BOMB: A Day in the Life of Spencer Shrike (3 page)

“Watch your mouth, asshole. Or I’ll stuff my fist through your teeth,” she snarls.

Or maybe she is. I hold my hands up in an
I surrender
gesture and turn around so she can see my back.

“What the fuck is that?” She snickers down a laugh and I roll my eyes and sigh.

“A mistake, hence the need for a fix. Can you make anything out of this?” I jolt a little when her fingers touch my left shoulder blade, and then trace down what I think is the hula girl’s leg.

“God, I’ve never seen an uglier tattoo.”

I look over my shoulder at her, kinda irritated. “Can you fucking fix it or not?”

She smirks at me and then traces it again, making me shudder. “I can,” she whispers, and then clears her throat. “But my brother Vic is probably your best bet.”

I turn around and her fingertips drag along my arm and stop on my chest. “What if I don’t want your brother to do it? What if I came in here specifically to get you to do it?”

She stares up at me, her chest heaving a little, making her tits expand. As if that was even necessary. Her tits are spectacularly large. She blinks at me a few times, like she’s coming to some kind of realization. Like she’s deciding I might be hot.

“My brothers will beat the shit out of you if you think you can come in here and flirt your way into an appointment with me. I’m not on the books for new appointments. I only see regulars. So, if you’d like me to set up a consult with Vic, I’ll be more than happy to do that for you. Otherwise, get the hell out of the shop. It’s eleven o’clock and we’re closed.”

“Well…” I stretch my neck a little as I lean over the glass case, clasp my hands together, and get comfortable. “I can see I’m gonna have to unleash the charm on you.”

Her hand is a blur of motion and the next thing I know, the blunt end of a pink .38 Special is pressed up against my skin. And yeah, she’s got a gun against my head but the only thing I can think about is how her tits are being squished against the glass in front of me as she leans over.

“Fuck, Bombshell, that is the hottest shit I’ve ever seen.” And it is. I’m hard right now as I play that move back in my head. I laugh.

“It’s not hot or funny,” she growls at me. “I’m dead serious. Get the fuck out of the shop.”

I grab her wrist and twist until she drops the gun. It clatters to the ground as I pull her over the case, swing her over my shoulder, and then twirl her around and set her ass back down on the glass. I hold her wrists for a few seconds and then step back and take in her reaction.

She screams.

I slap my hand over her mouth and laugh. “Shit! Stop already. I’m not gonna hurt ya, Bomb, I’m playing.” Her muffled screams have made my palm moist and this is weirdly erotic to me.

She stops screaming and just stares at me.

“You OK?”

She nods her head.

“I can remove the gag order and you’ll be calm?”

She shrugs.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” I remove my hand and she stays quiet, so I lean down to pick up the little pink gun and get the feel of it. “Now, you care to explain to me why you’re pulling out a gun that’s not loaded?”

“It’s loaded,” she retorts, scowling.

“Nah,” I say back as I twirl the little pink gun on my finger. “I know what a loaded .38 Special feels like, and this isn’t it, sweetheart. If you’re gonna threaten someone with a gun, might as well keep the bullets where they belong.” I offer her the gun but as soon as reaches for it, I pull it back. “Let’s make a deal, how about that?”

She snatches the gun away from me and scoffs. “You’re in no position to make any deals, buddy. My brothers are gonna kick your ass.”

I smile and study her intently. “Is that right? Because the way I see it, all I gotta do is tell them how easily you were overtaken tonight and your ass will be banned from any alone time at the shop for good.” She gasps and looks shocked. “So let’s make a deal and you can get some shop-time freedom and I can get your talented hands on my back, fixing that ugly-ass tattoo.”

Her hands come up at the same time and she shoves me hard on the shoulders, trying to get me to back up and give her space. I don’t even move an inch. Instead, I grab each of her knees and open up her legs so I can slide right between them.

“Back off!” she growls.

I press my palms on either side of her faded-jean-covered thighs and lean in until we’re face to face, her blue eyes looking up at me in surprise. “No. I want an appointment with you. Give me one.”

