My Biker Bodyguard (3 page)

Mitch couldn't hear what she said to her father. No one
had told him why they called Dan dirty. If he had to guess,
Dirty Dan's arrest and conviction for fencing stolen goods had
more to do with the nickname than any lack of personal
hygiene.
That aside, what court would give custody to an ex-con
biker? Especially when Beth could provide Jess with every
comfort and opportunity. Maybe the way Beth left, or that
Dirty Dan owned a business and had stayed clean did the trick.
"Mitch, you gonna stand there all night, or let me get at
the keg?" J.D., an impatient look on his face and a cup in one
hand, gestured for Mitch to step aside.
A tattooed, hairy, leather-clad crew surrounded the keg. A
big audience for the questions Mitch wanted to ask. He draped
an arm around J.D.'s shoulders, holding the swaying man
steady until he finished filling his cup. "C'mon, let's find us a
seat."
He ushered J.D. to a corner of the yard, passing Jess on
the way. Her stare followed him, and he stifled a wink and a
smile. Dirty Dan was watching.
For what had to be the fiftieth time that night, Mitch
checked the yard and alley quickly, scanning for anything out
of the ordinary. Twice, Dirty Dan had left Jess alone when he
shouldn't have. Mitch would talk to him in the morning about
telling her the truth or taking this threat seriously.
The boys got
her back
–just didn't cut it.
J.D. fell into a lawn chair and kicked his black boots out in
front of him. "What's up? What do you wanna know?"
Mitch sat in a chair beside him and grinned. J.D. might be
drunk, but he was astute. "Right to the point, hey?"
"That's the way I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh." He tipped the
cup back, swallowed a mouthful of beer, and belched. "You
checkin' out Jess, right?"
He'd expected this. Dirty Dan wanted to use the cover
story they'd given Jess, but Mitch needed to shadow her
everywhere she went. Others would likely assume he'd taken
an interest in her. If not Jess herself. And how far off were
they? Not much. "What makes you think I'm interested in
her?"
"What doesn't? You're lucky you ain't pitchin' a tent." He
sucked more beer.
Mitch hoped he'd learn more about Jess before the biker
passed out. Yet, drunk or not, J.D. was sharp and Mitch had to
be careful. "Naw, she's just a kid."
"Nope, she's all grown up, and everyone knows it but her
ol' man." J.D. gave him a sidelong glance. "And so do you."
They both watched Jess smile and talk with those who
came near the table, her hand never leaving Dirty Dan's
shoulder. Mitch asked, "What's the deal then?"
"Look." J.D. sat up, his bloodshot eyes intent, his gaze
direct behind the haze of alcohol. "That family's been through
hell and back. Her junkie ma took off when Jess was six, just a
week before Dan got sent up for five years."
Mitch covered his surprise. He only knew that Beth had
left Milwaukee and remarried a few years later. There had
been a passing comment about Alcoholics Anonymous, but not
enough to make him imagine her as a junkie. Recalling Beth
dredged up the memory of her pale, fear drenched, and blood
spattered face. He forced the nightmare image away.
J.D. continued, "It damn near killed him when he found
out. He turned it around though and finally got her back. Do
you know how hard it is to do that when you've been in the
life?"
Mitch knew, better than J.D. could guess, but played
dumb and shook his head.
"I'm only tellin' you this so you'll know what you're up
against, if you're serious." He gave Mitch a once over. "Don't
gotta answer that, but I'll tell you anyway."
"I wanna know." And he did, just not for quite the same
reason J.D. thought. The more he knew about Jess, the easier
his job would be. He'd take all the help he could get.
"Foster care really messed her up. It took all of us to get
her feelin' safe again. The system sucks for kids."
"And now?"
"She ain't goin' nowhere, though she don't know it. Her
old man promised to stay legit, but she's gonna be here until
he's too old and tired to get into trouble."
"That could be a long time." Mitch watched her throw her
head back and laugh. What a shame.
J.D. grunted. "It's weird when you think about it. All
these years we've been teachin' her to look after herself. The
tougher she gets, the more Dan don't wanna let her go. It ain't
no secret he wouldn't give two nickels for himself if it weren't
for her."
