Dirty Ties (4 page)

I rolled to my back and released a sigh. “You’ve
never
spoken against same-sex rights.”

“Does it really matter? The nation’s perception of me is its reality.”

If he aired his secret, it would certainly change perceptions. And get him booed off television. Narrow-minded bastards.

“Sometimes I wish…” He rose to sit on the edge of the bed with his back to me. “I wish I could take care of you instead of pawning you off to every Tom, Dick, and Harry. If I were a little less gay…”

Oh, his guilt was in full force tonight. I snagged the vibrator and climbed off the bed. “You haven’t stuck your dick in me in twenty-two years, Collin. And you
know
why.” It was a tired discussion, but he needed the reminder. I flicked on the lamp and stood before him.

His gaze darted over my chest, my hips, and the strip of blonde hair above my clit ring. It was a cursory glance, much like the ones I received from women in the gym locker room. An appreciative look at my fit body, but not a twinge of sexual interest.

He hung his head. When we gave each other our
V
-cards at fifteen, his sexual orientation had been questioned but not yet explored. The reason we didn’t connect in the bedroom, then or now, was because the romantic chemistry between us simply didn’t exist. That said, he never slept with me or another woman again.

I strode toward the bathroom and said over my shoulder, “Don’t forget five minutes with me scared you away from pussy for life.”

“It was forty-five minutes, hooker.” He followed on my heels. “You made a gay man straight for almost an hour.” He caught my arm at the doorway and planted a kiss on my forehead. “No regrets.”

No regrets.
It was our mantra because we were both full of them. He wanted a relationship with a man he didn’t have to hide. I wanted a relationship with a man who didn’t have to fuck me through an intermediary partner. He wanted children
in vitro
. I wanted to conceive,
some day
, in the throes of passion.

We could lament all the things we couldn’t have. Or we could focus on the one honest thing we did have. Each other.

I pinched his pouty bottom lip. “No regrets, and if we’re done with the mushy crap”—I thumped him hard enough in the stomach to make his chuckle sound like a grunt—“I need to pee.” I tossed the vibrator in the sink and perched on the toilet.

He turned on the faucet and soaped up the toy. “So you saw those new photos of your boyfriend?
”
He gave me a sidelong glance. “Public appearance at a grocery store?”

“Don’t call him my boyfriend.” He didn’t even know I existed. “And everyone has to eat, Collin.”

“Mm. I imagined he chewed bolts and drank motor oil.”

Rolling my eyes, I flushed the toilet and stepped to the second sink.

Collin leaned a hip against the counter, his well-bred frame wrapped in golden flesh that had been bathed and beautified by a lifetime of expensive creams. He was a portrait of sophistication, blending seamlessly with the luxurious surroundings of the bathroom’s imported marble and high-thread-counts. Yet the sight of his manicured fingers wrapped around the silicone vibrator represented the Collin few knew. The Collin who was well-versed in how to fit a dildo in a tight ass.

He dried it off and returned it to the bottom drawer. “When is the next race?”

“In one hour, according to my source.”

The venues were officiated by anonymous coordinators. The map of each race was distributed in advance via an online network, where
friendships
were made by referral only using a sophisticated web of private servers to hide IP addresses. It was complex, well-funded, and ever-changing, making it impossible for the Feds to monitor the communications let alone trace identities.

My inability to gain access to the network hadn’t deterred me, not when I had the best journalists in the country on my payroll.

Collin’s lips pressed into a hard line of worry. “Still got that undercover reporter risking his ass for you?”

“Hal Pinkerton, and he won’t find out it’s for me.” What I didn’t know was if he used an informant or if he’d somehow become a trusted peer in the network of motorheads and moneyed gamblers. Either way, his intel was reliable, and I personally and anonymously rewarded his efforts, wiring money for each piece of information he posted on a secure site. My PA, Jenna, retrieved the details from the encrypted server. Details that would never grace the pages of the
Trenchant Times
.

Too much dirty money rode on these races, enough to permanently silence anyone who forewarned the police or media of the venue locations.

“Those bikers…” Collin’s dark brows gathered over darker eyes. “They can hurt you. Badly.”

Ironically, he was the one who introduced me to the world of bikers. He took me to my first Grand Prix race when we were eighteen. I was so enthralled with the speed and power of superbikes I bought my first one shortly after.

I glared at him. “I’m careful.”