She kicks out and struggles, then tries to scoot back across the glass and escape that way, but I grab her calves and slip my hands behind her knees and squeeze until she squirms, stifling down a tickle laugh.

“Don’t,” she says through her squealing. “Stop it!” She laughs.

I ease up so she can stop wiggling against my grip. “Give me what I want, Bombshell. And I’ll walk out of here and I won’t come back until our date.”

“Date?” she scoffs. “An appointment is not a date. There’s no fucking way I’m dating an asshole like you. You think you can come in here, manhandle me, threaten me, and get—”

I kiss her. I crush her mouth silent, slip in my tongue, slide my hands up to her tits, squeeze hard enough to make her moan, and then grab her hair and keep her there.

She kisses me back, her pouty red lips pressing against mine. She’s panting hard as I pull us apart and she actually moans.

Fuck yeah
.

“I want a tattoo appointment, Veronica Vaughn. Give me a date and a time, right the fuck now.”

“Tomorrow at four,” she breathes, her spectacular chest once again heaving.

I shoot her with my finger and wink. “I’ll see you then, Bombshell. Be ready for me.” And then I turn and walk away.

“Wait!” she calls. “What’s your name? And how do you know
my
name?”

I don’t turn, just open the door and call out, “You’ll know my name soon enough. And the rest is recon, baby. It’s my job to know.”

Chapter Four

I chuckle to myself as I live that memory over again in my mind. I had her. Man, I so,
so
had her the minute I walked into that place. She was feisty with her little pink .38 Special, but my lips are irresistible. They call to her, they suck her in places she’s never dreamed of, they whisper dirty things in her ear and make her blush, tremble, and come all at the same time.

But her lips. Fuck. My bombshell’s lips make me explode every single time. She’s got a pucker that won’t quit. She’s got a tongue that can swirl a pattern in my mouth so erotic, I just want to throw her down on the ground and fuck the life out of her. She uses her teeth with such skill, it makes me hard just thinking about them. And when you combine all of those things with the wetness of her mouth and the heat of her breath…

Fuck. I need her right now. Why the hell did I leave her alone so long? The commotion leftover from the human trafficking shit in Chicago died down months ago. Veronica was not pestered once during the whole debacle, I made sure of it. She’s right about New Year’s. She was pretty fucked up, but we still had a good time. We always have a good time, I just need to remind her how good it gets.

I press on the accelerator of the Shrike truck and speed towards Highway 14 that will take me into FoCo, then ease on into downtown and strain my neck looking down the street to see if her Mini Cooper is outside Sick Boyz. I hold out hope until I’ve passed it. That damn deathtrap always hides out among the trucks everyone else drives around here.

But no. I see her oldest brother Vic’s bike, her father Vern’s bike, her twin middle brothers Vinn and Vonn’s bikes, and her baby brother Vann’s Vespa.

I laugh at that. Poor Vann. The Vaughns are ruled by traditions. Everything they do has precedent. And in that family you cannot get a motorcycle until you build it yourself. Vann is only seventeen, and tradition also says you can’t build your bike until you’re eighteen. So the dirty, primer-covered classic Vespa is all he’s allowed.

Sick Boyz must be going off tonight if the entire family is working at the same time, so it’s interesting that Veronica isn’t there to help. I swing a right on Mountain and head over to her house. She still lives at home. I pull up along their old brick monstrosity and scowl to myself. No Mini Cooper.

Gramps opens the door and waves at me to come inside.

Fuck. You don’t say no to Gramps. He might be nine hundred years old, but he’s got a mean streak. A sneaky mean streak. I park the truck in front, get out, and walk up to the open door. “Yo, Gramps! I’m looking for Ronnie, ya seen her?”

He comes out of the kitchen wearing a red-checkered apron around his waist, no shirt on, and flashing his five-hundred-year-old tattoos.

“Ahhhh, put some clothes on, ya old fart! No one wants to see your saggy shit.”

