece, but Jester held up his palm in a calming gesture. He had slender fingers, covered with ornate, silver skull rings. “I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me introduce you to my friend, Rex. He was cellmates with Brett Peters.”

Ace recognized the name, though they’d never met in person. Peters had been part of Shane Jackson’s crew.

“Brett told Rex that you were in charge of the desert job.”

Ace glanced at Rex, the ankle-holster guy. He was lean, but not without muscle. He had a punk-rock haircut and a steady gaze. It took a lot of balls to stare down a killer-for-hire. Ace stared back at Rex, wondering how good he was with his gun.

Jester let out a low whistle. “What a clusterfuck.”

It had been, from start to finish. Shane and his Aryan Brotherhood buddies had kidnapped a presidential candidate’s daughter. The ransom plan had fallen apart quickly. Bill had ordered Ace to go in and clean up the mess. Now Jester was threatening to tip off the cops about Ace’s involvement.

That was the last thing Ace needed. He hadn’t wanted to get mixed up in that job in the first place. He hated the Aryan Brotherhood, he didn’t like violence against women and he preferred to keep a low profile.

“Tell Wild Bill that I want to start up the meth collaboration again, with you as my go-between,” Jester said. “See if you can find out what happened to Dimebag, and ask him where Shank is.”

“Bill doesn’t confide in me.”

Jester snapped his fingers. “How you get the information isn’t important. Just get it, and report back to me in two days.”

“What makes you think I won’t go straight to Bill with the real story?”

“You could, but I know where your girlfriend lives.”

Ace didn’t want Janelle dragged into his problems. She’d done nothing wrong. He didn’t want the police interrogating her again, either. If she called the cops on Jester, they might ask her all sorts of uncomfortable questions.

“She’s a hot little piece,” Jester said. “Does she like it rough? Courtney sure did.”

A cold fury welled up within him. Ace thought about diving across the table, grabbing Jester by the front of his cut, and pounding him into a fucking pulp. If only he’d been able to smuggle a gun into the meeting. He could see every move clearly in his mind. Rex looked like he had fast reflexes, so Ace would take him out first. Then he’d swing his left arm up to block the nervous guy and shoot Jester in the forehead.

Boom.

It wouldn’t play out so well, unarmed. So Ace schooled his features into a hard mask and rose to his feet, preparing to leave. Then the antsy guy did something stupid. He stood and reached for his weapon. Ace grabbed him by the wrist, wrenched his arm behind his back and shoved him across the desk. In the next second, Ace yanked the gun from his waistband and pressed the barrel into his fleshy nape.

Rex was even faster than Ace had figured. He had his weapon drawn in a blink. It was a nice-looking Smith & Wesson .38. The gun in Ace’s hand was a piece of shit .9mm, but at point-blank range, he couldn’t miss.

Jester stayed behind the desk, watching the scene unfold with snake eyes. “You think you can shoot your way out of here?”

Ace knew he wouldn’t get past the door. That didn’t mean he was going to let Jester treat him like his bitch. “Let’s get something straight. I don’t work for you. I won’t be your go-between or your errand boy. If you hurt anyone connected to me, I’ll come back here and paint the walls with your blood.”