Protect (Red Rebels MC Book Three)

By C.D. Breadner

Protect and serve: duties that Sheriff Sharon Downey was always proud to fulfill, even if some of those lines between the two seemed to blur from time to time. She grew up in Markham, knew what life was like with an MC in residence, and admittedly, she let their business continue as long as they cleaned up after themselves and kept it all quiet. Her only dissatisfaction was loneliness. Being the sheriff did not make for an active and rewarding social life.
Mark “Fritter” Horton never looked too hard for a meaningful connection beyond the brothers of the Red Rebels. Happy to have his feminine influences provided solely by his mother, paired with a Southern charm that was warm and genuine, he could bounce from bed to bed and body to body without tangled attachments or hurt feelings. And the further into the criminal underbelly the Red Rebels get, the more important it is that any private encounters with Markham’s sheriff remain secret and impersonal.
But time is running out. The longer they are undiscovered, the more chances they take, the more they risk being found out. And the more time they spend together, the closer they come to something permanent as ink.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.D. Breadner
• Release date: Jul 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311506894

C.D. Breadner

C.D. Breadner is a self-published author. Her first novel (Sin Eater, 2013) was the beginning of The Sin Eater series and she looks to branch into other genres since there are many kinds of creative juices following through her. Recently she was christened a contributing author to The Freak Circle(www.freakcirclepress.com); a collective of amazing and supportive writers. She also has a second series on the go, following the lives of the Red Rebels MC. She lives in a cosy home in the woods with her wonderful husband and two German Shepherds.

Book preview

Thank you to the writers of the Freak Circle Press for their amazing support. I’m not sure I’m deserving of such amazing friendship, but I’ll take it.

Thank you to Susan Fanetti for her honest feedback in all things, and to Kirsten for helping me find a few more remnants of my genius (that is, spelling mistakes and type-os).

And thank you to my friends and family for their support and enthusiasm. I am not surprised by it but I truly appreciate it.

And thank you to my husband just for being you.

Prologue

-NEARLY TWO YEARS AGO-

Mark Fritter Horton covered a yawn with one hand, the one belonging to his injured arm, while the other stayed on the wheel of his mom’s old pick-up. Still another month or so until he’d be cleared to ride and this touring around in a cage sucked. He refused to wear the sling, opting instead to leave it on the passenger seat. He’d have to put it back on before going into his mother’s house, though. She’d kick his ass.

The highway leading out to his Ma’s was dead, not another headlight to be seen. He hit the gas, anxious to get to his own bed. The party at the clubhouse had been a lame duck so he left after a blowjob. If he got his ass to bed his mom would make him breakfast the next morning. That was worth the late-night drive at one o’clock.

When the lights flared up behind him he checked the speedometer, wincing. Shit. Twenty miles over the limit. Fuck.

He pulled over immediately, knowing full well the unregistered Glock in the glove box would be enough to get him taken into custody. No need to give the cops a reason to search. He’d only had one beer and knew it wasn’t on his breath. He’d be fine, take the ticket with a smile, and go.

With a heavy sigh he put the shifter in park and reached for his wallet, flipping it open to his license. The window groaned and squeaked as he rolled it down, then he covered another yawn. Man, he wanted his bed.

License and registration, the voice said, and Fritter put on his most charming grin.

Sheriff Downey, he drawled, letting the Oklahoma accent roll in heavier than usual. Is it normal for the sheriff to be workin’ late shifts?

She took the wallet from his outstretched fingers without expression. He kept the smile in place. She’d been cold to him since he got shot, and he had to admit there was some embarrassment on his part. When he’d been coming out of surgery he’d pulled up his hospital gown, terribly proud of the erection he’d had.

Fritter had no idea why the hell he’d done it.

Step out of the truck please, she snapped, moving away from the door and circling to the front quarter panel of his truck.

With a frown he opened the door, and then resolved to keep his smile and easy demeanor in place. Problem, Sheriff?

I need you up here, place both hands on the hood.

Fritter paused, scratching his head. I know I was speeding. Is something else goin’ on?

Mr. Horton, please place both hands on the hood of your truck.

His brain was cycling through what this could be about. His license was current. Was the truck’s registration expired? Nah. He always renewed it for his mom on her birthday.

