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  He didn’t call her Sheriff, either. That earned points.

  His blunt head was nudging into her, slow. Too fucking slow. She pushed back against him but his hand on her back pushed down harder. “You’ll take it as I give it.”

  Again she had to bite her lip. She’d never liked dirty talking until Fritter.

  When he was all the way inside, filling and stretching her, he remained still. She was trying to move but that hand on her back was firm.

  “I like watchin’ you squirm. Keep doin’ it.”

  She stilled immediately and that made him chuckle.

  “All right then,” he mumbled, both hands going to her hips. “I’m goin’ to make you scream once, you know. It’ll happen eventually.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut again, then he pulled free of her and slammed his erection home swiftly, making her gasp before she could bury it in the mattress. Then he did it again, harder.

  The sheets rolled as her hands clutched at them, desperate for something to hold onto. Eventually his pace hit the point where she was climbing, a hot pressure behind her bellybutton growing uncomfortable. It needed to release but she held on, knowing the longer she waited the better the sensation.

  “Fuck,” he muttered, hands leaving her hips momentarily. Before she could track it he grasped the edges of her underwear, still at her knees, tearing the seams on each side with one motion.

  That made her cry out, but before she could say anything his weight was lowering onto her, and her stomach met the mattress while he still thrust into her. She arched her back, trying to ignore the heat of his skin on hers. Her hair was yanked, arching her head back, and his mouth went to the side of her neck, teeth nipping her slightly.

  That sent her over the edge, tumbling into ecstasy with her teeth digging into her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, probably. She saw stars every time with him, and she hadn’t even known that was possible.

  “Atta girl,” he growled, rising up onto his arms again, pushing against her hard enough that his hips dug into her ass cheeks.

  Her eyes flew open, set on the mirror over the dresser across the room. She loved this room for its mirrored dresser. She could watch him this way, and he was a true thing of beauty when he fucked her.

  The muscles of his arms and chest bunched and strained. His eyes on her body were intense, and when it felt good he let his head loll back, eyes closed, face giving everything away. Like it was right now.

  Seeing that started the build again, and she tried moving but this position gave her no room for it. He had her pinned with her legs trapped under his, one hand on her lower back with the other still in her hair.

  He opened his eyes again, and that’s when he saw her watching in the mirror. He knew she did that, it was no big embarrassment. He grinned at her, bit his lip and planted both hands on the mattress at her sides. Then he fucked her. Really fucked her, like bodies bouncing on impact kind of relentless thrusting. Now she could push back, raising her hips into him, the angle perfect. So perfect.

  She was coming, and as she planted her face in the mattress to keep from crying out he jammed a hand under her chin, pulling her up to see the mirror. She was flushed, looked wild and out of control, and he looked the same.

  “Watch it,” he was growling, so close to her ear. “Watch yourself come. It’s fuckin’ gorgeous.”

  As he was saying it she was doing it, her body clenching and tightening under and around him. Her mouth fell open but still she made no sound, just waited for the tremors to pass.

  With a curse he yanked her back up onto all fours, pounding into her, not letting up for a second. One hand went under her stomach, sliding up to pinch and pull her nipple. She had to bite her lip again and close her eyes, concentrating on where the next orgasm was coming from.

  “Scream for me, Sharon.”

  She shook her head, eyes closed.

  “Look at yourself.”

  Again she shook her head, refusing to give in. His thrusts became more vicious, how she liked them. As another orgasm was building his thumb pressed over her anus and her eyes flew open, meeting his in the mirror. He was grinning.

  “Got your attention now?” He wasn’t probing, just teasing. Tickling. It felt fantastic, and her mouth fell open, impossibly on the doorstep of another orgasm already. It hit hard, and she did cry out but dropped her face into the mattress so it was muffled.

  She was gasping, blinking, trying to orient herself as he pulled free and all but tossed her onto her back. “You’re not tired already, are you?”

  She shook her head, smiling now. “Not even close.”

  Chapter Four

  “Another one already?” Buck spoke for the table this time.

