“Find out what she knows, what that Marcel prick told her. Then…” Venom shrugged, spreading his hands wide. He could no more stop the smile that split his face than he could have stopped the tide from rolling in.
“Your old lady isn’t going to like you plugging some young reporter,” Crutch said conversationally. “We’re not out on the road. You’re breaking a cardinal rule.”
In MC culture, a biker out on a ride was afforded the freedom to get himself a little strange, no questions asked once he got home. The caveat being that once he was home again, the only Twinkie he could cream was his old lady’s. So yeah, Venom was breaking a cardinal rule by asking Bulldog to bring the pretty reporter here with the intention of screwing her brains out after he’d learned all she could tell him about her meeting with Marcel. But so what?
“Rules are made to be broken.”
*
Black Knights Inc. Headquarters, Goose Island
“Beware. The coven has hopped aboard their broomsticks.”
Ozzie closed the door to the third-floor room where Samantha was changing out of her wet clothes. They’d stopped by her apartment, Ozzie waiting out in the hall while she packed an overnight bag, before making their way to the shop. Now, the delightful thought of her behind that metal door—no more than five feet away while she stood in nothing but her hot-pink bra and panties—was replaced by the imagery Christian’s words evoked.
Coven? Broomsticks? The Brit really did not like having the shop overrun by women. “They blame me as much as you for this brainiac scheme,” Christian continued in a conspiratorial whisper. “And, mate, in the future, if you plan to shag me from behind, at least do me the courtesy of holding my hair out of the way.”
“Mental image be gone!” Ozzie hissed.
Tiptoeing down the hall, they passed doors that concealed the many loft-style bedrooms that had once been the personal lairs of BKI’s bachelors. Now, those rooms stood mostly empty since so many of Ozzie’s teammates had wives and children who required homes that didn’t pull double duty as a motorcycle shop and defense firm. Under normal circumstances, the rooms were empty. Right now, some of the aforementioned wives and children were in residence, and Ozzie was careful not to wake up the latter even as a deep, aching longing for things he might never have filled his chest.
“My point is, if bodyguard duty is your way of auditioning for the douchebag Olympics,” Christian continued as they quietly descended the metal staircase, “then, Ozzie ol’ boy, I should think you’re a shoo-in.”
Ozzie didn’t dignify that with a response other than a clear and concise hand gesture.
His thigh ached from the night’s activities, a constant reminder of the precariousness of his future. The hot, dark despair that had been threatening to consume him for months felt particularly oppressive in the moment, but he did his best to ignore it as he stepped off the last tread and was met by a sight that warmed his soul and beat back some of the blackness. Namely, two of the eight gorgeous gals who loved his brothers-in-arms with all their fierce, loyal hearts. Two gorgeous gals he’d come to adore. Two gorgeous gals who turned to him with so much fire in their eyes that he instinctively stumbled back.
Christian had used the word coven to describe them. Ozzie was beginning to see the accuracy of the term. He got the distinct impression he was one bubble, bubble, toil and trouble away from being turned into a toad.
He opened his mouth, but Becky lifted her hand. “Can’t you see we’re having an event here?” She was wearing a bright-green mud mask that had images of flying monkeys whirling inside his head.
“What event?” he asked.
“Your funeral.”
“Hear me out.” He patted the air in a conciliatory fashion, thanking his lucky stars he was only dealing with two of the eight women who were attached to his teammates.
“Oh, goodie.” Becky rolled her eyes. “He’s about to start man-splaining, using his ever-lovin’ man logic to validate this idiotic idea. But don’t let him sway you, Michelle. This situation he’s created is a frickin’ problem.”
Blond, bossy, and no bigger than a minute, Becky was the original owner of the motorcycle shop that had become Black Knights Inc. She was the artist responsible for the fantastical bikes they made and the one who ultimately provided their cover. Ozzie loved her to pieces. Usually.
“Problem is just another word for challenge,” he assured her, grabbing Christian’s arm when the Brit began backpedaling. “Stay right where you are,” he demanded. The air inside the shop smelled pretty much the way it always did, eau de rubbing compound, burning metal, and strong coffee. But if he wasn’t mistaken, there was now a tinge of napalm wafting toward him from the direction of the women. If he was about to get his ass fried, he didn’t want to be the only crispy critter in the room.
Misery loves company, right?
“Piss off, knobhead.” Christian jerked his arm free.
“You.” Becky pointed to Christian. “Those curse words sound kinda pretty in that accent, but they’re still curse words. Don’t forget there are children upstairs.” Ozzie found it hysterical that the woman who could out-cuss all of them turned into a profanity Nazi anytime the little ones were around. “Also,” she continued, “go stand by the base of the stairs and make sure our conversation isn’t being overheard by…you know who.”
After watching Christian happily retreat to the stairs, Ozzie turned back in time to see Becky’s eyes blasting into him like photon torpedoes.
“And you,” she said. “Please explain what she”—she shoved a finger toward the ceiling—“is doing here and why we had to run around like frickin’ chickens with our frickin’ heads cut off trying to make sure this place was…” She stopped herself and seemed to search for the right words. Her voice was barely a whisper when she finished with, “…fit for company.”
Ozzie knew that meant locking doors, shutting down computers, and squirreling away evidence that BKI was anything other than a motorcycle shop. Not that it would have taken much. He and the rest of the Knights kept the place in company-ready condition, since one of the little ones, Jake and Michelle’s son, Franklin, was now old enough to start asking questions. Keeping BKI clandestine meant keeping it kid friendly. Which, in turn, meant it was naturally reporter friendly.
He could have pointed this out to Becky. He decided it was in his best interest to keep his mouth shut.
Apparently that wasn’t what Becky wanted from him. She glowered so fiercely, her mud mask cracked. “Speak!” she demanded.