"It's good they got each other."
"It ain't just that." He stopped to gulp more beer. "Let me
tell you somethin'. I took a bad spill a while back, broke my
leg in three places. Damn docs don't know nothin' about pain.
I ended up havin' to boost their damned painkillers on my own,
just to get through the day. Jess caught me poppin' percs in the
bathroom. I still don't know how she found out."
"What did she do?"
"What else, man?" J.D. grinned at him and drained the
last of his beer. "She beat the tar outta me."
Mitch barked a surprised laugh. He shouldn't have been,
but he was. Growing up in this neighborhood, surrounded by
the cream of crime, she would definitely need skills. "What'd
she do? Put you in a full-nelson?"
J.D. crumpled the cup in his hand and tossed it at an
overflowing trashcan. He missed. "I wouldn't come up on her
in a dark alley if I were you."
Mitch pretended to find that funny and chuckled.
"Don't laugh, man. I'm serious. She's been bullyin' us for
a long time." He smiled, his gaze drifting toward Jess again.
"It's our fault though."
Mitch asked, "Why?"
J.D. grinned sideways at him. "What kinda bikers would
we be if we let one of our own grow up not knowin' how to
fight dirty?"
Mitch laughed genuinely then. He understood why folks
came to these cookouts. Great food, great drink, and even
better talk.
J.D. slapped him on the back and stood. "I'm gonna take a
piss and pass out. Don't do anything I would."
"Thanks for the warning." Mitch watched the man weave
to the house, pausing only to respond to something Dirty Dan
said with a drunken, one-finger salute. It seemed the way they
showed affection–first an insult, then a finger.
Worked for Mitch.
Alone, he took the opportunity to assess, again, the
perimeter. In another ten minutes or so, he'd have to find a
reason to go out front, check the downstairs windows and
doors. He hoped the son-of-a-bitch would show up, give him a
chance to take care of everything at once: protect Jess, get
revenge for Beth, and get a name. He wanted nothing more
than to wreak some justice on the man behind the threat.
Jess watched him, trying not to be blunt about it, but her
attention rolled toward him like a radar. These might be bluecollar, salt of the earth folks, but they were much more aware,
more assessing than most of the rich, pampered and polished
set he dealt with these days.
Yet he didn't doubt he could talk his way out of any
suspicions they raised. After all, he did come from the same
stock. But he didn't want to be put in that position. He'd told
enough lies, all for good reasons. Once the truth came out,
though, he worried Jess wouldn't see his reasons as good
enough.
Mitch nodded and she turned away, giving him a good
view of her back. Dirty Dan's head rested on the picnic table.
Apparently, he'd fallen asleep. Still, she kept that hand glued
to his shoulder as she spoke to a gal with black braids.
He looked over the others scattered in small groups
around the yard. These women were all much older, much
harder. Had the girls he'd known back in New York looked
this rough? He didn't remember. Too many years in
California, too many jobs watching over the well-heeled set
had helped him forget.
He studied Jess. Her tank and faded jeans fit well. The
traditional biker boots and black belt made her look hip, rather
than tough. Her dark-gold hair, freed down her back, appeared
softer, less wild and wind-blown than the women surrounding
her. She could fit in anywhere.
He stood to do another security check. Jess might be a
tattoo artist, but the only tattoo he'd spotted on her had been a
small black sun at the base of her spine, revealed when she'd
been bent over the keg in the garage. He'd wanted to hook his
fingers in the back of her jeans and see the rest. He still did.
And that, babes and bikers, is a problem.

Jess woke to birds singing, the sun shining, and a glorious
breeze drifting off the lake and through her open window. She
felt like crap.

All night she'd tossed and turned, exhausted, emotionally
overwhelmed, and needful. If ever in her life she'd suffered
hyperactive hormones, this was it. Did other women get this
way after a long dating drought? Or should she run away to the
circus and start her own one-woman show.

She could hear the barker now.
"Come see the world's most sexually frustrated woman!
She bitches, she moans, she complains–until a MAN shows up.
Ladies and Gentlemen, you'll see drool and stupidity like never
before!"
She'd be a hit.
