Riding Dirty (23 page)

Mia smothered a moan, uncertain. She felt vulnerable and messy, uncomfortably exposed. She wanted to clean up and regroup, before she blurted something...inappropriate. If she didn’t get a handle on her emotions, they might spill out.

He didn’t wait for permission. Throwing one leg across hers, he pushed her thighs apart. He looked over his shoulder at her pussy in the mirror. She was dewy and flushed, like a just-fucked flower. He dipped his middle finger inside, coating it with a mixture of their body fluids. “I like this,” he said, moistening his lips. “My cum in you.”

“I can’t think of anything you don’t like,” she said, breathless. “Except other men.”

“I could say the same of you, with no exceptions.”

She conceded his point and submitted to his ministrations, watching him work. He used two fingers, widening them to stretch her passage. He rested his left hand to the top of her mound. With his right hand, he continued to thrust his fingers into her, stroking the fleshy pad inside her while his thumb stimulated her clit. He went deep, diving in and out, massaging her with slippery fingertips. Her belly quivered under the sensual onslaught. She stared into his eyes, breathing hard.

“Come, Mia,” he said. “Come all over my hand.”

She exploded in a wet, hot rush, her inner muscles contracting, warm fluid dribbling from her pussy. When it was over, he eased his fingers from her gently. She just lay there for several moments, drained and light-headed. “Am I still alive?”

“Did you see a rainbow?”

“I think I saw God.”

He smiled at her, looking very smug. They curled up on the bed together and lapsed into a comfortable silence. She threaded her fingers through his, tracing the tattoos on his knuckles. T-I-C-K T-O-C-K.

Soon, their time would be up.

“I might get some more ink,” he said idly.

“Where?”

“My wrist.”

She touched the blank space there, feeling his pulse. “What do you want there?”

“Rylan. My brother’s name.”

“Is that a painful place for a tattoo?”

“Not really. His wrists were tatted up, so it seems fitting.”

She let go of his hand abruptly. “His wrists were tattooed?”

“He had Forever on the left and Eleven on the right,” Cole said.

Mia scrambled out of bed, her stomach lurching.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she lied. “I just...feel sick again.”

He watched with concern as she fled to the bathroom and shut the door. She studied her pale face in the mirror, horrified by what Cole had revealed. Mia was almost certain that one of her husband’s killers had the “Eleven” tattoo on his right wrist. His brother had been alive at the time of her attack. If Dirty Eleven had been collaborating with White Lightning for several years, it was possible—even likely—that Rylan had been the second perpetrator.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

M
IA TOOK A
long shower, rinsing Cole’s touch from her skin and his semen from her body.

But when she came out of the stall, she wasn’t clean. She couldn’t wash away the fact that she’d been using him to gain information about her husband’s killers. She couldn’t wash away her feelings, either.

Falling for him hadn’t been part of the plan.

She wrapped a towel around her torso and pressed a hand to her stomach, which fluttered with unease. There were too many confusing emotions bouncing around inside her, and she needed some space to sort them out. Surely she wasn’t in
love
love with Cole. It was just that they had great chemistry. Hot, dirty sex could play tricks on a girl’s heart. She hadn’t felt the weight of a man on top of her in so long.

They’d bonded during the first session, and their connection had grown every moment they’d spent together. Being with him had revived her. He’d stripped away her inhibitions and satisfied her deepest desires. He was exciting, dangerous and wildly inappropriate as a life partner. That was part of his appeal. It was the reckless abandon of a forbidden, ill-fated affair. She was experiencing passion, not love.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror until she believed it. When she came out of the bathroom, he was standing by the table, fully dressed. He’d taken out the soup containers and bought two more sodas from the vending machine. His eyes were watchful. Caring.

All of her artificial explanations for her feelings fell apart, destroyed by his thoughtful gesture and attentive gaze.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She raked a hand through her wet hair, nodding.

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted diet or regular.”

“Diet’s fine.”

“I hope I wasn’t too rough.”

