Sexy Bastards Anthology: Bad Boy, Biker, Alpha, Motorcycle Club, Contemporary Romance Collection (41 page)

Sitting at the table with him, she pulled off her rubber shoes and began massaging her feet over the nude-colored pantyhose.

“It was fine, Ma. I got homework, though.” He pointed to his backpack.

As she was about to reply, there was a knock on the door to their townhouse.

“You expectin’ someone?” she asked through the cigarette at the corner of her mouth.

He shook his head and swallowed hard, trying to think. Ripper hadn’t said he was coming by when they’d parted ways at school, and he wasn’t expecting anyone else. “No.”

She cautiously went to the door, looking through the peephole. She saw two men in suits and ties. Opening the door a crack but leaving the chain bolted, she glared at the two men. “What the hell you want?”

The taller of the two, a clean-cut white guy in a tie, produced a police badge. “Are you Mrs. Anderson?”

She nodded. “Yeah, why?”

“Is there an Ellis Anderson living at this residence? Your son?”

“Yeah.”

“We need to speak to him. Now.”

Oh, shit,
Ellis thought at hearing who was at the door. He thought about running up to his room, throwing the gun and bullets out the window, but what good would that do? They’d find them, and they were covered with his prints. Maybe he could rub the prints off? Maybe he could shimmy up a loose board in his room and hide the contraband under a floorboard. Maybe he could hide them in his laundry basket or the trash can in his bathroom. Who wants to search through that stuff?

Maybe it was too late and I was completely screwed,
he panicked.

His mother briefly closed the door and slid the chain off, opening the door wider and reluctantly inviting the two cops inside. She looked past her decaying porch and down both ways of the street before closing the door, a common habit of most inhabitants of the roughest neighborhood in Orlando.

“Y’all want something to drink?” his mother asked as she awkwardly indicated for them to sit on one of the two sofas, a couple of pink and blue flowered pieces that looked like the 90s might want them back someday.

“No, thank you, Mrs. Anderson,” one cop said.

The taller of the two shook his head and looked at Ellis. “You. Come sit over here.”

Ellis complied, sitting on the other sofa.

His mother sat on the sofa next to her son and stared at the men.

The one who’d spoken first started. “I’m Detective Atcheson, and this is Detective Johnson.” He pointed to his partner, a light-skinned black guy who looked too young to be a cop.

“What’s this about?” Mrs. Anderson asked.

Detective Atcheson produced an envelope from the inside of his suit pocket and set it on his lap. He fixed his stare on Ellis. “Where were you last night, son?”

Ellis swallowed hard, but tried to keep a cool mask over his face. “Out with friends, why?”

“Are you a member of the Orlando Aryan Boys gang?”

He feigned innocence and gasped for effect. “No. No way.”

Without warning, the detective reached over and grabbed his arm, yanking his T-shirt sleeve up to expose Ellis’s shoulder where a tattoo with the letters “OAB” decorated his shoulder.

His mother gasped. “Ellis John Anderson! How the hell long have you had that?”

Starting to get angry, he yanked his arm away from the detective and pulled his shirt sleeve down. “I got it on my 17
th
birthday, Ma. Calm down.”

“Calm down?” she screeched. “Why are you involved in some gang? I raised you better…”

“With all due respect, Mrs. Anderson, we’re here about something more serious than his affiliation with the OAB. The Jensen Sportsman’s Warehouse was robbed and vandalized last night, and we know the OAB was responsible.”

Ellis and his mother said nothing, just continued to glare at the detectives.

When they didn’t respond, the cop cleared his throat and pulled a series of black and white 8 by 10 sized photographs from the envelope he had set on his lap earlier. Spreading them on the wooden coffee table, he pointed at the surveillance video photos and said, “This is you.”

It wasn’t a question. The detective’s hard stare demanded an explanation.

Ellis didn’t say anything, he just stared at the photos, wondering how the hell he was gonna get out of this. He absentmindedly wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans. He was brought out of his thoughts when a smack to the back of his head made his vision go fuzzy.

“Answer him now, boy!” his mother ground out, her piercing blue stare shooting daggers at him.

