Cole: Chrome Horsemen MC (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

He was in the shower when she woke. She pulled out fresh day-clothing from her overnight bag, then slipped into the shower with him, and sucked him off. They dressed together and discussed his trip to San Diego. His plane left at ten, so they didn't have much time for each other. She ate a light breakfast with him, focusing more on making him laugh than being sexy.

She read somewhere, back in her teens she believed, perhaps in a magazine or a trashy novel she was fond of reading, that people might not remember your name, or the facts you discussed with them, or your birthday, or what day you were with them, but they will always remember how you made them feel.

Nicole believed that; in fact, it was the basis of
how
she chose to act and
when
she chose to act during her performances with clients. Right now, at this portion of the show, as their time drew to a close, the sex was over. She had already fulfilled him, so being sexy right now was a wasted effort.

At this portion of the show with Max, she wanted him to remember she was fun -- fun, energetic, and a pleasure to be around. That would bring him back to her. It's what brought all of them back to her. She could pop their bubble and with her, life was fun.

She left after breakfast, giving him a quick peck on the lips, and skipping out and down to the elevator, as if she were his young lover, not his call girl. She kept this energy expenditure up until she was in the elevator and then became herself again.

Ruthlessly, she examined her night's performance and found it acceptable. She checked her purse, as a matter of course and found a tip of one thousand dollars folded inside. Closing her bag, she nodded her head. Apparently Max found her performance acceptable, as well. She was pleased with the tip, because she wanted to get in on a rush that was sure to happen with a biotech company this month.

When she came out of Max's building, her driver was waiting for her. He got out of the short limo and opened the door for her. She told him, "The bank, then home, and I'll be calling you this afternoon."

His amazing blue eyes held hers without a flinch of emotion, but she thought there might be fire back there anyway. Maybe she was just seeing what she wanted to see -- and she did want to see fire for her in this man.

Cole Porter was six-foot-four with thick, wide shoulders, a narrow waist, and extremely flat abs. His suit couldn't hide the thickness of his arms or his thighs. The large hands were marvels to look at, as well, and she had spent several pleasant trips in the back of her limo, visualizing those hands on her body.

But, how to cross the line.

Cole was not only tough; he was also intelligent and highly professional. He was the best driver Nicole ever had. When problems arose, which was extremely seldom and generally with new clients, he dealt with them politely and convincingly. His professionalism in that area allowed her to salvage a new client and now that client was one of her best tippers.

So, under no circumstances did she wish to lose Cole as a driver, but she definitely wanted him as a man, as well. The gnawing lust for him grew each time she sat in the back and watched his eyes in the mirror.

They also rarely talked with each other, which they both seemed to prefer. At least she preferred it that way with her other drivers. With Cole, though, she couldn't think of what to say.

It would have to be her, as well, to reach out. She had to breach the barrier if it was going to be breached. It was a violation of edict and professionalism for him to make the first sexual or personal move toward her, and he was far too good of a driver to consider that move. So, it had to be her. She had to start things.

Nicole crossed her long, vibrant legs and tossed her bright blonde hair a little away from her face. She knew men found her physically attractive. She wasn’t too tall, coming up to five-seven, perfect for heels. Her breasts were not too large and had a tear shape to them with pale nipples that hardened, displaying arousal at the slightest provocation – whether she was truly aroused or not. Her skin was creamy white and her eyes, deep water blue. High, expressive cheekbones and full lips tied up the sexual promise of her package with a face made for flirtation.

"Is that suit fitted?" she asked, deciding that, after three months, enough was enough. She had to start somewhere.

He glanced at her in the mirror. "No," he offered.

"You should have a few tailored. At least three, better with five. Perhaps Thursday we can stop by a tailor. I know a good one," she offered.

"If you think it's necessary to do my job properly," he agreed, conditionally.

"Probably not necessary for you, but highly desirable for me. Your arms and chest need more room, and your abs, much less," she described with a slightly lower tone in her voice while watching his eyes in the mirror.

It was a good performance with well-executed innuendos, especially with the addition of her low, husky voice. After she said it, though, her gut tightened and doubt descended brutally. Was that too much? Too little? Could he tell she was flirting?