With a grunt, she disentangled herself from the sheets and
stumbled to her private bathroom. A shower, a shampoo, three
minutes of cold water, and she went back into her room, feeling
much better. Until she saw Mitch leaning over her bed, gazing
out the window. Would he never leave her alone?
He straightened, his gaze going from her bare feet,
dripping legs, and barely covered thighs, to where she gripped
the damp towel across her breasts. She might as well have
been naked.
His presence felt like an invasion. Hiking the towel
higher on her chest she didn't think, just reacted. "Get out of
my room!"
The closest thing not nailed down happened to be an old,
feathered Mardi Gras mask. She pitched at it him, but it
merely floated to the floor at his boots.
He bent and picked up the mask. "Sorry, I didn't know
where you were."
"Who died and made you my keeper? What the
hell
does
it matter where I am?" She barreled after him, snatched the
mask out of his hand and slapped his shoulder with it. "Just get
out."
Wearing that awful, adorable, crooked smile, hands up
against the flapping feathers, glitter, and plastic, he backed out.
"Okay, okay. Chill out. I'm going."
Jess slammed the door on his grin. She leaned against the
purple-painted wood, breathing hard. A feather, dislodged
from the mask, floated in front of her face. She huffed. It
twirled, then coasted to the floor. "Great, just great."
Who the hell did he think he was anyway? Coming in
here, in my bedroom. If Dad had caught him…
She groaned and flopped face first on the bed.
You moron! You should have yanked him in bed and
made so much noise Dad would have come running.
She could just picture her father's face. Bullish with fury,
he would have grabbed Mitch by the ears and dragged him
down the stairs, kicked him through the front door, and told
him never to come back.
What am I going to do now?
Not lie in bed and whine about it that was for sure. She
dressed quickly in a pair of cutoff denim shorts and a pink tshirt with a Tattoos and Tails logo across the front. Another
Kooch original. Sitting on a Sportster, A Harley-Davidson hog
used a tattoo gun to write the name of the shop in fat graffiti.
She dragged a brush through her damp hair and glanced in
the mirror.
Okay. If I'm gonna stick to the plan, get Mitch all
hot and bothered for me, I need to do something more than the
usual scrub and brush. Especially after that fiasco
.
At the small vanity, she unearthed tubes and bottles of
stuff she hadn't looked at since their New Year's eve party.
One of J.D.'s old girlfriends had once tried to help her figure
out all this stuff, but the couple had broken up before Jess
could learn enough to do it on her own. Most of the time, she
didn't much care she'd been raised by men, but on days like
today, she hated not having a mother.
Thirty minutes later, she'd washed her face three times and
had only succeeded in making her face red from hot water and
soap. Her hands shook and she kept screwing up the blush and
eye shadow, looking like a hooker, or worse, a clown.
Threering circus, here I come!
She applied lip gloss, a touch of mascara–very proud she
didn't poke her eye out–and left it at that. Any more and she'd
mess it up again. She eyed her hair warily in the mirror.
No, uh-uh. I'll end up bald
.
She snatched her keys off the dresser, dug through the
jeans she'd worn last night for her cash, and ran down the
stairs.
The first to see her was J.D. He sat on the sofa nursing a
cup of black coffee. He looked up with a smile on his face,
then did a double-take. His grin widened. "Well, well, well."
"Shut up, J.D." She kept going, afraid she'd lose her
nerve.
Going off half-cocked was not her usual approach. If it
was true though, that you could catch more flies with honey,
she might still drag the truth out of Mitch. She had a better
chance with him than her father. This new plan of hers could
end up with a double prize. He gets a one-way ticket back to
the golden state and she gets the truth. Perfect.
Unless I totally blow it like I did last night
.
The kitchen was empty, thank God. Her father was still
sleeping. He usually attended the church of extra Zs on
Sunday mornings and she had no intention of interrupting his
prayers.
Mitch stood on the deck wearing his black leather jacket
and a pair of faded jeans. She registered the worn spot slightly
below his left shoulder before she banged through the screen
door. In a rush, she asked, "Wanna-go-to-breakfast-with-me?"
He smiled. "Not mad at me?"