With another sigh he moved to stand over the wheel well, and put his hands on the warm hood. She kicked his feet further apart and he hid a chuckle at that, something off color just on the tip of his tongue but he kept it in check. The club wanted to treat her with more respect. He was one of the worst offenders in light of the flashing incident. He’d need to play nice here.

Sheriff Downey’s hands slapped down his sides in that standard cop way, under his arms, over his hips and down both legs. It was involuntary; he got hard. She was an attractive woman, and he liked the uniform. As the frisk continued he had to roll his eyes. He had no idea what this was about, but if someone called something in there was no way it was about him. He knew damn well he hadn’t done anything to—

Whoa, he mumbled, looking down. Downey’s hands were on his crotch.

They were both frozen in place, his dick torn between wanting to enjoy itself and being terrified this was some kind of trap.

Fritter even held his breath, wondering if she was embarrassed, too. First that her hand had gone where it had, secondly because he was apparently unable to control his cock.

With an exhale she pulled her hand away and he stayed put, blinking furiously to get himself under control. He tried to call off that hard urge but it was up and ready to play, suddenly not as tired as the rest of him.

She moved away, he could hear her boots on the asphalt, and when her hand slammed down on the hood in front of him between his own paws he jumped about a mile. His wallet was left behind as she pulled back, as was a large plastic oval, about the size of his wallet, with a key attached.

It made no sense and he was frowning at it as she spoke, close enough to his right arm that her chest was pressed against it. His dick took note of that, too.

Markham Manor. Room 214, one hour. If you’re interested.

The scrape of boots on concrete faded away and still he was staring down at the hood between his flattened palms, frowning and blinking. Trying to compute.

The cruiser pulled out from the shoulder and drove past him. That’s when he straightened, staring at the tail lights heading off down the highway. Hands on hips he turned to study the items on the truck.

The answer was, of course, absolutely fucking not. It was disaster. Awkward.

But shit. Sherriff Downey? Fucking hell, who didn’t want a good look at what was under that polyester uniform? He knew she was hot. She had to be. Her face was pretty but the body, from what you could see, was trim and fit. His cock throbbed again, casting its vote.

He adjusted his junk and scooped up the wallet and key. It was maybe the stupid choice, but not a lot of people accused him of being smart.

Chapter One

I’m telling you, that cat is always over here. Look at these petunias! You know how much work a flower bed is? The ever-put-upon Mrs. Tyler prattled on about bedding plants as she scuttled her way around the side of her house to the flower bed in question.

Biting her tongue Sharon Downey followed, tucking her notepad back into her pocket and holding back on a sigh. This is the real hard-hitting crime they trained you for, she reminded himself, fake smile still plastered in place. This is you doing the good work.

Just put a bullet in my fucking head.

See? Look at this cat shit. That’s not from my cats. They know to stay in the back yard. It’s Ethel’s damn cat. I think she trained it to shit in my garden.

Mrs. Tyler, she broke in as kindly as she could. I can only write up a fine for this. If you’re entirely sure that Mrs. Graham’s cat is the one defecating in your flower beds I can talk to her. I’m sure there’s a way to work this out without fines, though.

Mrs. Tyler squinted with one eye up at her. Sharon pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Jesus, it was hot.

I want her arrested.

She bit down on a laugh. Mrs. Tyler, this is barely a bylaw infraction. You have no proof that it’s Mrs. Graham’s cat. I’d suggest mothballs or cayenne pepper. Cats hate both of them.

Mrs. Tyler sniffed, then her eye squinted a little tighter. Why don’t you try wearing a little make-up? Do something nicer with your hair? You’ll never get married looking so much like a man.

It took all of her fingernails digging into the palms of her hands not to smack the old bitch. Unfortunately, she was used to this and there was only one way to deal with it.

You have a nice day, Mrs. Tyler, she said amiably, slipping her shades back on and walking to the front walkway again.

My taxes pay your salary, young lady!

Sharon gave a wave as though she was merely saying goodbye and climbed into her cruiser. As she was shutting the door the radio crackled to life. Dispatch to Sheriff.

She grabbed the handset. Go ahead, Dispatch.

Your presence has been requested at the station. Two detectives from Kern County just dropped in. They won’t say what’s going on, but I think you should get here.

All right. I’m on my way.

She pulled her belt across her lap as she racked the mic, then pulled out onto the shady, quiet street.

