Teasing Her Seal. Anne Marsh
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were real fucking Musketeers, and that was the truth. They’d have his back, even on the dance floor, where way too many bodies did the bump and grind. Some of the dancers were pretty, others were not. He knew which category he fell into, although his face didn’t stop hands and thighs from touching him in a way that was pure invitation. He was big. He had money. And in the world of the motorcycle gang, that put him at the top of the food chain until someone else knocked him down.
“Ladies.” He inclined his head as he joined the dancing duo, and Ashley pulled him into her circle of two. Spokes’s girlfriend gave him a quick once-over, looking nervous, and darted a glance over her shoulder. Spokes must not have protested, because she stayed put. They danced silently for a moment, the music pulsing around them and vibrating through the soles of his boots, and he almost got why Ashley liked this.
The bruises on the blonde’s arms, however, were even more disturbing close-up. His own relationships might not last longer than a night, and he might need his sex raw and gritty, but hurting his partner was off-limits. No exceptions. Whether or not the US Government had enough to put the scumbag away for a few decades, the lady needed a breather. Unfortunately, while her tired eyes flitted between him and the man waiting for her at the bar, she showed no signs of heading for the door.
He put his mouth right up by her ear, making sure she had no excuse to not hear him over the pounding beat of the bar music. “Emily, you need to pick up and get the hell away from Spokes.”
Maybe she tweaked or maybe Spokes’s cash spoke louder than the man’s charming personality. Either way, breaking Spokes’s nose wouldn’t get her to the door if she didn’t want to leave. A woman had to want to walk, and she also had to be ready. He’d learned that firsthand when he’d been six. The trailer park where he’d grown up hadn’t been big on personal space or privacy. When a man and a woman fought, the neighbors heard every word, every grunt, every slap of flesh on flesh. He slipped Emily a wad of cash. Money wasn’t enough, but it was a start. She’d have to do the rest of the work herself. After a moment, she nodded and laid in a new course for the side door. With the cash, she’d have a chance, but only if she kept on walking and didn’t return home where Spokes could find her.
Still, it was hard to turn away, towing Ashley with him as if he’d busted up the dance circle simply to collect her. It helped some that all hell broke loose behind them as two of the bar’s patrons got into a fistfight that rapidly escalated to criminal property damage and felony assault and battery. He’d given up pretending that he minded the violence. Because truth was, violence came with the territory, and his team had ended more than one mission that way.
The Harleys he and his boys had parked outside were, hands down, the best perk of this particular mission, especially since it looked as if they wouldn’t be taking Spokes down any other way tonight. Ashley had complained loud and long that she hadn’t scored a bike of her own, but an independent ride didn’t fit the biker girlfriend image.
Mason turned the ignition switch on and shifted his bike into neutral. “Where we headed?”
Gray rechecked his phone. “I’ve got one word for you. Belize.”
“What’s in Belize?” Levi kicked the starter hard, his bike firing to life.
It was a good question. Up until five minutes ago, Gray would have answered jungle, scrubland, historic ruins and some damned good fly-fishing. He might even have fantasized once or twice about buying a piece of land on one of those little sandy cays and putting up a house. Sitting out in all that blue, casting a line. He sighed. Whatever undercover op Uncle Sam needed them for now, it sure wouldn’t involve a cold one and a fishing lure.
“Our next op. We’re going undercover as resort staff at some place called Fantasy Island.” He gunned the bike toward the highway. Another night, another mission, even if this one came with blue water and palm trees. Yeah. The odds of him passing as the employee of a five-star resort seemed low, but he went where he was sent, and he’d do what it took to get the job done. He’d never blown his cover yet.
Hooyah.
* * *
THE SEAPLANE LURCHED, and Laney Parker dug her nails out of her armrest. When she risked a glance out the window, she spotted nothing but Caribbean blue beneath them, the ocean’s flat surface dotted with shadows from the clouds. The view was pretty, but missing any kind of landing zone whatsoever. She’d triaged a small plane crash her first year in the UCSF emergency room, and the injuries had been particularly horrific.
The plane bounced again, and she immediately reattached herself to the armrest. Although the odds of dying in a plane crash were low, it hadn’t been her week for playing the odds. Her stomach rose halfway up her throat. She’d pass on the meet-and-greet with the ocean’s surface. Leaning forward, she riffled through the seat pocket contents. The charter airline had stocked up on glossy magazines, but skimped on the barf bags. For the ridiculous price tag this week in the tropics had cost, she’d use the magazines if she had to. What was supposed to be a week of glamorous sex with her new husband by her side was most definitely not turning out as planned. Still, when the plane leveled out, she exhaled slowly. Maybe surviving the landing was in the cards, after all.
The sound of a cork popping and champagne fizzing had her head turning in time to catch the flash of a long-necked bottle out of the corner of her eye. Frankly, she wasn’t sure how anyone could think of drinking so early in the morning—although it was definitely five o’clock somewhere. The woman who dropped into the seat opposite her, however, didn’t look as if she cared about what the rest of the world thought. Ever. It was a good look, and one Laney needed to emulate. Screw it. That was her new motto, and she’d buy the T-shirt just as soon as she could.
Maybe Fantasy Island had a gift shop.
The woman had ink-black hair and an ear full of piercings that must have given the TSA fits. She’d paired the metal-head look with jeans, a ripped concert T-shirt from a band Laney had never heard of and a pair of military-issue combat boots. An audible, fist-pumping beat issued from her earbuds. Laney, on the other hand, sported her usual yoga wear from Target in practical black. Dark colors didn’t show the blood, and since as a trauma surgeon, she tended to get called in whenever she wasn’t actually already at the hospital, there was no point in not being comfortable or racking up a dry cleaning bill. In fact, now that she thought about it, her yoga pants were just about the only thing she owned that weren’t hospital-blue or wedding-white.
Right. So not going there.
Champagne dripped onto the carpet as her new seatmate brandished a trio of flutes. Amusement sparkled in her eyes as she popped the earbuds out.
“Want some?”
Ten o’clock in the morning, Laney’s brain volunteered. Wouldn’t be prudent. Sure, partaking would be fun, but the careful habits of a lifetime were awfully hard to break.
Her hostess jiggled the bottle. “It’s free.”
Nothing was free. As Laney’s credit card company had called to remind her yesterday.
“You look as if you could use a drink.” Goth Princess leaned forward, revealing that she’d skipped a bra that morning. When she reached over to offer a flute to the third woman in the cabin, she followed the boob shoot with a flash of neon-green thong, which was way more than Laney needed to know about the woman’s preferences in the underwear department.
“I’m good,” she said.
Which was part of the problem, wasn’t it?
When Laney didn’t take the flute, the other woman curled up in her seat and grinned. “Two for me. Yay.”
“If we’re experiencing turbulence, you should probably buckle up.” PSA...achieved.
Goth Princess shrugged and knocked back half the flute. “What’s the worst that can happen?”
Laney knew exactly what could happen. “Fractures, head trauma, a snapped spine—all are likely outcomes of a hard-impact crash landing.