Jess rolled her eyes. "Puh-lease."
Gathering all her courage, she grabbed his hand and pulled
him to the garage. Thankfully, she had to release his hand to
hit the button for the door protecting her Mustang. Her palms
had begun to sweat and she didn't want to gross out the King of
Cool. The door rumbled up and she ducked beneath, impatient
to unlock the passenger side for him. "Get in."
"Yes, ma'am." He appeared too big to fit, but he made it
into the seat.
Behind the wheel, Jess peeled out in reverse, barely
making the clearance beneath the still rising door. Mitch's
heat, his undeniably tasty scent, filled the interior. As soon as
she got the front end pointed down the alley, she rolled her
window down, in dire need of lust-free oxygen.
"You can slow down now." Mitch said as she spun onto
the busy through-street. He tried to open his window while
plastered to the door. "I don't think they're after us."
She chuckled, then giggled.
You're losin' it
. Breathing
deep, she took the next turn slower. "I think we lost them."
He smiled and let go of the dash. "Good. Glad it's safe. I
was getting a little too attached to the car."
Jess patted the dashboard. "She's hard to resist."
The fresh air helped ease the feeling she'd implode with
sexual TNT. Now all they needed was some music. "Check
out the sound system. Pop in a CD."
Mitch pushed a button and in seconds, Lynard Skynard
told them to turn it up, and Jess did as he asked. Sweet Home
Alabama pumped through the speakers, perfectly equalized,
perfectly loud.
She drove up Lake Drive, enjoying the clean wind, the
bright sunshine, and blaring rock-and-roll. Weaving through
traffic, she found the George Webb diner on the east side. Her
treat, her restaurant. If he didn't care for her choice, he could
take her somewhere else next time.
Next time.
The thought gave her a thrill as she twisted the wheel,
swerving around a Sunday driver to get the last spot available.
Maybe, if Mitch didn't have concrete plans, he wouldn't mind
settling down in Milwaukee. They exited the car together and
she tried to drive the hope away.
Careful. Don't set yourself
up for a let down
.
She locked the Mustang and led the way inside,
determined to enjoy the morning and not think ahead.
Whatever it turned out that he wanted here, she'd deal with that
then. Who knew? Maybe she could convince him to give up
whatever he was into and go legit, like the rest of their crew.
She relaxed.
The bright red and white interior reminded her of the
fifties. Mitch would be James Dean, only more rugged, but
just as good-looking. Who would she be? Definitely not
Marilyn Monroe. Jess didn't kid herself. The only thing sexy
about her was the Mustang. She so badly lacked any
femininity. Without a mother, her girly side was nothing but a
scarecrow, and there wasn't anything attractive about that.
She slid into a booth across from Mitch. His smile
unnerved her. She knew good looking men often flirted with
women out of habit, rather than real interest. Maybe she'd read
more into his attention than was really there.
They both ordered coffee, pancakes, and bacon. Mitch
surprised her. She'd never had a date, if that's what he could be
called, order the same thing. It gave her a strange sense of
familiarity, as if they were life-long buddies.
I don't want to be his buddy
.
Jess added cream and sugar to her coffee, giving herself
something to look at other than him. The diner was busy, but
not packed, and the sense of privacy at their booth didn't help
settle the wicked tremble in her belly. She'd be lucky to get a
bite of food in her. "So, what's California like?"
"It's great." He sipped his black coffee. "What about
you? You lived here all your life?"
She nodded and eyed him. Short answer, new question–
perfect misdirection. When she'd dated Jack, the cop, she'd
learned a few tricks.
If Mitch knows my dad at all, he should
know we've never lived anywhere else. Two can play at his
game though.
His knee brushed hers under the table. She didn't move,
didn't try to break the connection. If she wanted him gone,
then she had to remain inviting, not wimp out like she'd done
last night.
If
she wanted him gone? How quickly that had
changed. "Where you headed next?"
"South." He lifted an arm to drape it over the back of his
seat, but then lowered it, as if he had thought better of doing so.
"What about you? You ever think of traveling, getting away for
a while?"
She shook her head. "I couldn't leave the business.
Besides, I've got everything I need right here."