Markham was home for most of her life. There was the half-year she spent at the police academy, then the three years she tried living in Pasadena with Steven, her ex. Other than those not-quite-four-years, she’d lived here. Her father had become an accountant when the steel mill shut down, her mother stayed home to tend the house and their two kids. Sharon’s little brother was in the Army, had been for nearly a decade now. Normal life, all of it so wonderfully normal.

Other than the fact they were in Markham, of course. A town with a motorcycle club in residence. Her father had sold his bike when she was born; apparently her parents had needed the money. But he hung around the clubhouse belonging to the Red Rebels and was considered a friend. Now she knew he’d be labeled a hang around. He just liked the bikes, liked talking bikes with the guys.

Her mother forbade bikes, even once they were financially stable. As soon as he could Scott, her brother, bought a used Harley Softail with money he’d been saving for years. Jesus, her mother and brother had fought over that. The family had paired up in that odd way; the mother having a soft spot for her son, the daughter that could get anything she wanted from her father. But that bike had been a crack between mother and son that still seemed to gape a bit wide when Scott was home for an extended period of time. Relief over his safe return gave way to past, imagined wrongs. And holy hell, did her mother hold a grudge.

Neither Scott nor Sharon were strangers to the clubhouse. They never went inside, but the yard was where the town was welcome during Fourth of July barbecues and other holidays. Sharon’s mother always stayed home.

As she grew older and the club began to change, largely in part to the president at the time growing a bit soft in his old age, the town began to feel safer with the club. Their hard edges were better hidden.

By the time Sharon was in high school Jayce McClune was vice president, poised to take over for his old man. The club was almost entirely new, so the change looked like it would work well. His father’s club was almost a dead entity. The new members embraced the friendlier persona.

Sharon had never had a bad boy fetish. Any kind of fetish, really. She just liked what she liked. But even she took notice when Jayce McClune, rough and handsome even at twenty-three, would roll down the Markham main drag on his bike, cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

Hell, every girl in Markham noticed that.

In an ill-advised fit of rebellion shortly after her nineteenth birthday she attended an infamous Friday night clubhouse party. She drank too much, likely could have put herself in a very dangerous position by doing so. But Jayce found her, just as drunk. He’d taken her virginity that night, and he didn’t even realize it. Or remember it. She hoped to hell the club didn’t know that, but she certainly remembered it. Hazy, sure. But she’d never been one to put a mystic opinion on sex. She’d been curious what it was like, and he showed her. Jesus, had he ever. She was one of the lucky few that had actually enjoyed her first time. Although, being drunk had left her a bit less inhibited than most women.

Now Sharon knew McClune better. Knew he was a good man, despite what the club had to do, and knew that the town owed the club a bigger debt than most residents fully realized. She played her part in that, left the club to handle their only garbage knowing full well it kept her department looking somewhat competent. The really dangerous drugs were hard to find, and when they were found the problem was run out of town limits. Because of that the randomly violent gangs stayed away. The only shoot-out she knew about had happened right at the clubhouse a while ago. The club had called her in, asking for a head start, in case they couldn’t contain it and it got out of hand.

Just to keep Markham safe.

Her own fear at finding a member, one member in particular, hurt when she’d arrived that night, was her own issue, nothing to do with the town, and more to do with her own dwindling intelligence. Apparently.

The Markham PD was a squat, square, utilitarian building with a long, barely sloping concrete staircase leading up off the parking lot. The metal railing was painted the same yellow-beige as the building. There was a black sedan parked parallel to the staircase, definitely not in a parking spot. She barely got her cruiser into the sheriff’s spot at the sedan’s rear, then headed into her domain.

One man in a well-cut suit turned as she came through the doors, offering his hand and a too-white smile. His hair cut was as precise as a military watch and his ruddy face clean shaved. Sheriff? I’m Agent Terence Hogan. DEA.

Detective from Kern County, indeed.

The other man stood from the vinyl seat where he’d been slumped. He was in dark jeans and a white button-down, slightly rumpled. Dark sunglasses were hitched into the neck of the shirt, his hair under a Red Sox ball cap. He offered his hand too, then when he said, Downey, in an amiable tone she placed him.

Jesus. It was Agent Townsend. Also known in certain circles of Markham as Bark.

She froze, staring, wondering if he was fucking insane coming back here. Certain criminal elements thought he was dead, which was great for his chances of staying above ground, all things considered.

May we talk in private? Agent Hogan asked, realizing Downey knew his colleague.