Flushing, she cracked open the diet soda. She liked it rough, and he knew it. The only one to blame for her weak stomach this morning was Mia. She’d gorged herself in a number of different ways. Sex, emotion, alcohol...

“You were perfect,” she said.

He grasped her upper arms and studied her face for a moment, his expression inscrutable. Then he kissed her cheek and brushed by her to use the restroom. She tugged on her clothes, feeling melancholy. It was before checkout time, but the room had become claustrophobic. She wanted to hit the road.

He dropped her off an hour later at the Starplex. Her car was sitting in the parking lot. She was lucky it hadn’t been stolen or towed.

“How about an actual movie tomorrow night?” he said.

She scanned the marquee. “What do you want to see?”

He shrugged, naming the animated film.

“You like kids’ movies?”

“They’re okay.”

She supposed his real life was heavy enough. He didn’t need any more drama.

“You’ll have to behave yourself in the theater, though,” he said, smiling.

With a husky laugh, she kissed him goodbye. After she got into her car, he drove away. She wondered if he liked kids, as well as kids’ movies. Then she shook her head at herself and eased out of the parking lot. What did it matter if he liked kids? He was a violent criminal. He’d end up dead or in prison.

And she was in love with him.

“
Mensa
,” she muttered under her breath, slamming her palm against the steering wheel. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

As soon as she got home, she turned on her laptop and searched the internet for pictures of Rylan Shepherd. There was an obituary, but no images. She couldn’t find a Facebook page. There was a website for Dirty Eleven MC, with a photo of a young man in sunglasses and a green bandanna named “Roach.” His wrists weren’t visible. She didn’t recognize him.

She made a cup of coffee to combat her lingering hangover and curled up on the couch. If Rylan had been involved in the robbery, there was no one to roll over on Gordon Lowe, the president of White Lightning. The only witnesses to the crime were dead. Digging deeper into this lead could be devastating to Cole, too.

Rylan had been killed on another risky job, the kidnapping of a presidential candidate’s daughter. Had Cole’s uncle been responsible for sending Rylan into trouble? Had he arranged for the home invasion also?

She clenched her hands into fists, fingernails digging into her palms. There was no way for her to warn Cole about her suspicions without revealing too many details and putting him in more danger. She had to think of another strategy.

Their time together was running out. His deadline for delivering solid information to Vargas was Tuesday. Cole might disregard those orders and face Vargas’s wrath. Or he might give in and help bring his uncle down.

Both options were incredibly risky.

Her doorbell rang as she took another sip of coffee, startling her into spilling it all over the couch. She’d never heard her doorbell before. She’d never had a visitor. Setting her cup aside, she approached the front window and glanced through the curtains. Damon was standing on her doorstep.

Shit.

“I know you’re in there,” he said.

She unlocked the door and opened it, tightening the belt on her robe. His suit was wrinkled, his hair was mussed and his jaw was shadowed with black stubble. Maybe this was his weekend-bender look.

“Where else would I be?”

“I stopped by last night.”

Heart pounding, she waved him in. “I went to a movie.”

“Which one?”

Although she’d just glanced at the marquee, Mia drew a blank. “It was a foreign film. I can’t remember the name.”

“Was it about two women?”

“Yes.”

He took his phone out of his pocket and tapped the screen. “What a coincidence. I saw the same one.”

Her face went hot as he showed her the image. It was a grainy photograph, probably taken at a distance and downloaded to his phone. Two women were kissing outside of a seedy motel room while a man unlocked the door.

“I have some better ones,” he said, scrolling down. “Very erotic.”

She studied the screen, her stomach tight with tension. There were no explicit shots—thank God the curtains had been closed—but he’d taken several photos of Mia and Tiffany on the blanket by the fire. “You were at the rally?”

“I was nearby.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want?”

“What do you think I want?” he asked, capturing her chin.

She looked away, unable to say it.

He stroked his thumb over her lips. “I want this,” he said. “I want you and her, doing whatever you did for him.”

Tears of dismay filled her eyes. She hated Damon for trying to coerce her into sex, but she wasn’t repulsed by his touch, and that scared her as much as his blackmail attempt. She didn’t recognize herself anymore.

