Throttle's Seduction(Insurgents MC Romance Book 7)(4)

"Tomorrow at closing. Did you know a bitch is working on your Harley?  Can you fuckin' imagine that? What the hell was Hawk thinking?"

"You mean Kimber? She does damn good work. Bruce over in Silver Ridge  recommended her. Seems she was workin' there for a couple years."

"You're cool with this?"

"Yeah. I don't give a shit if it's a baboon fixin' my bike, as long as it's done right."

They've all become fuckin' pussies now that they got old ladies. One more reason not to have an anchor around my cock.

"Does it bother you?" Banger asked, an amused smile playing on his lips.

"Yeah, it sure as shit does. You can let her get her nail-polished  fingers all over your bike, but she's not ever gonna touch mine. I'm  gonna make sure Hawk is clear ‘bout that."

Banger shrugged. "Rock was lookin' for you a few minutes ago."

"Thanks." He pushed himself out of the chair and sauntered out. He was  still pissed as hell when he bumped into Rock coming down the stairs.

"Good, you're back. Fuck, why didn't you tell me how hot those two  bitches are? We've been having a good time, but the redhead is anxious  to have your cock up her ass." He chuckled. "And it's a very sweet one."

"I don't know. I'm not really into it right now."

Rock stared at Throttle. "What's wrong?"

"I'm just pissed as hell. Did you know Hawk hired a chick as a mechanic?"

He shook his head. "When did he do that?"                       
       
           



       

"Fuck if I know. And she's got a real mouth on her."

"Is she hot in her little greaser outfit?"

Throttle glared. "She's a bitch. I mean, she looked okay, but she  doesn't have any tits, at least not the big ones I like. What the hell  am I sayin'? Even if she had humungous tits, I'd never be interested.  She's a smartass, and she's got pink shit in her hair. No way is she  ever touching my bike."

Rock laughed. "I gotta check out this chick who's got you all riled up."

Throttle crossed his arms across his muscular chest. "She hasn't got me riled up. I don't give a fuck."

"Really? You coulda fooled me. Let's go and have some fun with the horny bitches in my room."

What the hell was wrong with him? When he left, he'd been anxious to get  back to the two women's pussies, but now he was too pissed to even get  it up. It was all her fault. What was her name? Something like timber.  Oh yeah. Kimber. Well, fuck her!

When he and Rock came up to the third floor, Throttle went to his room,  shrugging off a surprised Rock. Since Throttle had been elected Road  Captain for the club, he had been moved from his room in the basement to  one of the officers' rooms on the third floor. He liked being closer to  the club whores who had rooms in the attic; it made it easier when he  was horny as hell. Since he'd patched in with the Insurgents fifteen  years ago, he'd always lived at the club. He never saw any reason for  moving away and getting a place of his own.

He slammed his door and peeled off his T-shirt, anxious to take a cool  shower to wash off the sweat of the day. After an hour, he sat naked on  his bed, a glass of Jack Daniels in one hand and a joint in the other,  staring at the TV screen, watching the images of the world's disasters  play out on the international news. The sound had been muted-he rarely  listened to what the establishment said-and the image of Kimber leaning  over the counter with her uniform tight across her ass floated front and  center in his mind. Why the hell he was thinking of her pissed him off  immensely. He'd have to put her in her place. Tomorrow, I'll go to  Hawk's shop and set her straight. Show her not to mess with me. A faint  tingle of anticipation pricked at him, but he crushed it with another  large glass of whiskey. He didn't have time for that. She wasn't even  his type. Hell, it looked like she had mosquito bites for tits. Besides,  she was a chick who was a mechanic. In his world, that concept didn't  make any sense.

Fuck her-cute ass, pink hair, smart mouth, and all.