  Sachetti was requesting a last minute delivery, but at least it was a shorter one-day trip. Pick up in Hazeldale, drop off on the far side of Bakersfield, delivery at a warehouse. The Hazeldale pick-up was the real stumbling block.

  “No Gypsys to worry about,” Jayce pointed out.

  That was just because they’d been wiped out by the brand new Red Rebels Nomads. Not a single man with Gypsy ink was drawing breath, save the one that was a possible Fed, and no one felt any guilt over that. But trepidation over venturing onto the turf was still kicking around for good reason. There was always the chance that the town stood behind their MC, but Fritter didn’t see how that was possible. He knew the Gypsys were assholes, and he couldn’t see them doing any of the warm and fuzzy community stuff that the Red Rebels did. These Gypsys had been old-school, hard core, one-percenters. Maybe the town would be grateful to be rid of them, but that meant the Rebels had to behave themselves. They might be given a good stink-eye.

  “It’s just the pick-up, right?” Fritter wanted clarified. “I mean, we’re basically driving in, turning around and leaving. Other than a few sideways glances what’s the worst that could happen?”

  Jayce was nodding. “That’s my point. It’s a one-day venture.”

  “Who are we picking up from?” This from Tank.

  “The guys that brought it over the border.” Jayce shifted in his chair, leaning forward with both elbows on the table. “Guidinger informed me that who they were with wasn’t anything I had to worry about.”

  “I hate that fucking guy,” Knuckles mumbled. He cracked the joints of his left hand all at once. “He’s such a smug son of a bitch.”

  “Who cares?” Jayce cut in. “He reports to Sachetti, we make nice and do a little glad-handing. So what?”

  Tank nodded. “I’m in.”

  “I’m in,” Buck threw in immediately. “Might be the last one until the baby gets here.”

  “I’m in,” Fritter offered, no hesitation. Then he looked to Tiny. “You mind staying close to Jayce this time around?”

  Tiny shrugged but Jayce was cutting in. “Wait a minute, I can ride.”

  “Tank’s going,” Buck pointed out.

  “Only one or the other,” Fritter reminded his president. “This is a last minute deal. Definitely not the time to be getting all complacent.”

  “All right,” he grumbled, clearly pissed off.

  “I’m in,” Knuckles piped up.

  “I’ll go,” Mickey offered.

  Rusty raised a hand. “I’m in, too.”

  “That should be enough,” Jayce decided. “They said the delivery’s small. It’ll fit in a box truck. Mickey, can we borrow the shop’s?”

  “Sure. I’ll drive.”

  “All right. Decided. You leave in an hour.” Jayce rapped his knuckles on the table and called the meeting to a close. With shuffling feet and creaking leather kuttes the Red Rebels stood and filed out of the board room.

  Fritter headed for the coffee pot behind the bar. Richey had started a strong pot before the meeting and he needed a shot of caffeine.

  “Where’d you get to last night?” Knuckles asked, plopping a mug down next to Fritter’s as he poured.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I told you I had those triple
ts coming by.”

  He gave Knuckles a startled look, nearly missing the mug. “Really? Ah, shit. The blondes?” They weren’t really related, but they were similar-looking in a weird, Swedish super model way. Generically stunning, if that was possible.

  Knuckles nodded, playing with the toothpick in his mouth. “Yeah. We waited a while for you but the girls got restless. So Tiny filled in for you.”

  “Yeah. Should be thanking you,” a gruff voice said as a tree-trunk sized arm passed in front of him, reaching for the coffee pot. Fritter grabbed his brain juice and stepped out of Tiny’s way.

  “Shit,” he muttered. “I totally forgot they were coming to town.”

  Knuckles eyes were twinkling. “So where the hell’d you go?”

  “I was at Ma’s,” he said, trying not to sound too defensive.

  “I called at seven-thirty. You weren’t there.”

  Fritter frowned. This wasn’t the first time his illicit meetings nearly got him caught. He always found a way out of it. “Fine,” he conceded. “I got a call for lawn maintenance at Judge Cohen’s. It was a sod emergency.”