She shook her head and nodded. Sorry. Of course. Follow me gentlemen.

They did, falling into line as she made for her office, and she moved behind her desk as Agent Townsend shut the door and Hogan sat down across from her. As standard practice he tossed his card on her desk.

So you know who we are, and I’m sure you’re wondering why we’re here.

Yes, terribly curious.

As you know, recently the Mad Gypsys chapter in Hazeldale was ... well, wiped out. Agent Hogan was speaking. Townsend preferred to hover near the door, and she supposed that was understandable. Their president, Jacob Todd, also known as Thor, was just found dead barely inside Hazeldale town limits. He was beaten and mutilated.

Good, she thought, but kept her face indifferent.

The Gypsys worked with the Galiendo cartel, transporting pharmaceutical-grade Thebaine out of Mexico up into British Columbia. It’s being made into incredibly potent Oxy. I know you’ve seen it popping up in Markham.

Now she nodded. The orange stuff. Sunshine?

G-Town is your nearest distributor in Bakersfield. With the Gypsys out of the picture there’s a hole, a vacuum in Hazeldale. The Galiendos were recently overrun by the Castillos, who only moved in for that Thebaine pipeline. I’m letting you know all of this because your club here in Markham could be a viable candidate for the pipeline.

She cleared her throat. I appreciate the warning. The Red Rebels have never engaged with any narcotic trade other than marijuana.

Which is still illegal in California, Hogan pointed out with that toothy grin.

Your Red Rebels are running weapons for the Sachetti crime family, Townsend spoke up. That gave her pause. She hadn’t known that. Sachetti has dealings with the Castillos. He keeps them at arms’ length because they’re so unpredictable. But it’s a business relationship, and if he sees the Rebels as his lackeys he wouldn’t hesitate to offer their help.

She digested that. It was good to know, but it didn’t explain what they were doing here. A memo could have told her that Thor was dead.

There’s something else, Hogan spoke up, his eyes dropping to his hands, then he looked back over his shoulder at his partner.

Another body was found outside Bakersfield. Advanced decay, but it’s Louis Dénis. Gertie’s father.

Sharon inhaled and sat back. So that was why Bark was here.

We know usually this would be handed off to your department to deliver, but we also know that David Buckingham is out of town at the moment. Hogan’s eyes went from Townsend and back her way. My colleague wanted to tell her in person, and we’d like you to be there.

Sharon nodded, keeping Gertie’s father in mind as she stood. He’d gotten into some bad debts with the Sachettis, gone into hiding, and when G-Town found out how much her old man was worth they kidnapped her to get the Sachetti ransom and handed her over to the Gypsys for safe keeping. Not the best tactic since she’d already been tied to a rival club’s Sergeant At Arms. Even when given video evidence of how his daughter was being treated in that Hazeldale clubhouse, Louis Dénis had not turned himself in.

Sharon had no sympathies to hear that Dénis had met his end. But she was worried about Gertie, and one look at Townsend told her she wasn’t the only one.

It’s still morning, she finally spoke up, getting to her feet. She’ll be at work. She’s only working mornings now that she’s pregnant.

She’s ... she’s pregnant? Townsend said, smiling as his hand went to his own stomach.

Sharon studied him before nodding. Yeah, she’s due in about two months.

He nodded, still smiling, and pulled her office door open. That’s good. That’s really good.

Her DEA guests followed her cruiser to the far end of Main Street where Ink Junkie was located. The tattoo shop was one of the newer ventures in town, and Sharon knew they were already enjoying great success. The owner, Brady Clark, was already setting up a reputation for himself for the quality of his artwork, and his visiting artist friends drew people from as far away as Denver just to get a custom design. He’d also earned the right to do club ink for the Red Rebels.

The big windows on the front were wide and inviting, making the mural on the back wall completely visible from the street. That was aided by a bar of directional lights in the ceiling that shone down, making it glow all on its own. The artwork was Gertie’s. She had some real talent.

The cherry-red acrylic counter at the front door was a half-circle, and sitting right in front of them was Gertie. She was reading a book and when she looked up she turned it over, setting it down. It was a book of baby names.

Sharon offered her a wide smile, which was returned. Gertie was one of those red-head stunners that didn’t have to be tall to be formidable. She was curvy and pretty with wide hazel eyes, an open and friendly expression at all times.