He holds up a spoonful of pasta sauce and shoves it to my mouth. “Taste,” he demands.

I slurp it and nod. “Yeah, it’s good. It’s always good. Tastes the same as last time. Ya seen Ronnie? I’m looking for her.”

“At work,” he barks as he goes back into the kitchen.

“No,” I call out, walking after him. “I went by there, her car’s not there.”

“She walks now. Gonna sell it, so she parks it and walks.”

“What?” She loves that car. “Since when? I just saw her in it like two hours ago.” Gramps is busy stirring the pot on the stove. The whole place smells like an Italian restaurant. “Gramps,” I try again. “Why does she want to sell her car?”

He looks over his shoulder. “I’m not allowed to tell you.”

“What? Why the fuck not?”

“I’m not allowed to tell you that either. Go ask her, she’s at the shop. And tell that son of mine to bring me some smokes on his way home.”

“You quit smoking forty years ago, Gramps.”

“Not for me, I have a date tonight, dumbass. Who you think I’m cooking for?”

I let out a long breath and feel a little sorry for myself as I walk out and get back in my truck. Ronnie’s got secrets. Lots of them. She’s having dinner with guys who are not me, she’s selling her car, and she’s slapped a gag order on Gramps.

This is adding up to something.

I swing the truck back out, flip a bitch, and head towards College Ave. I’m not sure what’s going on with Ronnie, but I’m about to find out. I park next to Vann’s gray primer-coated Vespa and head into the tattoo shop. I swing the door open and I’m accosted by frat boys all waiting around like idiots and looking at the sample art on the walls. That’s one bad thing about living in a college town. College kids.

Of course, when Ronnie and I were in school together, we were the shit. But now that school is a distant memory best left forgotten, these kids annoy the fuck out of me. I’ve always lived out in Bellvue, even when I went to Colorado State for senior year, so I never had to put up with them much. But the new shop the Biker Channel and I decided on for Season Two is located a couple blocks up. Unlike my shop at home, this new shop will also have a showroom. So I expect the college kids will be dropping by often.

“Well, if it isn’t Shrike fucking Bikes!” Vic’s loud welcome blasts over the roar of excited frat boys and everyone turns to look at me.

“Where’s Ron?”

Vic smiles that big-brother smile and that can only mean one thing. “She’s not interested in talking to you, Shrike. Told me to tell you that if you came by.”

I flip him off and walk down the hallway. Vic is not going to mess with me unless I ask for it. And a friendly
fuck you
is not enough to get us brawling. Because we’ve been down that road before. Once we start, we don’t stop and there’s always medical bills involved.

I look into each of the tat rooms as I pass. Vern’s room is first, then Vic’s, which is empty now since he’s up front, then Vinn and Vonn—they share the biggest room—and finally Ronnie’s room is last.

Her gun is buzzing, so I know she’s got a customer. Her back is to the door so I slip in and lean over her shoulder. The customer is some wimpy eighteen-year-old, obviously a brother from the frat house since he’s getting Greek letters on his non-existent bicep. “Beautiful, Ron. Love it, babe.”

She never even flinches. Her machine never slows. She draws and wipes, and then draws again. Like I never said a word and I’m nobody.

I point to the other wimpy frat boy sitting in the only chair in the room. “Get the fuck out.” He gets, and I sit, rolling my eyes as the plastic covering over the seat of the chair crinkles under my ass. Ronnie never even huffs. Usually that’s what she does if I come in to her work acting like a caveman, but tonight I get nothing.

She’s pissed.

I bide my time until she’s done. She leaves and I stay put. I can hear her talking out in the lobby, then she tells her next victim to wait until she cleans the room and she’ll be right back for him.

Ronnie is a freak about blood splatter from the tattoo machines. She wears scrubs to work. She has both a facemask and a visor with a clear plastic shield that covers her face. She wears gloves from the minute she walks into the shop until the minute she leaves and there’s an air ionizer in the corner to clear out any microscopic bacterial byproducts that may or may not be floating around in the air.