He collapsed against the backrest and folded his arms across his chest.
Spoilsport
.
Twenty minutes into their ride, the biker leaned back into the V of Lucky’s thighs. What the hell? The backrest cut off any escape. Next, a hand
reached down and squeezed Lucky’s thigh. Oh, hell-the-fuck-no. Lucky wrapped his fingers around the hand and tugged, only to find his fingers
enmeshed in black leather. He jerked his hand, but the biker held fast. He leaned up to growl into the driver’s ear, “Let go of my
fucking hand.” The bike hit a bump, bringing Lucky’s nose into the warmth of the biker’s neck. He inhaled the clean, fresh
scent he’d only smelled one other place. Oh, dear God. With the cupped palm of his free hand he reached down past the top of the
biker’s chaps to cradle the ample swell of a bubble butt.
Bo’s fingers tightened on Lucky’s, dragging them down to the tiny flaw responsible for the chaps being reduced to Lucky’s
price range over a year ago. His first gift to Bo. He buried his nose in Bo’s neck, whiffing in the comforting scent of his lover, soaking up
what contact their leather-clad bodies allowed. Bo. Here. In his arms. Sort of.
When farmland gave way to neighborhoods, Bo let go of Lucky’s hand and put distance between their bodies. Lucky dismounted the bike in front of
the rented house he refused to call home. The Harley roared away, leaving Lucky with the helmet and jacket, hoping to use them often.
Damn. The man stayed so in character that his own lover hadn’t recognized him until late in the ride, and then only because Bo dropped the mask.
O’Donoghue would be proud.
On his way into the house, Lucky rifled through the jacket’s pockets and found a scrap of paper with Bo’s handwriting. “Happy
Birthday. I hope you like the jacket. Sorry about what happened to your last one.”
Oh shit. It was April eleventh, wasn’t it? Another birthday and not even at home to get his sister’s annual card. Lucky hugged the
jacket up tight, the scent of leather filling his nostrils along with a faint hint of Bo’s cologne.
***
“Here you go.” Jerry dropped an envelope onto Lucky’s table, sliding into the opposite chair without waiting for an
invitation.
Lucky ignored the money and the minion for the time being, content to chew a roast beef sandwich, the one non-heartburn inducing item on the whole
bar’s menu.
“The boss says since you did well, he’s got more work for you.”
“You don’t say,” Lucky paused eating long enough to reply.
“Yeah.” Jerry beamed ear to ear, ignoring the
fuck off
vibes Lucky aimed his way. “In fact, Cy’s on his way
over to talk to you.”
“Cy?” Shit. Was the somersaulting in his gut the beginning of another bout of indigestion? He’d finally get to talk to Bo,
even if the worst annoyance this side of Texas would be sitting in.
The kid’s face lit up, eyes gleaming. “Cyrus Cooper, one bad-assed motherfucker. When he first came here, the guys,” he
jabbed his thumb in the direction of the pool tables, “gave him a hard time. After he kicked their asses, they learned to leave him
alone.”
Be the meanest motherfucker around, and no one will dare mess with you.
Good thing Bo took Lucky’s advice to heart.
The squawking jukebox and raucous laughter from the pool tables drowned out any lesser noises. The pool players snapped to attention, announcing a new
arrival of importance. Lucky wouldn’t look until he had to. A vision in black stopped by the table. His eyes roved upward, taking in the chaps,
the faded T-shirt, and leather vest. Further up he saw tousled helmet-hair, penetrating dark eyes, and neatly trimmed facial hair, framing full lips.
Lucky’s wet dream come true. He swallowed hard. Bo had shorn his hair nearly to the scalp, erasing any traces of highlights, and the moustache
and beard were new, but something about his eyes…
Bo inclined his head to Lucky, showing not the slightest bit of recognition. “Well, Jerry, you gonna introduce me to your friend?” The
faintest hint of a smile creased Bo’s lips, but his eyes remained cold. Yep, one hard-assed motherfucker.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry, Cy.” Jerry scrambled to his feet and pulled the chair out for Bo to sit. Bo plunked down, ignoring the fawning young
man at his elbow. “Cy, this here’s Ricky Getsinger. Ricky, meet Cy.”
Lucky brought his hand up to take Bo’s. Again, the man displayed no signs of recognition. Damn, he was good.
“Nice to meet you… Ricky.” Bo tilted his head to the left. “That’ll be all, Jerry.”
