Possession (6 page)

Vincent didn't like starting the week with bad news. The background report on Kline Walker Barnes was waiting on his desk in the bar office. The son of a bitch had a novel-length criminal background without any prior convictions. Just the recent one for assault. He scanned the front page of the document again: suspected of eight assaults, even statutory rape in Arizona.

Money bought silence. The heir to his late father's fortune, the man spent his time traveling and apparently harassing women. Only this time, the bastard picked the wrong girl. Sure that Tina didn't know his complete history, he fired off an email requesting a late lunch with her.

She texted an answer:
Miss me already?

He rolled his eyes and typed,
Define miss.

According to Thesaurus.com, desire, crave, need, long for…

His gaze canvassed the room for a distraction. Whenever she confronted him this way, made him think about sex with her, his whole body suffered. He responded,
From what I see, it means fumble, botch, and disregard.

LOL,
she replied.
Nice try.

Yes,
he finally admitted.
I want to see you again.
Hester's Cafe on South Alameda Street, 2PM.

I'll be there.

He'd try his best to convince her to get more proactive about Kline. In his experience, waiting to contain a situation only made it worse. And if she didn't take his advice, Vincent planned on visiting the asshole himself, with or without her approval.

Someone knocked on the door and Vincent looked up from his paperwork. “Enter.”

J.T. stepped inside. “A sergeant with the Man-o-Wars is waiting outside.”

A rival MC based in Robstown; Vincent knew something must be wrong. Showing up unannounced either took courage or demonstrated just how stupid they were. He tapped his fingers on the desk. “Escort him inside, but don't leave the hallway once he's here. And check him for weapons.”

“He volunteered for a pat-down already.” J.T. left the office.

Vincent stood up and started to pace. Maybe he should contact his president in Austin to see if everything was all right at the annual rally. Every year the 1%ers in Texas sponsored a smaller version of Sturgis, attracting fans from all over the state. Leadership also used it as an opportunity to meet with allies and rival clubs to discuss business.

However, if something had happened, surely one of the other officers would have called. Vincent didn't want to react prematurely.

He looked at the door just as it pushed open. His rival was a few inches shorter than Vincent, with dark hair and a beard. “I appreciate you seeing me without notice.”

Vincent eyeballed him head to toe, disliking his patches. The Man-o-Wars sold drugs and pimped out strung-out pass-arounds. Something the Sons of Odin never did. “I'm Vincent Ramos,” he said. “Why are you here?”

“Personal business,” he answered, extending his hand. “My name is Crash.”

Once again Vincent needed to make a snap decision. If he shook his hand, it meant he must provide safe passage for his enemy. If he refused, the lack of respect could spark a fight. The man showed up unarmed and unannounced—a crapshoot at best. The least Vincent could do was listen to what he had to say.

He accepted his hand. “Sit down.” Vincent pointed to the guest chair in front of his desk, then returned to his own seat. “Let's get this over with as soon as possible. My Brothers may not be as accommodating as I am.”

Crash nodded. “Last night one of your members showed up at Kramer's Saloon wearing his colors.”

Vincent blew out a frustrated breath and folded his hands behind his head.
Fucking idiot.
Visiting a rival club's turf wearing a cut was prohibited unless a formal invite was issued. It kept the peace. “Who?”

“Dog Tag.”

“You have my word he'll be disciplined. It won't happen again.”

“Wait.” Crash held up his hand. “If that was all, I wouldn't be here right now.”

Vincent suspected as much.

“My old lady is missing.”

“Not my fault you can't control your woman.” Vincent started to get up.

“Two of my Brothers saw her leave with Dog Tag.”

Vincent grimaced. A fairly new member of the charter, Dog Tag attracted the attention of the opposite sex more than most men he knew. And the little bastard couldn't keep his dick in his pants. “Was she patched?”

“Patched
and
tattooed.”

“Why didn't your Brothers stop her?”