  That made the other two cut up. The judge’s wife had a thing for hired help. Fritter had been doing their “lawn work” for years now. It consisted of fertilizer, aeration, cutting, and fucking the wife stupid.

  “Is that right?” Tiny snorted. “How can you do that, man? She’s gotta weigh two hundred pounds.”

  Fritter considered that. “Nah. A hundred eighty, tops.”

  “She’s only five feet tall, though,” Tiny argued. “You’re not worried about leaving incriminating evidence in her rolls?”

  Fritter laughed as Knuckles nearly snorted coffee out his nose at that. “She’s fun, man. You should try a chubby girl sometime. They’re so cuddly and appreciative. She made me cookies.” He was elaborating by using something that was honestly the truth. “They were good, too.”

  “Chubby girls know their baking,” Knuckles agreed, clicking his mug against Fritter’s and heading for the sofas. “As long as everyone got laid. Now, I gotta take a fucking nap.”

  It was a good idea. Knuckles stretched out on the leather sofa and Fritter sank into an upholstered arm chair with broken springs under the seat. It was the comfiest fucking chair in the place, and he loved napping here.

  He set his coffee on the floor to his right and got settled, head back on the worn fabric, and let his body sink into the tired furniture.

  It didn’t bother him he’d nearly given up his dirty little secret about the Sheriff. By quite a few miracles and the fact that his brothers knew how stupid he was he could usually bullshit his way out of anything.

  No, he was more worried that he’d totally forgotten about Knuckles and the blonde trifecta. They were fun; he and Knuckles had shared the three of them on a couple of occasions before. They were built like sex dolls, it was amazing. Anatomically perfect, walking wet dreams. And they made porn star noises. He loved the triplets.

  But he’d forgotten they were in Markham, all because Sheriff Downey had called him to duty. He’d walked away from twenty-five-year old underwear models without a second consideration. He had no idea how that could have happened.

  He shifted his shoulders, his body thoroughly exhausted. He was always worn out after a round with Downey. He had a strange need to give her a good two hours of his time, even though it seemed as though she could have been with any cock for all the difference it made to her. She enjoyed it, he knew damn well she did, but she gave him nothing but a “Thanks,” with a weird, professional cop smile before leaving the motel room. Weird for a chick, for sure, but preferable. He liked what their deal was. He liked it plenty. She was a great fuck when you got right down to it. He’d love to hear her come, make some kind of noise beyond her control, but all he got were gasps that she always buried in pillows, or the mattress, or his skin.

  And she never kissed him. Yeah, it wasn’t necessary for him, but she had to be the only broad—other than a sweetbutt—that didn’t need an hour of foreplay. It was too bad, actually. Fritter really liked kissing, he always had.

  He must have dozed off, because suddenly he came awake with a jolt as someone kicked his foot. “Fuck!” he shouted, heart racing like a little bitch.

  Knuckles was laughing. “Time to go, sweetheart. You ready?”

  “When am I not?” he muttered, downing the now-cold coffee.

  When his belly was full of a second, warmer dose of joe, Fritter followed Knuckles out into the sunshine of the compound just as Mickey was pulling up with the Grainger Garage’s midnight-blue cargo van.

  “Wonder what the shipment is today,” Fritter said around a yawn.

  “At least it’s probably not heavy,” Knuckles quipped, sliding on his shades.

  In one, synchronized formation the Red Rebels took to the street, Mickey’s van behind Fritter and Knuckles, with Tank, Buck, and Rusty trailing behind. Mickey stayed close within town limits, then when the highway was under their tires he eased off a bit. The sun was warm but the wind cut through his clothes, keeping him from growing uncomfortable. He checked to his left and Knuckles was grinning widely, catching Fritter looking and sticking his tongue out like Gene Simmons.

  Another great day for a ride.

  Hazeldale wasn’t a long trip away. Within twenty minutes they were crossing town limits, downshifting as Mickey pulled up closer again on their rear.

  This was so fucking weird. They’d all passed through Hazeldale on a few occasions before—it wasn’t the other side of the moon. But once the Mad Gypsys had crossed the Screaming Banshees and the Red Rebels with one ambush the blood had gone bad. That had only been just over two years ago, or maybe three. Who could remember? It seemed like they’d had a bad taste from the Gypsys forever.

