Page 10 of Devil's Own: Roughneck

Honest to God, if the scent of him after he orgasms could be bottled, I’d become a millionaire overnight. And I’d have never believed it until I saw for myself in his shower that he uses a handcrafted, herbal soap. When I asked where he got it, he said, “I buy it from a guy down at a nearby farmers’ market. I go every Sunday.”

A biker in a real vigilante MC who shops local artisans at a farmers’ market, lives in a beautiful home in a nice neighborhood, is a very present godfather to his best friend’s baby girl but has gotten into gun fights and has hunted serial killers?Oh yeah,gun fights and serial killers. Even if it hadn’t been all over the news for like the last two years, my son got involved, helping his uncle and the Horde brothers out about a year ago, purely by accident. I heard all about it during our hours-long phone conversations. It freaked me right the hell out to have my boy anywhere near gunfights, but he’s a man now and I can’t tell him what to do. That doesn’t mean he still doesn’t need his mama close by to keep an eye on him. Hence, one of the reasons I high-tailed it up to Kentucky. The other reason will have to wait until my brother is in a better mood.

Seriously, none of this makes any sense. I’ve worked in biker bars before. That was the last job I had before hauling my butt up here from Florida. Bikers act like bikers: being rough and tough and generally not giving a fuck about anything past their own dicks, a bottle of Jack and something to smoke. It’s basically the cardinal rule of bikerdom.

“What?” he asks.

“What, what?”

“You’re staring at me.”

Crap. Caught.“No—I was lost in thought. I wasn’t staring at you. More like staring through you.”

“That’s not it.”

“It is.” I don’t know that I’m comfortable with a man being able to see through me so easily. We hardly know each other. I’ve made my walls pretty thick over the years. My walls keep me safe. “We should probably head up to the clubhouse.”

He turns only his eyes on me and snickers. “Yeah, babe. We’ll head out.” Once again, he blows my mind by reaching over the table to take both our plates, scraping what’s left into the trash bin, rinsing them off and placing them into the dishwasher. Seriously? Trash in the waste bin? Who is this man?

I shake my head attempting to clear it, not that it’s a very successful venture. Then I walk back into the bedroom to grab my purse, but I make the bed first. It seems wrong to leave the mess, even if the mess reminds me of the wildest night I’ve ever had the pleasure of living through. Period.

That man made my body sing notes that, in all of my thirty-three years, I never knew I could reach. He gave and gave, getting off on giving me mine. The one actual lover I had before this gave me mine, but only after he took his. I enjoyed our time together, but it was more a way to pass the time on a Tuesday night rather than something I planned for, ached for, and couldn’t wait to have again.

Rough helps me onto the back of his bike, but before climbing on, he walks over to a metal shelf attached to the garage wall, grabbing a helmet. Then he heads back to me, pulls the helmet down over my hair, and buckles the strap under my chin. He climbs in front of me and backs us out of the garage.

With my arms tight around his waist this morning and my cheek pressed against his back, he peels out of the subdivision. I could spend the next month riding on the back of his bike and not get tired.

Our first stop is my hotel, where we take the elevator up to the room to grab my bag. Rough stays with me the whole time, even after I tell him to wait in the lobby. He throws me one of those generally accepted to mean, “Are you serious?” looks and grabs my hand before we load the elevator car. It takes only five minutes inside the room before we head back down to check out. He pulls a couple of bungee cords out of his saddle bag to secure my bag to his bike. How many bikers think of carrying bungee cords on their bike? I still don’t know what to make of him.

We head to the bar to get my vehicle and I follow him back to his house, where he has me park my car. The next thing I know, I’m back on his bike exactly where I’d been earlier. Arms in the same spot. Cheek in the same spot. This time, we head out of Middlesboro on our way to a small town called Bentley.

We have to drive through a quaint downtown area with a city hall and a library. Then he turns up a two-lane mountain road. All in all, it takes us about a half hour to reach the compound surrounded by a chain-link fence that has those aluminum liners through it so people can’t see onto the property. There’s a man on the gate. Young. Slicked-back dishwater blond hair. Stunning blue eyes. Decent build. He’s cute. Not the ‘oh my God’ handsome of Rough, but cute. He nods at Rough and pulls the large door open wide enough for us to roll through.

He winks at me as we pass him and I feel my cheeks heat. These men. What is with these men?

Rough helps me off the back of his bike, unstrapping the helmet. He hangs that on the handlebar, then takes my hand and we walk up to the front door of a building that reminds me of a warehouse or an old mechanic’s garage made up of a combination of block and corrugated metal with garage bay doors to the left of the glass-panel and aluminum door. He holds it open, allowing me to pass through first.

A gentleman biker?

Nothing about him makes sense.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

My eyes immediately zero in on my boy sitting at the bar with another younger-looking man not wearing a cut. “Waite?” I call out.

He whips his head around to look at me, and a broad smile cracks along his lips. “Mom.” It’s so good to see him. He thankfully takes after my brother and me in the looks department with his deep walnut brown hair and shiny brown eyes that all the girls in his high school used to go crazy over. He’s got a man’s build now. He must have been working out in the time he’s been here. I’d have still loved him if he ended up favoring his sperm donor, but not having to stare back at Troy’s face while eating breakfast every morning of Waite’s life didn’t suck.

My boy slides off his stool, jogging over to me, and he lifts me up in a giant bear hug where he spins me around in a circle. Surprisingly, Rough clears his throat as if he wants Waite to put me down. Something Waite doesn’t do. Not until his friend saunters up to our little group and, in my opinion, taking his life in his hands, says, “Damn, Waite—that’s your mom? The woman’s a MILF.”

Here’s the part where he takes his life in his hands. Rough’s body stiffens next to me while I feel my boy’s body go rigid as he’s still hugging me. “Name’s Damien,” the too-pretty-for-his-own-good man-boy introduces himself. “I got a bed and a cock twitching to be inside you.”

“The fuck?” both Waite and Rough say at the exact same time. Waite drops me while Rough takes a menacing step forward and they both slap him hard upside his head, each taking a side. It would’ve been comical if I didn’t worry about my son and the best lay of my life killing a man in front of me.

“Thanks for the offer,” I say as I try to shove my defenders back. “But I like my men with a bit more experience.”

Rough laughs and drops his arm around my shoulder. I don’t know what to think about this move. It feels very…claiming. I’m sure he’s just pissing in his corner, but there’s no need. As long as Rough wants to keep rolling in the hay, I’m down with that.

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