He glanced at her, then back at the detective. “No, that ain’t me.” He gazed at the photo again, the dark hoodie covering most of his face, only a small part of it was showing. “That could be anyone,” he continued, his confidence growing.

The detective nodded, thrusting another photo of him with his arm raised, crowbar in hand, winding up to smash the glass. “This isn’t you, either?” The detective was almost mocking him now.

The hoodie had come back a little in the excitement of swinging the crowbar. Ellis sat back and folded his arms. “Nah, not me.”

“I see,” the detective said, not bothering to show them the rest of the photos, but instead, putting them back into the envelope. He then pulled a piece of paper out of the breast pocket of his suit jacket. He handed it to Ellis’s mother. “I have a warrant to search the premises.”

Detective Johnson fixed Ellis with a glare. “Unless you’d like to save us the trouble and just tell us where the weapons and ammo are?”

Ellis narrowed his eyes at the detectives. “Fuck you.”

“Ellis!” his mother screeched, standing up and yanking him by the arm. “What the hell is going on here?” She was trembling, her eyes a mixture of fear and desperation.

The detectives stood up and tossed the search warrant on the coffee table.

Lifting a shoulder and letting it fall, Detective Atcheson glared at Ellis for his disrespect and then said to his partner while staring at Ellis, “Johnson, you take the kid’s room. I’ll start in the kitchen.”

Just then, two uniformed police officers walked calmly through the front door. “These two will make sure you stay either outside or in this room while we search,” Detective Johnson said, heading upstairs.

Not five minutes later, Johnson came down the stairs carrying the gun by its handle in his gloved hand, the boxes of bullets wrapped in a plastic bag. He glared at Ellis, then poked his head into the kitchen, looking at Atcheson, who was pulling drawers and cabinets open. “Found it. Let’s roll.”

Atcheson spied the gun and then cut his gaze to Ellis, who was on the sofa with his head in his hands. Briskly walking to him, he grabbed his bicep and yanked him up. “Ellis Anderson, you’re under arrest for robbery and forced entry.”

Ellis pulled out of his grip and began to struggle. He was going to try to flee out of the back door and run – somewhere –
anywhere!
He just had to get out of there.

“Get your fucking hands off me!”

The two armed police officers ran to the aid of the detective and pinned the boy to the floor, putting handcuffs on behind his back.

“Get off me!” Ellis screamed again. “Let me go!”

They stood him up as he continued to struggle futilely.

“Don’t make me taze you, boy,” said one of the officers, a large guy who looked like he’d been a professional linebacker before he became a cop. His hand was twitching to pull out his Taser and his face was stern and serious.

They escorted Ellis to the front door, Detective Johnson opening it for them.

“No, please don’t take my boy, please!” his mother pled, falling to her knees, sobbing.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Atcheson said, cutting her a sympathetic glance. He walked over and pulled a card from his breast pocket, offering it to her. “Here’s my contact info. Call me tomorrow and I’ll tell you if he’s made bail.”

She continued to cry, tears streaming down her cheeks, ignoring the detective. He placed the card on the coffee table and the detectives and officers left with Ellis in custody, placing him in the back of a police cruiser.

“This is your third strike, Mr. Anderson,” the judge said, his wise hazel eyes narrowing on the defendant as he sat in the Orange County, Florida courtroom.

Ellis simply nodded as his court-appointed attorney leaned over and whispered something in his ear.

His mother was seated behind them in the galley, clutching her purse and watching in horror as the judge handed down a sentence to her only child.

The judge cleared his throat and looked at the paper in front of him, his glasses perched on his nose as the arms of his black robe swept across the desk as he read. He lifted his eyes up to Ellis. Removing his glasses, he set the paper down and folded his hands over it. “You know, when you first appeared in front of me last year, I gave you a chance, like I do to all teens. I thought maybe you were on the wrong path and that some community service helping the homeless would open your eyes. But no. Six months later you appeared again in front of me, on yet another robbery charge. Boy, the worst thing you could have ever done is get involved with the Orlando Aryan Boys. The other three are already behind bars, and your leader,” he looked down at his paper, “Justin Silver – or ‘Ripper’, is going to have a hell of a time in prison with the other gang bangers. But you,” he sighed, “I still don’t think you are beyond repair, even though you seem to be on the same path as your father.” He shook his head. “Despite that, your mother has tried her hardest to raise you, but you’ve continued to disappoint her, time after time, haven’t you?”

