"I'm with you." Then why don't I forget about Kimber and move on? She's more than difficult. "I don't think you'll have any problems with her. Rags is too skinny. She likes broad, muscular bikers. You'll do fine."
"Yeah?" Rock shoved a forkful of potato salad in his mouth as he and Throttle walked back to the bar. "Text me her number. I want some new pussy."
Throttle chuckled and began shoveling in his food. For the next hour, members came up to him and Rock, joking and talking with them. Soon a pretty, stacked blonde approached Rock. She curled her fingers around his bulging bicep. "Wow, my two hands can barely wrap around your strong muscles," she cooed.
Throttle smirked as he watched Rock's eyes light up when he caught sight of her generous cleavage. Like him, Rock was a tit man-the bigger, the better-so it still surprised the hell out of him that he was crazy for Kimber. With her it was more than her tit size; it was the whole damn thing.
"My friend and I were talking about something real important," Rock said, winking at Throttle.
The blonde turned and looked at Throttle for the first time, a smile spreading over her lips. "Wow, you're good-looking. Maybe you want to have some fun with me too?" Her hopeful eyes fixed on his crotch.
"Sounds like fun, doesn't it?" Rock said as he scooped the woman up and planted her on his lap.
"Could be, but I'm not feelin' it. Sorry, sweetheart." He swiveled around on his stool and scanned the crowd. There were a lot of hot-looking women, and he knew he could fuck any one of them. Somehow knowing that made it less appealing. He wanted a challenge, and Kimber was that and more. The only woman he wanted to be inside was the one who said no. How fucked up was that?
He wrapped his fingers around the amber beer bottle and took a drink. From the corner of the room, he sensed someone watching him. He glanced over and his eyes locked with a woman who had dark eyes and hair. For a split second, he thought it was Mariah, but she only looked like her when she'd been young. When she and Throttle had been together.
As he stared, the image of Mariah, her long, dark hair flowing around her, clouded his vision, and he was twenty-two again and in love with her. He'd met her at one of the parties the club had when he'd been prospecting, almost ready to be patched in. She had large hazel eyes, and a smattering of freckles on her nose. She'd hated her freckles but he'd loved them, kissing them whenever they'd been together.
From the moment they'd met, he'd let her into his heart. She'd seemed to have been what he was missing since his mom had died a few years earlier from a brain aneurysm. She'd just stopped talking, her face had contorted, and she'd dropped dead, right in front of him and his sister. It'd been the biggest shock he'd ever had, and he'd been lost. He and his mom had been real close; she'd always been there for him, so when she'd left him, his universe was off-kilter. It'd stayed that way until he'd met Mariah.
They'd fallen in love too fast and too completely, and a year later, he'd asked her to be his old lady. He'd received his full colors a few months before, so he'd been ready to make her his forever. It'd been a snowy day; they sat by the fire, kissing and touching each other until he thought he'd burst. Then he'd asked her, and she'd cried while nodding enthusiastically.
That had been a great time for Throttle, and six months later, he'd sneaked away early from the bike rally in Kansas to go home. He'd missed her too much, and wanted to surprise her. When he arrived at their house, he spotted Pony's-another brother-motorcycle in the driveway. He rushed in to the sounds his old lady and a fellow brother made while they fucked, filling the small house. Throttle's homecoming had morphed into a goddamned cliché. Seeing red, he'd charged into the room and saw the love of his life bent over, her ass in the air, taking Pony's cock. He'd nearly killed Pony that night. Mariah, in a panic, had phoned the club. If Banger and Hawk hadn't pulled him off, Throttle would've had his ass in prison for a long stint. After the brothers had taken Pony's beaten body away, Throttle told Mariah he never wanted to see her again. A block of ice had encased his heart that night, and he walked away from her without even a backward look.
At church the next day, the consensus had been that Pony didn't deserve to wear the Insurgents' colors. Fucking someone's old lady was grounds for banishment, and that had been what the club had done; they stripped Pony of his colors and threw his ass out. He'd walked out, his head held down in shame. He and Mariah had married and left Pinewood Springs since he was no longer safe.
Throttle had moved to the clubhouse, where he still lived. He'd sworn he'd never let another woman near his heart. He decided love was overrated, and he'd lost himself in easy pussy and a hedonistic lifestyle for years. And it suited him perfectly until she crashed into his life. It'd taken him by surprise because she was unlike any woman he'd ever dated, fucked, or known. How was it that Kimber was the only woman he could think of?
"I figured we should stop eye-fucking each other and just get to it." The woman from across the room leaned in close, her breath hot against his neck.
"I didn't mean to stare. You reminded me of someone from my past." He turned away.
"A good memory?" She scratched the back of his neck.
He craned his neck and fixed a hard look on her. "No. Believe me, sweetheart, you don't want to go there. Find yourself another brother." He stared ahead, seeing her surprised look reflected in the mirror behind the bar. There must have been something in his gaze that told her not to fuck with him, because she moved away and got lost in the crowd.
He finished his beer, slapped Rock on the back, who had his tongue halfway down the blonde's throat, and left the great room. Taking the stairs two at a time, he reached his room, shut the door on all the noise, pulled out a bottle of Jack from his dresser, and lit a joint. That night, he planned to chase away the past and the present with booze.
Oblivion was his goal.
He poured a shot, letting the smooth fire slide down his throat.
The night was just beginning.
Chapter Thirteen
Deputy Sharon Manzik pulled into the station after her night shift. She and her partner, Bryan Wessels, had had a busy night of drunken brawls, domestic disturbances, DUIs, and a call from a freaked-out woman who told them someone had stolen her underwear from her dresser drawers. The dark-haired victim swore that the culprit stood outside her window watching as she'd made her discovery. When Deputy Wessels asked her to describe the man, the woman admitted that she hadn't actually seen him, but she'd felt him staring at her, enjoying the fear that shrouded her upon discovering someone had invaded her safe space. The cop glanced at his partner, rolling his eyes before putting away his notepad.
Deputy Manzik knew Bryan was skeptical and probably thought the woman's fear made her imagine a stranger in the shadows, but she believed the victim. As a police officer, she often went by what her instincts told her, even though her partner and the other male deputies would tease her about it. She also could relate to what the victim was saying. When she was relaying the series of events, a deep shiver had run through the deputy's body. A few weeks before, Sharon had felt the same way as the victim, even though nothing had been missing or even overturned; she'd just known someone had been inside, in her bedroom. As hard as she tried, she hadn't been able to shake the feeling.
"I think we're done here," Bryan said.
Sharon went over and handed the victim a card with the name of the victim advocate. "If you feel that you need some help, please call Julie. She's very nice, and she's helped a lot of people get through the distress of being a victim. If you need anything, call me. Detective McCue is handling these cases, but you can call me anytime." She smiled warmly at the shivering thirty-five-year-old woman. Trauma was written all over her face: white pallor, quivering lips, and vacant stare.
Sharon walked out into the bright sunlight. "McCue will want to see our report. I'm convinced this woman's case is connected to the whack job who's stealing underwear around this vicinity. What a fuckin' pervert."
After they both climbed in, Bryan pulled the police car away from the curb.
Detective McCue had been assigned to the Peeping Tom burglary cases. The Pinewood Springs Tribune had coined the pervert the "Lingerie Bandit," a name that caught the public's attention. She hated the way the media came up with titles for criminals. In her opinion, the names minimized the seriousness of the crime, and they probably boosted the ego of the criminal.