Sheriff, she greeted their group warmly, eyes flicking over to the other two men warily but the smile never faded. Anything I can help you with?

Sharon swallowed, eyes going to the back of the space. Brady Clark was already getting up from his stool where he’d been working, peeling off latex gloves as he did so. Is there somewhere we could talk, Gertie?

Now the smile slipped and her hands went instinctively to her impressive tummy. Is everything okay? Is it Buck?

Shit, she should have led with something else. No, no. I’m sure Buck is fine, Gertie. I just want somewhere quiet to talk.

Brady was now behind Gertie, hand on her shoulder. Come on back to the office, Sheriff.

Sharon nodded. Yeah, this was good. Brady was a good friend, they’d met in rehab. He was the perfect person to be there if Buck couldn’t be.

Brady’s office was more of a storage room with a desk shoved along one wall. Gertie sat in the chair, Brady behind her, perched on the edge of his desk. Sharon stood just inside the door, the DEA agents behind her. They left the door open.

Gertie, I’m just going to say it, okay? The redhead swallowed and nodded. Brady’s hand returned to her shoulder. A body was found outside of Bakersfield, and it’s your father. I’m sorry Gertie, but he’s dead.

She blinked about four times. Oh.

I’m so sorry. It will be investigated, so I want you to be ready for detectives asking you questions, okay?

She nodded again, then Sharon shared a look with Brady. He nodded in return.

Do you have any questions these gentlemen might be able to answer?

Now Gertie looked up as though she hadn’t even noticed the men before. No, she said softly, shaking her head. I don’t ... I don’t think so ... she trailed off, staring behind Sharon.

She had to turn to see what had drawn Gertie’s attention. It was Bark, of course. He nodded to her, taking off the ball cap.

Bark?

He nodded. Yeah. I’m ... I’m leaving California. I just wanted to say goodbye before I did. He smiled again, hand gesturing to her. You’re pregnant. That’s great, Gertie. It looks really good on you.

Gertie was staring, mouth hanging open. Sharon didn’t know if it was shock or what, but she was getting ready to ask them to leave when Gertie got up and walked past her to the door.

Townsend, for his part, was also waiting to see what her reaction would be. He was tense, as though he expected a slap or some other assault.

Bark, Gertie repeated.

Gertie, he returned, voice soft. I’m so sorry.

In a flash she was hugging him, and after a pause he hugged her back.

Sharon averted her gaze, feeling a weird prickling in her nose like she might tear up. That brought her attention to Brady who was outright crying, hand over his mouth.

Great. Emotion was always uncomfortable for her to be around. She never knew what to do.

Just had to see you, make sure you were okay, Bark was saying, stepping back and holding her shoulders. I can tell you’re going to be just fine.

Gertie grinned, tears on her cheeks, too. I am. I really am. Thank you.

Bark grinned, terribly handsome when he did it. Take care of that little bean, he instructed, and Gertie laughed, hands returning to her stomach. I will, she promised.

Hogan, off to the side during all this and undoubtedly as uneasy as Sharon was with all this, cleared his throat. We need to get to LA to catch your flight, he said.

Townsend nodded, then let go of Gertie and put his ball cap back on. Okay, let’s go.

Sharon waited a minute as they left the shop, then she cleared her throat. Did you want me to call the clubhouse for you?

Gertie came out of her reverie watching the agents depart, and she gave an uneasy smile. Oh, no thank you. I can call Buck. I’m fine. Thank you, Sheriff.

Now she was an outsider. Knowing her cue, she nodded, gave a wave to Brady, and headed back outside into the sunshine on the sidewalk. She made her way back to the department on her own.

Chapter Two

His shoulders felt tight, his lower back was stiff, but this was when he was happiest. Another Sachetti run down, a few more grand in his pocket, and this one would pay off his mom’s mortgage. The run had gone beautifully, it was a gorgeous day to be riding, and now they were pulling into a truck stop motel where he could rest his head and pay for a bit of female company if he so desired.

But first, food.

They checked into side-by-side-by-side rooms, then headed to the attached diner. These places all had, with few exceptions, one large corner booth, and it was the perfect size to accommodate their group.

Everyone ordered their meals, then their waitress left them to grab their beers.

That was an interesting run, Tank rumbled in his slow, halting way. They were already used to the fact he didn’t speak as quickly as he once had.