Ellis cut his eyes down to the desk, unable to look at the judge. As much of a hard-ass as he’d become, he still hated that he’d hurt his mother. “Answer me, boy!” the judge roared, pounding his fist on the large oak desk in front of him.

His eyes darted to the judge and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, I’m going to do you a huge favor today.”

Ellis, his mother, his attorney, and the entire courtroom were silent, hanging on every word coming from the judge’s mouth.

“Instead of prison, you are to enlist in the United States Marine Corps, effective immediately. You want to play with guns and pretend to be a tough guy? Let’s see how you handle the toughest boot camp in the world, and maybe a deployment or two.”

Ellis’s eyes got big, and he bit back a curse. “But–”

The judge cut him off. “Shut up, boy, I’m not done.”

Ellis’s jaw ticked with defiance, but he just simply nodded.

“If you do not complete four full years of active enlistment, you will be brought back here to Orange County, where you will serve a term of no less than seven years in a state penitentiary of my choosing.”

Ellis’s attorney raised a hand. “Your honor, the boy is only 17, and has not finished high school. I don’t believe the military will accept him without a high school diploma.”

The judge nodded. “Right. He will take a G.E.D. test, which he
will
pass, and that will satisfy their enlistment qualifications. If he doesn’t pass it, this one-time get-out-of-jail-free-card is null and void, and he will be off to prison – where, by the way,” he looked at Ellis, “they make you get your G.E.D. anyway, so keep that mind, boy. You hear me?” The judge narrowed his eyes at the defendant.

“I do, sir,” Ellis eked out, swallowing hard.

The judge pounded his gavel and shook his graying head. “Court adjourned.”

Chapter 1

Present Day

Ellis

If pain is weakness leaving the body, then what is it called when pain leaves the heart?

The fact that the gang I’d joined when I was 17 had called me “LT” turned out to be a sort of twisted poetic justice. The “leader” – if you could call him that, Ripper, had said Ellis was a stupid name and said LT sounded close enough. Then he made me “First Lieutenant” of the OAB. A title, at the time, I was proud to have.

Now, it just confused people – or it did during my eight years in the Marines. LT is the nickname for ‘lieutenant’ there too, but I hadn’t been a lieutenant in the Corps. No, those were the college-educated types. I’d started out as a grunt and made my way to First Sergeant by the time my tenure was up. Yes, the judge had sentenced me to four years, but by the grace of God, that judge, to whom I owed my life, had known what he was doing. He had seen something in me that not I, or even my mother, had seen in me: Potential. Instead of being the bad kid with the pretty face I’d appeared to be on the outside, I was actually a good kid just in with an ugly crowd. A sadly typical story, one that, fortunately, did not have a tragic ending. So I ended up serving another 4 years because I wanted to, not because I had to this time.

Well, some might say it could still end that way, but not me.

My past sins have definitely come back to haunt me. Not the sins of my teenaged youth; no, not those. Petty theft and robbery is nothing compared to what I’ve done and seen during my awesome, wonderful, sad, horrible, and terrific time in the United States Marine Corps.

The horrors, the triumphs, the defeats, the victories, they’re all wrapped up in one big confusing ball of memories and nightmares. The places I’ve seen, the people I’ve met, the women I’ve loved and let go, the brothers and friends I’ve loved and lost… all worth every moment. Even if I did come out of that part of my life scathed, scarred, broken, put back together, and then broken again.

There are times, when I’m alone, that I fight against the memories, battle against a breakdown at what I’ve been through, and then five or ten minutes later, I’m laughing like an idiot at a memory. Something that really isn’t funny, it’s just amusing to me, forever burned in my brain.