"You are, after all, a reflection on me," she added after only a breath of hesitation, allowing her to retreat from the contrived flirtation back to the safer area of professionalism. She looked away from his eyes in the mirror and frowned.
Shit, I can't even flirt with him! What am I? A schoolgirl?

"I understand," he nodded and began again to pay more attention to the road than to her.

Fuck! He didn't understand, not at all
, she cried in her head. Three months of drooling over this man and her mouth became dry the instant she wanted to open up! How could she bed and woo powerful men, several men, in fact – hell, a different one every day -- and not be able to flirt with her driver?

CHAPTER THREE

By the time they reached her bank, so she could deposit her tip, she was a mental disaster. He opened the door for her while his eyes searched the area rather than looking at her. She sighed. He was doing exactly what she paid him to do and was doing it very well.

In the bank, she made the deposit so the funds would be available for her stock trades when she got home. She stopped at the glass door, knowing the refection on the outside would hide her and just watched him for a while, standing out there by the limo, patiently waiting for her to return.

Cole Porter rode with the Chrome Horsemen, a strong motorcycle club in the area. She knew they had influence, connections, ran drugs, and performed the occasional heist. They were definitely outlaws. They also hired themselves out as security, which was where Cole came in. She put in a request for a new driver, because her last one wanted to move on. Her manager, Antonio, called the Horsemen and Cole showed up the next day -- kind of like a
call-badass
.

Other than that, she knew nothing about him. So why was he so fucking attractive to her?

It wasn't just the chiseled features or his other physical attributes. Those were enough to wet her appetite, but not enough to explain her level of desire. And she didn't want to fuck him – well, not just fuck him. She wanted to go out with him, to spend some time with him. She wanted her hand in his hand. She wanted to be a real woman with him.

It was a silly dream, really. There was no way she could ever be a real woman with anyone at this point, not without leaving the call girl thing, not without going all-in. She sighed and pushed the bank door open, telling herself to be satisfied with her stolen moment and to get a grip.

On their way home, he checked on her a few times with his eyes in the mirror, as if he could see something was wrong. On the freeway, he assessed her again and then said, "Tomorrow I'm got to take a ride up the coast." His deep voice vibrated her nipples, but his tone wasn't overly friendly. Casual, really. He had never discussed his personal life, though other drivers tended to. It wasn't against the rules, but he was never one to do it. Never.

"Yes?" she asked, her body trembling, waiting.

"Have you ever ridden, Nicole?" he asked. "It's amazing. In a car, you watch the world go by like it's on a screen, like you aren't exactly real enough to touch or be touched by the world. But on a bike, you are inside the world, flying through it. Real."

And there it was. She had an opening. His comment was personal, even a little poetic, but not unprofessional. She could just nod her head and everything would stay exactly the same between them. No harm, no foul, see you Thursday, have a nice ride. That was the last thing she wanted to do, however. "Would you mind me coming along?" she asked, and her gut turned into a heated knot. There was no taking that back, no twisting it to be professional. It was done. The line was crossed.

"Do you have your own bike?" he asked conversationally.

"No, I can't ride even if I did," she admitted, feeling that, for some reason, he was looking for a way out -- back to safer waters.

"Guess you will have to ride behind me then," he said. "I'll pick you up at ten?"

"Ten would be good," she agreed and then bit her lip, holding in her excitement.

I have a date! A real date!

CHAPTER FOUR

It didn't take Cole Porter three months to realize he wanted Nicole in deep ways. Within his first week, he knew that if she ever hinted, just a little, at something between them, he was going to cross that boundary for her.
Just make the effort,
he silently promised, and he would ride right on through.

She made that effort today and Cole had it on his mind all the way home that evening. He decided to keep it light with her. It wasn't about just fucking. No, there was a connection with her, a hard connection, and he wanted to explore that connection. Find out what it was -- see where it led them.

When he got to the club’s bar, a fight was in progress between two guys who had been at each other for months. He was glad to see they were finally going to work things out. He noticed that Hank, behind the bar, wasn't exactly thrilled, however. It was his job to clean things up, so that was no surprise. Cole looked around at the damage already done and decided cleanup was going to be more than a few hours of work at this point.