“Did you two fuck each other, or just him?”

She blinked to clear her vision. “Tell me something first.”

“What?”

“Do you always choose prostitutes that remind you of your mother?”

His grip on her jaw tightened in anger. Mia didn’t know anything about his mother, except that she’d died young and he didn’t like talking about her. Instead of bruising Mia’s delicate skin, he let go.

“I prefer the ones who look clean, actually.”

It was difficult for Mia to remain impassive after this exchange. Damon wasn’t a bad man, just broken. He was also one of the few people who knew her true identity, and he had the power to hurt her on many levels. But she had the power to hurt him, too. She crossed her arms over her chest, ready to defend herself.

“What are you doing with that scumbag?” he asked.

“Why did you recruit me as his psychologist?”

“You know why.”

“I want to hear it.”

“I thought he’d like to fuck you. I didn’t think you’d
let
him.”

“Your motivations are never that simple.”

He scraped a hand down his face, mussing his dark eyebrows. He really looked like hell. “I know how you feel about your ex-husband. Or how you used to feel. I was giving you an opportunity.”

“To do what?”

“To hire someone to settle the score.”

She stared at him, incredulous. Damon hadn’t just been dangling her in front of Cole. He’d also been dangling Cole in front of her—so she’d pay him to kill their mutual enemy, Gordon “Gonzo” Lowe.

“I hoped he’d make Gonzo suffer, maybe torture him until he talked. Then he could take care of both problems.”

“And after he was done, you’d charge him with murder?”

“That’s right. I’d get a wrapped case and a double-homicide arrest. You’d get closure. Everybody wins.”

“Except Cole.”

“He was born to lose.”

She walked to the side window and looked out. Damon’s plan had almost worked. “I can’t believe this.”

Damon came up behind her, gripping her upper arms. “I did it for you. For us.”

She stiffened at his touch. “There is no us.”

“There could be.”

“No.”

His hands were dark against her pale pink robe. He had long, elegant fingers. Capable of many things, good and bad.

“Are you in love with him?”

She escaped from Damon’s grasp, unable to bear it.

“I can make this work.”

“No,” she said, edging away from him. “I’m not going to hire Cole to kill anyone. And I’m never going to sleep with you, Damon. I’ll be your friend and colleague, nothing more.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I have proof of your misconduct.”

“You have nothing but a few fuzzy photos of me with a former client.”

“It’s enough to get you relocated.”

The air rushed from her lungs. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

“Your investigation can’t handle the scrutiny.”

Damon couldn’t report her to WITSEC without admitting to his own misconduct, but he’d probably just get a slap on the wrist. Shrugging, he took his phone out of his pocket again. “There’s something else we need to discuss. I know why you were at the rally last night, and it wasn’t to put on a hot lesbian show. Is this what you were looking for?”

She glanced at the screen and froze. It was the E tattoo.
Eleven
was written in cursive on a sandy, graying wrist. When Damon expanded the screen with his fingertips, she saw the full image of a corpse lying on the sand. It was a dark-haired man in a bloodstained T-shirt. Cole’s brother, Rylan. Mia didn’t recognize him as one of her husband’s killers, but she wouldn’t have. His eye sockets had been pecked clean by birds.

Horrified by the sight, she backed away from Damon. “You bastard. You didn’t have to show me his face!”

“I want you to know what type of men you’re dealing with. What the stakes are.” He studied the macabre photo, unaffected. “It never occurred to me that the E might stand for Eleven. The clubs were sworn enemies. Is that the tattoo?”

After a short hesitation, she nodded.

He pulled up a second photo, a mug shot of Rylan Shepherd. “Can you ID him as the perp? Take your time.”

Mia studied the photo, which featured a young man with a long, thin face and circles under his eyes. He wore a belligerent expression, like an insouciant teenager. She was almost certain that the men who’d attacked her were older. “He’s too young.”

“He was twenty-one in this shot.”

Twenty-eight when he died, according to Cole. Twenty-five or—six during the robbery. She looked again but couldn’t make a positive identification. “I don’t recognize him.”