  Hazeldale was a lot like Markham, just smaller. Everything branched off the Main Street drag where people still parked diagonally. As the Rebels rolled by noisily, people out enjoying the nice day stopped to watch them. Literally froze in place and stared.

  Fritter gulped, shooting Knuckles another look. He jerked his head to a particular group of blue hairs outside a grocery store and Knuckles just shrugged.

  The long parade of gawking ended at the far end of Main, and from there they knew it would be a lot more private. The sign for the airstrip came along not three minutes’ ride once they were up to highway speed again.

  Spats Air apparently consisted of two helicopters and a private jet that was available for rent, plus they had an airstrip perfect for private charters to land. That was where their cargo was waiting for them. It wasn’t their place to question the methods of how the Sachettis conducted business; their only concern was what they had to do and how much they were getting paid. The Sachettis gave the Rebels the same leeway; no input on how to do their job, just the expectation that it was getting done.

  A security checkpoint was a bit of a surprise, but as they coasted up to the booth the arm went up without pause, no stopping required. Fritter gave the guard a small salute as they passed, then he and Knuckles gunned it across the open tarmac to the only air transport in sight; a small, sleek private jet. Fritter didn’t know shit about planes, no idea what kind it was. They were just rolling the stairs up to the side.

  Fritter killed his engine along with Knuckles, stopped a respectful distance. The first person to approach them was some hired man-meat that he’d seen before, but he’d never been told the guy’s name. His neck was wider than his head and his hands looked like full-sized turkeys. That was one big fucker that Fritter did not want to test.

  He dropped the kickstand and swung off his Glide, mirroring Knuckles. The van pulled up behind them and Mickey climbed out, stretching his arms over his head.

  The beefcake thrust his hand out with a strained smile, like someone told him to be nice or he’d be in trouble. “Perfect timing,” he said as Knuckles shook then Fritter did the same. Mickey leaned between them to shake a mammoth hand then the guy jerked a thumb over his shoulder. �
��Just unloading now.”

  “Should I pull up closer?” Mickey asked. “Wasn’t sure where you wanted the van.”

  Big Neck shook his head. “Nah. He can walk.”

  It was like a cartoon. Fritter and Knuckles’ heads spun to face each other, equally confused.

  “He?” Mickey asked.

  Just then the plane door opened, and an unholy shriek filled the air as a man was all but carried down the gangway. His hand were tied in front of him, but he literally had his heels dug in and was making it very difficult for the two suited goombas on each side of him.

  “Wait, we’re aiding and abetting a fucking kidnapping?” Mickey snapped as Tank joined their group. Buck and Rusty kept watch behind their little convoy.

  Big Neck looked surprised. “You didn’t know?”

  “Never signed up for human trafficking,” Tank rumbled, halting but stern. “What the fuck is this?”

  Big Neck put up both hands. “Gentleman, this is the cargo. I thought you knew what was going on. We need him delivered to the address provided to your tech officer.”

  The struggling threesome was drawing closer, and Fritter could see the cargo’s face was a swollen and bloody mess. He was still shrieking, too.

  “Shit,” Tank spat out, seeing it at the same time.

  “Can we ask what the hell is going to happen to him?” Knuckles asked, strangely calm.

  “No.”

  Well, that was helpful.

  “Open the van,” Big Neck instructed with a wave of his hand. “We can’t stand out here all day. We’re scheduled to take off again in twenty minutes.”

  Fritter couldn’t help it, he deferred to Tank by casting him a questioning and worried look. The big guy was staring down Big Neck, eye to eye, but then he had to shake his head. “We signed up, guys. Mickey, open the van.”

  “Shit,” Mickey muttered, turning back to the van and leading the man and his escorts to the side doors.

  Fritter realized the guy wasn’t sputtering in English, it was all Spanish gibberish delivered in absolute panic. He tried to reach out for Mickey, and a guy didn’t need to be fluent to know he was begging for his life.