“Because she was on the back of his bike riding off by the time they got outside.”

Vincent rubbed his face, gauging Crash's calm demeanor. How long would it last? Another reason Vincent didn't get involved with women: half the trouble his Brothers got into involved pussy. “If what you're saying is true, I apologize for Dog Tag's behavior. He'll be dealt with immediately. Leave your contact information and I'll call as soon as I can.”

“Not good enough,” Crash said emphatically. “Cut one, we all bleed. I demand justice.”

Not the words Vincent wanted to hear. Certain rules were universal for 1%ers. Old ladies were off limits. But some men preferred to take risks—big ones. Once Vincent confirmed Crash's story, he had to deliver Dog Tag for a fight. Or, if the Man-o-Wars wanted to push it, a club-wide beat-down. Standing aside and watching one of his Brothers suffer at the hands of his enemies wasn't something Vincent thought he could do. As a charter officer, he couldn't break rules, but he could bend them.

“Like I said before, leave your cell number—I'll call when I can.” Done discussing anything, Vincent walked to the door and opened it. “J.T., get this man a drink, then send him on his way.”

Goddamned son-of-a-bitch…
Fury pumped through Vincent's veins as he stomped toward his new Harley-Davidson Fat Boy Lo. He swung his leg over the seat, then knocked his kickstand back with his boot. The engine thundered to life and he took off, headed for Dog Tag's house a mile down Laguna Shores Road. If he caught him in bed with Crash's old lady, maybe he'd save the charter some time and rip his head off now.

He parked at the end of Dog Tag's driveway and strutted to his front door. He punched the doorbell half a dozen times.

“Hold on,” he heard his Brother call from inside.

As soon as the door opened, Vincent pushed his way inside and looked around. Wearing a pair of black boxers and a shit-eating grin, Dog Tag appeared guilty as fuck.

“What's up?” Dog Tag tried to fist-bump him.

“How many times do I have to tell you your prick is going to get you in trouble?” Vincent shoved him against the foyer wall. “Where'd you go last night?”

“For a ride.”

“Where?” he demanded.

“Robstown. Stopped in that dive on Lopez Street for a couple beers.”

“Wearing your cut?”

Dog Tag stared at the floor before he answered. “Yeah.” He flashed a dangerous smile. “Picked up a prime piece of ass before I left.”

Vincent couldn't contain his anger. He punched Dog Tag in the face, his gold signet ring leaving a welt on his cheek. “That's just the beginning.”

Dog Tag rubbed his face resentfully. “What the fuck?”

“Familiar with the name Crash?”

Dog Tag swallowed. “Yeah—the bastard doesn't know how to treat a lady.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Saline!” Dog Tag called. “Come downstairs, baby.”

A minute later, a beautiful blonde wrapped in a sheet joined them in the entryway.

“Show Vincent your back,” Dog Tag growled.

“But…” She retreated.

“Please.”

She nodded and turned around, lowering the sheet. What appeared to be cigarette burn scars dotted her tanned skin. “Disciplinary marks compliments of my old man.”

“Ex,” Dog Tag interjected.

“Ex,” she repeated.

Vincent eyed the scars with disgust. Though it didn't excuse Dog Tag's reckless behavior, it did give him a legitimate defense. “What are you two trying to say?”

“That she's staying with me.”

Vincent met Saline's blue gaze. “Is it true?”

“Yes. Dog Tag asked me to be his old lady last night. I'm finished with the Man-o-Wars.”

Why should he trust the old lady of one of his most hated rivals? She could be a spy. But the marks on her back suggested otherwise. He'd counted a couple dozen scars concentrated mid-spine. It must've hurt. “This changes things,” he admitted. “Where's your patch?” he asked.

“Trash can in the garage.”

“Show me your tat.”

Saline lifted her right foot. “On my ankle.”