Patch-holders watched the struggle with calm interest. As for visitors and hang-arounds, some looked nervous, some looked amused, and some left.

Cole glanced at the clock. Most street fights only last around thirty seconds. A down-and-dirty fight like this took a lot out of a man in a hurry. This wasn't paced boxing; this was all out, bloody war. It was quite possible a fresh corpse would be the result and neither of combatants wanted to be that corpse.

"Hey Cole," a hard-looking half Mexican named Rat said as Cole passed by going for a beer.

Cole nodded to him. "Just a sec," Cole offered, but Rat was already back to watching the fight.

Just as Cole reached the bar, the combatants drew knives. Cole didn't see who drew first, but they were both bladed now and slashing at each other; blood was drawn in short order.

Suddenly, the explosion of a shotgun filled the air and everyone, including Cole and the combatants, looked for the source -- discovering Big Jim, their president with the smoking gun.

"Monday night?" Big Jim inquired, his voice holding the feel of amused disdain in its thunder roll, "Really? This shit is going down on a Monday night? Anyone see who drew first blood?"

"Cap did," Rat pronounced, followed by general agreement from around the room.

"Then Cap is the winner. Done. You two do this under this roof again, over this same tired shit, I'll be the winner. Understood?" Big Jim cited.

Both combatants, Cap and Phil, nodded with heaving chests, though Cap was a bit happier about it.

"Fine," Big Jim said. "Phil, pay the man. You owe him. Pay up. This shit is over."

Phil was about to protest, but then saw that Big Jim wasn't actually in as good a mood as he was projecting and decided against it, closing his mouth.

Big Jim looked around the room, and locked eyes with Cole, "Cole, glad you are here. Talk to me in my office. I have a favor to ask." Then Jim turned, shotgun on his shoulder, and lumbered toward the back of the bar.

"Good fight, though," Rat said, sounding a little disappointed as he turned around on his stool to elbow up on the high table in front of him.

Cole smiled and clapped his back. "I'll hook up with you in a minute."

Rat nodded and Cole headed for Jim's office.

Big Jim wasn't called that for giggles. He was six-seven and built like a well-shaped tank. He made defensive linemen take notice. He ducked coming into rooms and straightened up with all eyes on him. His voice, though controlled most of the time, could literally shake windows.

He wasn't the best president the Chrome Horsemen ever had; he wasn't the brightest, wasn't the smartest, and his decisions weren't always profitable. Many examples over the last six years could be recounted as moments where Big Jim failed in these areas. However, he was unanimously thought of as the most loyal president the club had ever had.

Big Jim, without a whisper of doubt, cared more for the Horsemen than for his own life, his own wealth, or his own reputation. His loyalty won such a return in kind; everything else didn't really matter.

When Cole came through the door, Big Jim's chair was still creaking from his weight coming to rest into the padded leather. 

"Prez," Cole greeted him, nodding with respect, and sat down in one of the visitor chairs in front of the massive desk.

"Cole, do you have any plans for tomorrow?"

"Shit, Jim," Cole said with honest disappointment. "Actually I do have some plans, which are important to me. What's up? Maybe I can help anyway."

"Hot date?" Jim asked with a grin.

"Hotter," Cole replied.

"I need something dropped off north of here. I need someone I can trust without hesitation to do it for me. It's important. Really important and I can't tell you what it is or why."

"Will it fit in a saddlebag?" Cole asked.

"Barely, but it will fit," Jim replied.

"Then I don't need to know the other answers, just an address and a time," Cole told him.

"What about your plans?"

"As it happens, my plans were for a ride up the coast with a young woman behind me. I figure I can either leave her at a bar or restaurant long enough to make the last leg of the delivery and then we're free the rest of the day."

Jim mulled that over, "The delivery is to a public dock, to a yacht that will likely cast off as soon as this is done. So, it doesn't really matter what your lady friend sees, but caution would suggest your first plan is reasonable."

"Would caution also suggest a gun?" Cole asked.

"Caution would," Jim allowed, "but I don't feel it will be required. The drop is to be made between three and four in the afternoon. No later, no earlier; eyes will be watching."