He looked surprised. "Everyone needs a vacation once in
a while."
"Not me." She was such a liar. She ached to get away, to
see the world, to stretch her legs on earth she'd never walked
on before, to wake up to a view that was as foreign to her as
chopsticks. "If you can't find what you want right where you
are, you don't need it."
He leaned over the table with a mischievous grin, his dark
brows raised, eyes intense, voice lowered suggestively. "You
don't believe in going after what you want?"
Please, someone save me from taking what I want, right
now, right here
.
"Here you go," the waitress said, balancing their plates.
"Thank you." And Jess meant it a lot more than the
waitress could guess.
The waitress pulled a pen and pad from her pocket.
"Anything else I can get you folks?"
Jess bit back a request for Mitch ala Mode and glanced at
her cup. "More coffee, if you get a chance."
"No problem." She turned to Mitch. "What about you?"
He covered his cup with one big-knuckled hand. "I'm
good."
"Be right back." She left.
Jess attacked her pancakes with butter and syrup, keeping
her hands and mind occupied. Mitch lifted a fork full of
pancake, but froze. The very air stiffened around him.
"What?" She looked at his plate. Did he find a cockroach
or something?
Mitch didn't answer. His fork fell to his plate with a
clatter. "Go to the bathroom."
"What?" The beginnings of a smile soured on her face.
He was serious. "I don't have to go."
"Go, now." He scooted to the edge of the booth, yanking
her hand and forcing her own fork to fall from her fingers.
"What the hell is going on?" Her heart stuttered on a
wave of unexpected adrenaline as she tried to pull her hand
back.
"Too late." He cursed and lunged across the table,
knocking her coffee over. She got a glimpse of the shoulder
holster beneath his coat as the lapels parted and his big hand
emerged with an even bigger pistol.
The worn spot on his
jacket
.
His free hand shoved her head down, aided by the brick
wall of his chest. She hit her forehead on the edge of the
Formica table top and cried out in pain.
The window exploded inward. Glass rained down through
every open space Mitch's broad back didn't cover. Her heart
leapt from her chest and lodged in her throat, cutting off her
scream.
* * *
Sprawled across the table, Mitch squinted through falling
glass. Outside, the car he'd seen trolling the street seconds
before, sped up as the passenger fired a silenced pistol at the
front of the diner.
Hard-boiled rage filled Mitch. He pulled the trigger
repeatedly and emptied his clip at the tires.
You ain't goin'
nowhere.
The front tire blew, then the back. The driver lost control
and the sedan plowed into the car parked two up from Jess's
Mustang.
"Stay down." Mitch pushed her further into the booth and
lifted himself off the splattered syrup and coffee mess on the
table. A teen girl screamed over and over again in her mother's
arms. Others whimpered, huddled behind counters and beneath
tables. He stalked to the door, furious.
Did they really think
they could get away with this? Shooting at innocent people?
At Jess?
Not on their very short lives.
Pistol aimed at the ceiling, he ejected the cartridge and
slapped a new one in. He chambered the first round, then
yanked the door open hard enough to make it bounce off the
firewall.
On the street, the sunshine felt too bright, too hot. A red
haze dropped over the deserted street. The knuckles of his
empty hand crackled as he clenched and unclenched them in an
eager fist, as he started toward the car.
The driver threw the sedan in reverse, trying to dislodge
the front bumper. The passenger shoved at his door, banging it
against the rear fender of someone's Chevrolet.
At a telephone pole plastered with flyers, he exhaled,
focusing.
Murder won't get me answers
. Visions of beating a
name from these mooks kept him calm as he whipped the
Browning around the pole in a two-handed grip, targeting the
passenger. "Don't move!"
Pasty face ugly with frustration, the passenger twisted in
his seat, ducked low and aimed at Mitch.
Despite the bad angle, Mitch risked a shot and nailed the
gunman's upper arm. The pistol disappeared back inside on a
stream of liquid curses. More shouts came from inside the
vehicle.
Want more? Come and get it.
The driver jammed the car into drive and tried to plow his
way out of the Chevrolet. Smoke poured from the remaining
back tire, hazing the air with the acrid odor of scorched rubber.