Chapter Three





Kimber Descourt laughed aloud when she heard Throttle's Harley peel out  of the parking lot. What a chauvinistic asshole. I bet I fix a Harley  way better than he does. I probably ride better too. She smiled and went  back to fixing Banger's motorcycle. Since she'd decided to earn a  living as a mechanic, she'd run into all types of guys, but the worst,  by far, were the bikers, especially the old-school jerks like Throttle.  She loved yanking on their chains, confident in her abilities as a  class-A Harley tech. She had her dad to thank for that.

Kimber paused and took a deep gulp of air; oil, gas, and grease filled  her lungs. Her dad had often told her that the smell of exhaust fumes  and earth were the best scents in life because they symbolized freedom. A  small ache pulled at her heart; she missed her dad. Even though he'd  died seven years before, the pain was still raw, and she missed talking  to him, riding with him, and working with him, side-by-side at his  repair shop in Johnston, Iowa.

At twenty-three years old, she'd felt lost, even though she and Chewy  had still been together. They had gone back about five years. They'd met  at a motorcycle rally, and he'd tried really hard to impress and catch  her. When she finally let him in, they were inseparable until she was  hooked and hopelessly in love with the tall, tattooed biker. After that,  club parties until four in the morning had been the norm for him, and  when she'd threatened to move on, he'd calm down only to start it all up  again when things had smoothed over.

She'd suspected that he'd been fucking the club whores at the parties,  but she couldn't pin anything on him, and none of his brothers would  ever have breathed a word. When she'd found the neon thong in his back  jeans' pocket, she'd been livid and had been ready to shove it in his  face when she'd received the call that'd changed her life: her father  had been in a life-threatening motorcycle accident. Chewy's late-night  partying with his brothers, his drug use, the scent of cheap perfume,  and the neon thong paled in comparison to what she'd been told over the  receiver.                       
       
           



       

After a month on life support, she'd made the toughest decision of her  life-letting her father fly free to join her mother, who'd died when  Kimber had been three years old. She'd had to admit that Chewy had  stepped up to the plate and had been there for her, holding her close  while she'd wept inconsolably, supporting her decision to set her dad  free and holding her up at his funeral.

Chewy had told her he wanted them to get serious, so they'd rented a  small house together, and he'd given her his patch. She'd been thrilled  to wear it, and she'd even begun dreaming of having kids. She'd stopped  her studies at the local college and threw herself into running her  dad's repair shop, even though she'd have to lock the door to his office  several times during the work day to hide her tears of sorrow. It'd  seemed so incongruous.

A couple years later, Chewy had begun using again, staying out all night  with his brothers, and reeking of cheap perfume. The fights between  them had escalated until one cold winter night he'd slammed her head  against the wall, causing bits of plaster to fall on the floor. Two  black eyes, a couple broken ribs, and a bump the size of the state of  Iowa later, she'd lain on the hospital bed realizing that she'd had  enough. In all the times they'd fought, he'd never once laid a finger on  her. Everything had changed. His bouquets of flowers, his apologies,  his pleas for forgiveness, and his statements of undying love meant  nothing; they'd all been crushed with that first punch.

By the time Chewy had staggered home from one of his club parties, she'd  been on her way to Silver Ridge, Colorado, to work at her dad's old  Army buddy's bike shop. She'd sold her dad's business to Buster, the  manager, and left everything behind except for her photo albums, cards  her dad had given to her over the years, and her clothes. She'd left her  patched vest on the bed with a note that had simply said, "Don't come  looking for me, asshole. We're through."

"Kimber, you got a phone call," Patrick's voice echoed in the bay.

She looked up from the floor and realized she'd been daydreaming. She headed out to the shop and picked up the phone.

"Hi, Kimber. This is Riley. We met the other night at the Neon Cowboy?"

She racked her brain for a few seconds, trying to recall someone named  Riley. She'd had too many shots and had danced with so many cowboys.  Since her disaster with Chewy, she'd decided bikers were out and she'd  give cowboys a chance. And there were plenty of good-looking ones who  treated her just fine. "Riley? I'm sorry but I was kinda wasted the  other night." Wasted? That's an understatement. I was fuckin' trashed.  Thank God Sarah was the designated driver.