It was perfect, everything went as planned, Tiny insisted.

Tank shot him an unimpressed look. Road construction. Truck full of sensitive cargo. Sitting in one place for two hours.

Tiny grinned. I know. What road captain in his right mind would send us into construction?

Tank was laughing now, too. You’re fucking nuts. It was funny; when he swore he had no trouble talking at all.

I like to think of it as the perfect cover. Like no one had any plan to be there, but nowhere to be that was all that important. So fucked up it had to be a pleasure ride for all us.

Would have been nice to know that was actually the plan, Fritter had to agree. I was sweating bullets, too.

The reaction had to be authentic. Tiny was still grinning as the waitress set down their beers.

"Panic had to be authentic?" Buck mumbled before taking a sip off his bottle.

When you get off, honey? Knuckles asked the waitress before she could leave their table. For his part, Fritter let his eyes linger on the neck of her uniform. Her breasts were high and pushed together in a way that defied gravity. She caught him but he kept his face stoic, letting her know he was looking.

Her return glance was just as indifferent, then she shot Knuckles a sunny-California smile. I get off when I get home to my boyfriend, thanks for asking.

The table collapsed into laughter as she sauntered away, and Knuckles had to give her a small salute as she turned back to chuckle at his cheesy pick-up attempt.

You’re getting too old for that shit, Fritter told him, taking a pull on his beer.

Is that right, youngin’? You’re getting past your prime, too.

Fritter shook his head. Nah. Still got plenty in me.

Bullshit. Over thirty is supposed to be the downward slope.

I’ll take your word for that.

Now Knuckles stare was a downright challenge. What are you saying?

Cut this out, Tank warned.

You know what I’m saying, old man, Fritter goaded, leaning across the table towards Knuckles. Let me eat my dinner, then I’ll show you how you get a woman like that. He jerked his head towards the lunch counter where the waitress was now serving coffee to the long-haul truckers.

Knuckles’ grin was maniacal. There’s no fucking way.

Oh, it’s already started.

Fuck, Mickey sighed, like the fight had already happened.

Bull. Shit.

Fritter’s grin was slow, because he knew that was the best way to piss off Knuckles; show him his quiet rage had no effect. I’m hitting that. Fuck dinner. I’m hitting it before the food gets here.

Knuckles hand went out. Fifty bucks says there’s no way.

A hundred says yes.

Fine, a hundred.

Fritter nodded to their Vice President, handshake done. You in, Tank?

The huge bear of a man chuckled. No way. I’m too grown up for school yard bets.

Hundred bucks on Fritter, Mickey threw in, sounding resigned. Sorry Knuckles, but he was getting the eye even after you hit on her.

Hundred on Knuckles, Tiny said, setting his beer down.

You guys are so fucked up, Buck muttered.

Who’s your money on?

Buck leveled an unimpressed look at Knuckles. I have no fucking idea. I ain’t betting on this shit. Then his look of disdain softened. Fine. Hundred on Fritter.

What the hell, man? Knuckles actually sounded hurt, but Fritter was already getting to his feet and heading for the front door of the diner. On the way he caught the waitresses’ eye. He stopped, blatantly gave her the up and down, and her cheeks went pink. He bit his lip and raised his eyebrows. She nodded, head tilting towards the kitchen. He nodded and went out the front doors, circling around the building to the back. There were a few of those plastic crates on the ground positioned around a coffee can, overstuffed with cigarette butts. Ah, staff room for the smokers.

He toed the coffee can as the door to his left opened. It was their waitress, and the second she saw him she was all business. I only have fifteen.

He nodded, cock hard, undoing his belt already. Plenty of time, darlin’.

She nodded, backing up to the wall and letting him into her personal space. She tasted like coffee as he kissed her, fast and hot, her hands pulling at his hoodie, getting underneath it and sliding up his ribs, all nails and scratching. His hand pushed up the little skirt of her uniform, reaching behind to squeeze her ass. Nice and hard, on her feet all day.

Fifteen minutes, she breathed, breaking the kiss and unbuttoning his jeans.

Fritter pulled a condom out of his pocket, tore it open while she watched, her hands on his zipper forgotten, panting. Get me ready there, darlin’, he teased, and she was on it, fast. Her hands were fucking cold but it didn’t matter. He rolled the rubber on, and then in a fast move that made her gasp she was face-first against the stucco wall. One hand was between her legs, pulling her underwear out of the way, the other went up to brace himself against the wall.