“Oh yeah. Sure, Cy.” The kid stumbled over his own feet on the way to the pool tables where he stood by the wall, eyes never leaving
Bo. Uh-oh. Lucky’d noticed that look plenty of times on the faces of Victor’s hangers-on. Totally smitten.
Back off. He’s taken, kid.
The man in front of Lucky appeared chiseled in stone. A perfect likeness of Bo, but with something missing. Cyrus Cooper sat ramrod straight, elbows
resting on the table. “You did good, Ricky. My partner and I have more work for you, if you’re interested.”
Partner? No telling who might be watching. “What you got in mind?” Lucky took another bite of roast beef and moaned. Bo
didn’t respond with cutting comments about cancer or heart attacks.
A server appeared and placed a beer on the table. Eyes never leaving Lucky’s, Bo said, “Thanks, Brenda. I’ll have my
usual.” The woman scampered off. “Can’t talk business on an empty stomach,” he told Lucky. She returned a few
minutes later with a burger on a plate, or rather, what looked like a burger, but with no meat showing beneath the bun.
Bo took a bite before resuming the conversation. The Bo Schollenberger Lucky knew wouldn’t dare talk with his mouth full. “We have a
few smaller vehicles, like the truck you brought back from Texas, but I understand you drive big rigs too.”
“I’ve done a few cross-country hauls.”
“Good. I also heard that you’ve got reasons to make sure you’re careful.”
“Twenty years for a second offense makes a man cautious.” He wondered if Bo had checked up on his fake profile to impress the partner,
or if the comment merely fit the script.
A brief smile flitted across Bo’s face. The way he carried himself, the confidence, the danger. Fuck. He wasn’t merely pretending to be
Cyrus Cooper, he
was
Cyrus Cooper.
“I need a man I can trust, Ricky. Are you that man?” Bo ran a finger around the top of his beer bottle, dipping the tip of his finger
into the hole. The flirt.
Back in class again, denying being a cop. No need to answer “I am” to whoever might have tuned in. Any asshole could lie.
“Time will tell,” Lucky replied instead. He saluted Bo with his glass of Coke.
Bo cocked an eyebrow and returned the salute, reaching into his pocket to pull out a scrap of paper. “Be at this address tonight at six
o’clock.” He raised his Bud Light to his lips and guzzled down half the bottle in one go without flinching. Bo didn’t like
beer, preferring wine. Oh yeah, right. Cyrus probably bought brew by the case.
But a light beer and meatless burger in a biker bar? How many times had some jerkoff laughed, only to find a bottle jammed up his nostril? Judging from the
wary-eyed bikers huddled around the pool table—not laughing, and staring at Bo with a pall of dread hanging over them—no one called
Cyrus Cooper out on anything.
And what does a bad-assed vegetarian biker eat? Any damned thing he wants.
Lucky lifted the card from Bo’s fingers. Mateo’s Garage. Bingo! Yeah, time to meet the rest of the folks he’d soon put behind
bars.
***
At five minutes before six, Lucky pulled up to a mechanic’s shop. A half-dozen motorcycles stood clustered together near the bay doors, engines
pinging as they cooled. A few cars sat off to the side. He’d brought his helmet and jacket, left in the trunk, in case an opportunity presented
itself to curl into Bo’s back again. While Lucky wanted to drive, riding did have its advantages. Free range motion for roaming hands being one
of them.
Music blasted from inside the building, sounding like a party in progress.
He passed the assembled Harleys; Bo’s sticking out like a sore thumb. Not a speck of dust marred the glossy black fenders, and the leather seat
gleamed from a recent oil treatment, no doubt. Lucky smiled. No matter how good the man was at pretending to be someone else, parts of Bo’s
character still shone through. Good. Maybe he wouldn’t lose touch with himself.
No one could fault Lucky for pausing to admire the leather and chrome masterpieces, right? And if they didn’t like it, well, Lucky
hadn’t been in a boxing ring in a while and could use the practice. He bent down to inspect the pipes on the closest bike. Damn, what he
wouldn’t give to own one of these bad boys.
He spotted a tear no bigger than the width of his thumb in the seat. With a discreet stroke, Lucky flipped a tracker into the hole. Another device found
its way into a saddle bag. Even if found, the gizmos could pass for broken rivets. He made note of which bikes he tagged. In all likelihood, Bo’s
bike already carried a few devices, both from the department and the outfit he currently worked for. So much for honor among thieves. Lucky’d
borrow one of Keith’s fancy toys later and do a full sweep.
Jerry appeared in the opened office door the moment Lucky stepped into the bay. The music blasted louder. “C’mon in, Ricky. Everybody
else is already here.” He stared past Lucky to the Malibu. “Damn, man, you actually let people see you driving that piece of
shit?”