I have scars on the inside and the outside, and you know what? Thank you, Judge Perkins, because I wouldn’t trade them for an easier life. The mark that digs the deepest, though, isn’t one you can see. The one
she
left on my fucking soul.

Out of all the horrible battle scars I’ve endured… the cuts, bruises, gashes, abrasions, torn muscles, and sprains, the most softest and gentlest of the species has left the harshest mark, the largest ache, the most gaping wound. It was the most comical contradiction on the planet, and if I could take it back, I wouldn’t.

Talia

Strength is more than muscles and brawn. It’s the resolve to say “no” with your mouth when your heart and the rest of your body want to say, “Yes, yes! God, yes!”

I stared at the customer, a fake smile plastered on my face as she looked down at her smartphone. Growing tired of her ignoring me, I kept the painful smile on and said, “Ma’am, I’m gonna need you to order, or else I can take the person behind you while you decide?”

She looked up from her phone, her perfectly manicured finger paused over the screen. “Oh, sorry,” she bit out with her annoyingly beautiful red lips. I watched as she pursed them together, and I rubbed my palm against my green apron to keep from balling up my fist. She looked up at the menu board behind me, then back down at her phone. “I’ll take a chai latte, no foam, no sugar,” she finally said, not even bothering to make eye contact.

I punched her order into the register computer with more annoyance than I meant to and said, “That’s three-fifty-two.”

Not sure she heard me, and while smiling in apology to the customers waiting behind her, I looked back at the stupid blondie in front me and repeated, “Ma’am, that’s three-fifty-two.”

She looked up, bright blue eyes piercing me with annoyance as if I’d interrupted her text. “Oh, sorry.” She looked back down at her phone and punched a few buttons, then slid the phone under the scanner to pay for the drink with her app.

Damn yuppies. I hate them all.

“Do you need a receipt?” I asked, biting the inside of my cheek ‘til I could swear I tasted blood.

She dismissed me with a wave, her eyes still on her phone, and walked to the other side of the counter. I looked at the screen to find her name from her payment information and wrote it on the cup. I set it on the counter with her order written on it. I purposely misspelled “Jennifer” just to piss her off.

I took some calming breaths in order to be nice to the poor customers who had been just as much a victim to Jennifer’s rudeness as I had.

Thankfully, the shift passed quickly and without any more asshole customers. When 9 p.m. finally rolled around, I yanked off my apron and hung it up in the back room. I couldn’t grab my purse and call out a goodbye to my coworkers fast enough. I got into my little car and drove toward home.

As I reached my apartment complex, my phone chirped with a text. I killed the engine and looked around the parking lot before checking my phone.

Ellis:
You home?

I sighed. I knew what Ellis wanted. He wanted to come over and bring some wine and beer and maybe a pizza and pretend to want to watch movies all under the pretense of a casual night inside. But I knew what would happen, we’d barely touch the pizza, have too much to drink, and he’d pierce me with his sky blue eyes and then run his fingers through his short black hair and then kiss me. Then he’d tell me he how hot I was, and I’d giggle. Then he’d do it again, and soon his talented and wandering hands would find their way under my shirt. This was all a prelude to a long night of sweaty, mind-blowing sex, which ended in the morning with him gone before sunrise and me wondering what I had done wrong, questioning everything about myself. Then I wouldn’t hear from him for another week or so.

That was a vicious cycle I’d lived for over six months, and I most certainly wasn’t going to repeat it, no matter how damn hot Ellis Anderson was.

I gazed down at his text, contemplating not replying, but that never worked either. If I didn’t respond, he’d just show up.

If I replied and told him to come over, he would be here in ten minutes.

If I told him I was busy, or tired, or had to be at class early tomorrow, he’d show up anyway.

So I tried a tactic I hadn’t tried before. I didn’t want to resort to this, but the guy was relentless – and aggressive.

Me:
I’m not alone. Sorry, guy. Maybe some other time.

I gazed at my reply, mustering up the courage to hit ‘send.’

“Ah, screw it,” I said, pressing the green icon to send the text. I shoved the phone in my purse, hoping its battery would die before I’d have to suffer the repercussions of his reply. A small grin bent my lips as I imagined his ridiculously handsome face twisting into surprise when he read my reply.