Lowering his hips he got in position then thrust up, straightening as he did so. She cried out, head going back to rest on his shoulder. She was tight, wet, and perfectly warm. A few experimental thrusts and she was whimpering around a bit lip. He kept one hand on the wall, hips snapping into her faster now that he knew what she wanted. His free hand slid down the front of her underwear, pressing onto her clit and circling hard.

Just like that she came, screaming through it while he shoved his face into her hair and bellowed out himself, coming hard. Fast, rough, dirty, and in public. Five minutes tops. Hell, she even had time to clean up.

Stepping back he pulled free, tore the condom off and tossed it onto the pile of cigarette butts. A few scattered on impact. He tucked himself away, his aching back forgotten as the waitress smoothed her skirt back down, adjusting her panties again.

She turned back, face flushed, a bit fucked-drunk. He had to smile.

Holy shit, she gasped, hand on her chest, eyes falling closed.

Thanks darlin’, he said, giving her a kiss on the cheek. I gotta go wash my hands. You good?

I’m great, she answered with a smile, eyes still shut.

You absolutely are, he agreed with a wink, then headed around the diner the way he’d come. Throw in that hillbilly accent and panties literally fell to ankles. Knuckles was fucking insane taking that bet.

Before he headed to the men’s room he approached their table, Buck and Mickey already grinning and shaking their heads. Knuckles looked pissed, and before he was even at the table within polite distance he was snapping, "No fucking way. That smile doesn’t mean shit."

Fritter grinned and shoved his hand in Knuckles’ face. Smell that?

Knuckles hit his arm away. Fuck off. Fine. Hope you got crabs from her.

With a chuckle Fritter went to wash up, a few bucks richer and much more relaxed.

-oOo-

There was a knock at his motel room door, but he was already up. In his jeans and bare feet he pulled the knob inward, scratching his chest and yawning. What’s up? Thought we were leaving at ten?

Buck’s eyes went from Fritter to the motel bed. Yeah, he’d let two of the working girls stay the night. They seemed tired. And they were still out, although that might have been the bottle of Jack they killed without any help from him.

Word to the wise: don’t get blackout drunk with whores in your room. They will steal your shit.

We gotta go, Buck said softly, apparently feeling sympathy for the women in his bed. Got a text from Gertie. Cops found her dad’s body.

Shit.

Yeah. Ready in twenty?

Fritter was already pulling on a T-shirt. Absolutely. Make it ten.

Thanks.

He left the door open and headed to Mickey’s room next. Fritter did up his belt, pulled on socks and boots then shrugged on his kutte. As an afterthought he pulled out his wallet and dropped two more fifties on the nightstand. They’d been fun girls.

He balled his hoodie up under his arm and hit the walkway, closing and locking the door behind himself. Mickey was out of his room already too, and they both fell in step behind Buck.

The Red Rebels had handed Gertie’s dad over to Sachetti knowing they were just going to ice him. It was the least the guy deserved; he’d run when his daughter was being beaten and raped on a regular schedule by a bunch of bikers. Which he’d known because those pricks sent video proof. Fritter would have killed the guy himself, but handing him over and turning down the reward meant they had a lucrative contract with Don Sachetti, and if they played this right it would add up to much more than a one-time payment of a million bucks.

Since then Gertie had somewhat of a little sister status with the club. Other than Buck, they all viewed her as someone to be protected and cared for. Plus, she’d busted out of a biker clubhouse to save their president’s wife, so really she’d earned their devotion from that as much as from being Buck’s old lady.

Fritter liked her. She had been a bit wild for a while, but now she was sweet. And she was going to be a mother, which was awesome. Her tits were getting bigger, and while he worked hard not to appear as though he’d noticed them he had to appreciate them. Her rack had always been awesome. He thought about her inappropriately a few times before the baby announcement, though now he fought those imaginings to the back of his mind. It seemed extra seedy since her and Buck had officially gotten hitched.

Still, she was hot.

Tiny’s rig was already gone from the lot so he’d gotten a head start now that their load had been delivered. With loud yawns and scratched heads they all approached their bikes. In doing so Fritter knocked Mickey’s shoulder. Sorry if I kept you up.

Mickey shook his head. "You didn’t. I travel with ear plugs now just so I can get some fucking sleep. You had the