Vincent spotted it right away,
Property of Crash.
“Two things need to happen today. One, give me your patch, and two, Dog Patch, take Saline to Chico and get that tat removed or covered with Sons of Odin ink. Understand?”

Dog Tag stared at her. “Are you sure you want to do this? It's not too late to go home.”

“He'll break my neck,” she said, genuinely afraid. “And after last night…” She wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him in for a kiss. “I can't think of a better place to be.”

Twenty minutes later Vincent was on the road again, Saline's vest tucked in his saddlebag.

Tina arrived at the café early and chose a booth next to the wall of windows near the entrance. For some reason she couldn't get enough of the sunshine. As she reached to take a sip of her double-shot mochaccino, her mug started to vibrate on the table. A flash of chrome and black caught her attention. Vincent parked his motorcycle in a nearby spot and climbed off his bike. Half tempted to run outside and jump on the back of his Harley, she sighed as he crouched to tie his shoelace. Everything about him turned her on.

With his back facing her, she caught an eyeful of his luscious ass and powerful legs. And the club patches on his vest. Familiar with the configuration and what the patches represented, she really didn't know how to feel.
Sons of Odin
was stitched in black thread on the top rocker. The logo patch in the center proffered Thor's hammer on a sea of silver. The bottom rocker read
Texas Born.

Women loved Texas men, and she adored this one, blessed with sex appeal and old-fashioned manners, more than any other she'd met. She grinned as he turned around and met her gaze. He hesitated for a moment, then raised his hand in greeting. She waved back, feeling a little silly and excited to see him again. If he needed to use her situation with Kline as an excuse to spend time together, so be it; she'd roll with it for now.

He approached the table. “Good afternoon.” Vincent didn't attempt to mask his admiration of her outfit. “You get prettier every time I see you.”

Heat surged through her body, and she didn't understand her physical response. Maybe because she got flustered when he flirted with her? “Thank you.”

“Are you blushing?” He claimed the bench across from her. “We've known each other long enough to be comfortable, right?”

She gave her coffee an extra stir, then met his eyes. “That's a question I think you need to answer, Vincent.” Good, she'd found her confidence again.

He rubbed his chin. “Fair enough.”

A server placed a glass of ice water in front of him. “Can I take your order?”

“Want a sandwich?” he asked Tina.

“Sure,” she answered. “I'll have the Reuben with a salad and ranch dressing.”

“Two Reubens, one with salad, the other with sweet potato fries.” Vincent looked at Tina's coffee. “And whatever she's drinking.”

The waitress wrote down their order, then headed for the kitchen.

“Hear from Kline today?”

Tina shook her head. “Not a peep. But I took a walk after you left, so who knows, maybe there's a message waiting for me.”

Vincent looked under the table. “You're wearing sandals. No more swelling?”

“A little. I popped some Motrin and braved the beach. I haven't gone seashell hunting in a long time. Guess I owe you another thank you for taking me to Sunset Lake. I get so busy at work, I forget why I love it here.”

He grunted in approval. “Easy to do. Another reason I don't miss the bank. My blood pressure and heart rate improved dramatically a couple weeks after I quit my job.”

“Hard to believe a thirty-year-old in perfect physical condition had high blood pressure.”

“That's part of the life lesson Lang gave me. What really matters?”

Tina kicked the question around in her head a few times before she answered. “Family. Friends. Career.”

“Agreed. But you should enjoy what you do.”

“You love being the treasurer of the Sons of Odin?” She'd always wanted to ask.

“Absolutely,” he said without hesitation. “I love my Brothers.”

She traced the rim of her cup with her index finger. “You don't miss your old life?”

He chuckled. “Maybe the military—knowing I had a dozen guys willing to die for me or with me. You can't find that kind of camaraderie in the real world. Maybe that's why I chose leather over a suit. Half my Brothers are veterans; just seems to fill whatever voids we have after we separate. Once you've experienced a war front, the world never looks the same when you get home. It took some time, but I finally realized fifty hours a week dealing with civilians begging for money in the bank was slowly killing me. Wearing a tie and dress shoes and doing the same thing every day for the rest of my life…Fuck no, I don't miss it.”