Screw him. He’s a user. My heart can’t handle his games.

I put my key into the lock of my meager apartment and sighed in relief. My cat, Misty, was immediately winding herself around my legs, meowing for food. I bent down and picked her up.

I threw my purse on the coffee table and scratched behind her black pointed ears and popped her on her white nose with my finger. “You miss me today, girl? Huh?”

I carried her over to the kitchen where I pulled out a can of cat food and pried the top off, dumping it into her food bowl. I then filled her water dish to the brim from the tap and set it back down. Misty went to town gobbling down her food while I went into my room to change.

Smiling as I heard my phone chiming with texts, I changed into some loose white shorts and an oversized orange and white T-shirt which read NOT A MORNING PERSON and went back out to the kitchen.

Opening the fridge, I spied some leftover Italian food. I quickly dumped it onto a plate and shoved it into the microwave, starting the thing up and waiting for it to do its job.

I sighed at how tired I was. Why the hell was that stupid coffee shop open ‘til 9 p.m. anyway? I had to be at my morning class by 8 a.m. and that sucked, since I had a test in the morning and hadn’t studied yet.

When the microwave beeped, I pulled the plate from it and plucked a water bottle from the fridge, setting both down at my dining room table. My backpack was on the floor and I pulled out the big History book. Thumbing to the appropriate page, I began reading, trying my hardest to absorb the information for the Civil War test I had tomorrow.

My phone chirping again broke my concentration. With my noodles paused at my lips, I sighed in annoyance and set my fork down. I got up and yanked my phone from my purse, not wanting to read the texts but doing it anyway.

Ellis:
I know you’re lying. U don’t have some guy over there.

I laughed at that one. Of course I hadn’t responded in 2.2 seconds so he sent another:
You’re just trying to make me jealous.

I laughed again.

The next one read:
I’m coming over, and if there is some guy there, I’m gonna throat punch him, so he better be gone by the time I get there.

Geez! What is his problem?

Ellis and I had met at my coffee shop. It’s set right outside the largest military base in Tampa, and we get all kinds of servicemen and women in there. The day Ellis walked in, my breath had caught in my throat, and I’d found it hard to concentrate on the other customers and their orders.

There were three people in front of him in line. He was wearing jeans and a fitted red USMC T-shirt that hugged his every ridge and muscle. His crystal blue eyes were studying the menu board with his arms folded over his hard chest, his black hair was cut into that short military style. He stood perfectly still and I was having a hard time giving the other customers my full attention like they deserved. My palms were sweating by the time he reached the front of the line.

“Hi,” I said. “What can I get you?”

His eyes drilled into mine. “Just a black coffee, sweetheart.”

My heart dropped into my stomach. I swallowed hard at the sound of his deep, sexy voice. “Do you need room for cream?”

His lips twitched in amusement. “No. No cream in my coffee.”

My pale cheeks burned red at the innuendo and I tried my hardest to plaster on my professional smile. “You got it.” I remember winking at him, and at the time, thinking about how uncharacteristic it was of me to flirt like that.

“That’s a dollar-eight-five,” I had told him.

He handed me two one-dollar bills and when I handed him his fifteen cents in change, our hands briefly touched and I suddenly got tingly at the connection. He tossed the coins into the tip jar and shoved an additional dollar in while not breaking eye contact with me.

So flustered, I had forgotten to ask him something important as he went to walk away. “Uh, what name?”

“LT,” he’d answered.

I nodded and wrote L.T. on the cup. I also put my name and cell phone number underneath it in yet another uncharacteristically bold move on my part.

LT was the name the barista had called out when his order was ready, and it didn’t go unnoticed by me that a lot of the patrons of the store looked up when they’d called out his name. They had all stared at him in curiosity when he’d picked up his coffee.

Before leaving the store, I watched as he squinted at what was printed on the cup. He grinned in amusement and lifted it in greeting to me before exiting the store, rumbling out of the parking lot on some loud motorcycle.

So hot.