Insolent pup. “Don’t laugh, it’s paid for,” Lucky shot back, failing to add,
by somebody else.
The mouthy
brat reminded him of Daytona.
Nope, don’t go there.
He drew in a deep breath and crossed to the door. About a dozen men milled around inside the cramped office, ranging from a bearded ZZ Top lookalike to a
buzz-cut cop wannabe. Three, maybe four, carried themselves like ex-military.
Biker, biker, skater boy. Yup. They needed their token redneck. Lucky could do that. He stalked into the room, head high, feeling the eyes of the men on
him. Several passed him off as inconsequential and turned away, while others sized him up. His lack of height caused many to underestimate him, and he
wasn’t above exploiting their stupidity. Chihuahuas might be small, but the little suckers bit hard.
A few men in leather vests stood around a refrigerator sucking down brews, while the clean-cut guys formed their own group, sprawled around a rickety
table. They snapped to attention when Bo strolled into the room, a cardboard box hoisted on one shoulder. All eyes followed the box to the countertop by a
grease-smeared computer. Dressed in black again, Bo could have shown up at the SNB office and not be recognized. The way he carried himself and the
hardened steel in his eyes was far removed from the caring, save-the-world Bo Schollenberger. No. Not Bo. Cyrus Cooper. Completely different men.
And yet, the man’s newfound confidence jolted Lucky to the core. A niggling discomfort in his belly that might have been his conscience scolded
him for lusting after another man. Was this another man or was Bo’s alter ego simply another so far unseen facet of an intriguing personality?
Bo, or Cy, rather, shifted his eyes from biker to biker. Lucky almost heard the
click, click, click
of wheels turning in his head. He gave nothing
away when his gaze slid past Lucky without lingering.
“What about him?” a wary-eyed cop-type asked.
“That’s Ricky, our new driver,” Cy replied. “He stays.” He pulled a box cutter out of his back pocket and
slit the tape on the carton, holding the lid high to avoid nicking the contents. Inside, tiny clear packets held white powder, the black skull logo
impossible to miss even from a distance. Cy motioned Jerry over with a wave of his hand. “Count them out,” he ordered.
Arms folded across his chest, Cy stepped off to the side, keen eyes taking in the count. The barest tip of a pistol grip poked out from a bulge beneath his
unzipped jacket, concealment probably the only reason he wore padded leather on a seventy degree day while not on the bike. Jerry formed twelve piles on
the table and then pulled an iPad from under the counter to punch in numbers as each man claimed his goods. The men scooped the packets into anything from
bank deposit bags to backpacks. Damn, what a lot of drugs. Plenty of folks would lose their minds tonight. Had Bo managed to tag any of those bags yet?
One by one the men left the warehouse, leaving behind beer cans and the empty box. A few cast suspicious glances at Lucky in passing, but no one spent much
time staring at Bo except for Jerry, who needed a few lessons in hiding the obvious. Bo didn’t even seem to realize he had a fan. If Lucky
didn’t know better, he’d swear Cyrus Cooper left the garage every night to go home and bang women, yet there Jerry sat, his adoring
eyes on someone he didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of getting.
Bikes thundered to life in the parking lot, the grumble of pipes fading once the bikers rounded the building.
“You better get home, Jerry,” Bo said.
The kid’s shoulders slumped. “I could stay here and help you. You don’t need him.” Jerry aimed a hot glower in
Lucky’s direction. Uh-oh. He’d already sniffed out his rival, had he?
“I’m paying him anyway. Might as well get my money’s worth.” Bo gave the kid a smile. The affection might not have
been for Lucky, but his cock rose anyway.
Jerry straightened. “I’ll see you tomorrow, won’t I, Cy?” Lucky imagined him as a dancing puppy, tongue lolling
out, prancing on its back legs while begging for attention. Yet, in a few years, if he kept on his current course, the naïve kid might turn into the kind
of man Lucky hunted down for a living. Best not to underestimate him. Even the most vicious fighting dogs started out as harmless puppies.
“Sure,” Bo drawled with a distracted half-smile as he divided his attention between his conversation and the iPad.
“I’ll be right here.”
Oh good Lord. The man dropped fuel on Jerry’s fire, like the young ‘un needed encouragement. Jerry beamed ear to ear. “Okay,
man. Catch you later.” He darted out the door. A moment later, a bike lacking the rich timbre of a Harley sputtered to life. A Honda. Had to be a
Honda.