“I'm happy for you, Vincent.”

He grasped her hand, tickling her palm. “Can you say the same?”

“Most of the time. I followed in my father's footsteps. Went to the same law school, even picked the same specialty. I realize how privileged I am. Money can't buy happiness, but it makes life a lot easier.”

“So does freedom.”

Tina wished she knew what he was thinking. Sure, he gave away bits and pieces, but she wanted so much more. “Freedom is another luxury we often take for granted.”

“I live it. No rules, no bullshit, just the open road.”

She gazed out the window at his bike. “She's beautiful.”

“Therapy,” he added and squeezed her hand. “Completely customized Fat Boy Lo, 110 horsepower, like an old-school machine.”

“With enough room on the back for me to wrap my arms around your waist and hold on tight.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. A nervous tic or something else? “Have you ever ridden a bike?”

Tina gave him a
what-do-you-think
look. “Dirt bikes every summer.”

“So you lied the other night when you said no more surprises.” His expression was playful.

“Guilty again,” she admitted.

The server returned with their food. “Can I get you anything else?”

“No, thank you,” Tina said. She immediately picked up her sandwich and bit into the hot corned beef and Swiss cheese. “Oh. My. God.” Vincent ignored his food, obviously intrigued by the way she chewed. She licked her lips seductively, then took a second bite. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing.” He picked up his sandwich. “Just hungry.”

For what?
she thought. Not the kind of woman to back down from a challenge, she'd find another way to get him to open up more, to admit how much he wanted to kiss and touch her again. But for now it seemed best to change the subject.

“Lily called earlier. Have you heard from Lang?”

“He texted yesterday—loves Paris and his new wife.”

“I know,” she said. “Can't wait to see them again.”

“Lang's considering rejoining the club.”

That made Tina nearly choke on her water. “Really?”

“Appears Mrs. Anderson has changed her view on the charter.”

“There's no point in Lang trying to deny who he is,” Tina observed. “I never really understood why he retired his patches.”

“The girls.”

“Sure.” Lang's parents were killed in an accident a couple of years ago, leaving him with the responsibility of raising his three younger siblings. A heartbreaking situation. “But he was a member when his parents died. A third-generation member—that was all he'd ever known. And from what Lily has told me, the girls are well adjusted and don't suffer for it.”

Their eyes locked. “You'd date a Brother?”

Tina suppressed her laughter. Hadn't she been hinting at that for three days now? “Depends on the man.”

“I'll remember that.”

She threw a piece of lettuce at him. It hit his chin and fell on the table. “I have some wonderful news to share.”

He stuffed a fry in his mouth and took a sip of coffee. “I'm all ears.”

“After I graduated from high school, my parents took a couple of years off and traveled and partied. But after that got old, they returned to Illinois and applied to become foster parents. A dozen kids have been cycled through their house. Last year Dustin showed up on their doorstep in need of emergency shelter. What started as a temporary situation turned into a permanent placement. Well, Mom called today to let me know they've decided to adopt him. I officially have a little brother.”

He wiped his mouth on a napkin, then crumpled it in his hand. “I wish more people would do the same. What an incredible gesture of love. Congratulations, big sister. Are you going to take a trip home?”

“Actually,” she started on a smile, “my family is coming here for Thanksgiving. Which gave me an idea.”

He shifted in his seat.

“If you're not busy for the holiday, would you like to join us for dinner?”

“On one condition. After we spend time with your family, you'll have dessert at the clubhouse.”

She leaned forward, resting her chin on both hands. Did it count as a formal date? She struggled to keep from smiling like a fool. “Only if I get to ride on the back of your bike.”

He smirked. “If you ever end up on my bike, Tina, you better be prepared to wear my patch.”