He stared right back, and I withered a little inside. He knew me better than anyone and studied me as if he sensed the whisper of discomfort that didn’t belong. Did he know about the secrets I withheld from him? My suspicions about our parents?

His narrowed gaze pushed against me, prodding me to unload my heart. Which would only further burden his.

I bit down on my lip. “What?”

After a stubborn moment of volleyed glares, he shook his head and strode out of the bathroom. Releasing a soundless breath, I followed him then veered into the closet to pull on the leggings and camisole that went under my leathers.

When I emerged, I found him at the dresser, fingering the wedding ring I never wore. He didn’t wear his, either. Legally, we were married, but emotionally, we weren’t. Wearing the rings didn’t feel right, and thankfully, the contract didn’t require it.

His gaze focused inward as he returned the diamond band to its box and tucked it back in the drawer.

I leaned a hip against the dresser. “What’s going on, Collin?”

A shrug. “Just one of those nights. Got shit on my mind.”

My eyes narrowed. “Like what? Seth? The show?” I exhaled. “Us?”

“The show.” The floor creaked as he paced my bedroom, updating me on everything that went wrong with tonight’s filming of
The Anderson Angle
.

He spent his mornings writing each show and filmed the one hour segment at five o’clock every evening, which broadcasted at nine. He handpicked every guest, predicting what they would say in the interview, sometimes down to the last word. This gave him an edge, enabling him to formulate his counterarguments ahead of time. But sometimes he misjudged, like tonight with the CEO of Nationside Energy.

Standing in the center of the room in his Derek Rose silk boxers and frowning at his feet, he looked vulnerable, defeated. “Overall, it worked out.” He nodded. “Yeah, I think we’ll get away with it. But I won’t be asking him back.”

He lived and died by his ratings and would work himself into a frenzy until the numbers posted tomorrow afternoon. I squeezed the hand at his side and let go. He didn’t want pretty words or warm hugs. He vented to me, I listened, and he moved on.

Which he was doing now, his swift strides carrying him to the door. “I’m doing a segment tomorrow on police brutality.” He stopped in the doorway and held up a finger, tapping the air as if keeping rhythm with the thoughts in his head. “I’ll get a cocky cop. Yeah. The power-drunk type with a short fuse.” He scratched his jaw, pale eyes glimmering. “And he has to have a mustache.”

With that, he vanished around the corner, presumably headed to his office on his side of the condo. I stared at the space he’d vacated, part of me wishing he’d stayed to keep me company. Maybe for just a few minutes of spooning until I left for the race. But I stopped thinking of him that way long before we married. Snuggling with Collin would be akin to cuddling my best girlfriend…if I had one of those.

His head popped back in, snapping me from my thoughts. “Be careful, hussy.”

“Always—” But he was already gone. I sighed. “Punk.”

He was right about the risk, of course. Attending the races was like walking into a secret biker bar without an invite or a gun. There was the threat of arrest and the defamation of my reputation to consider. But Collin’s concerns had more to do with me being a woman, alone, amongst men who didn’t respect boundaries or socially-accepted precepts.

Sure, I carried a gun and knew how to use it, but that argument only elevated Collin’s blood pressure.

I shouldn’t go. I had a long work day ahead of me tomorrow, and my eyes already burned with fatigue.

Standing by the bed, I placed my hands on the quilt, waiting for the soft, opulent fabrics to coax me in. Instead, the sight of the empty mattress produced a longing so intense it swelled against my ribs.

I was married to my best friend. I had his loyalty, his honesty, and his camaraderie. But I didn’t have a man’s arms around me while I slept. Didn’t have a warm body to curl into, one that shared my bed and protected me from the things I couldn’t fight alone.

That strong and persistent hunger buzzed through my bloodstream and tightened my insides. I walked to the closet, pulled on my silver leathers, and buckled my boots. I wasn't the kind of woman who could lie down and wait for life to
not
happen.

I braided my hair in a long tail and grabbed the silver motorcycle helmet and Kevlar gloves. A sense of control tingled through my body and filled my lungs with oxygen as I headed for the door.

The vibration in my balls amplified with the speed of the motorcycle, the four banger engine screaming with exertion. Only seven miles, five sharp turns, and two deadly intersections away from an assload of money. And the crazy French fucker on my ass? I
might
let him see the finish line…right before his face eats asphalt.

The rear-view camera in my helmet projected his distance onto my visor. Forty meters. Thirty meters. Ahead, the glowing stripe of red stretched to the horizon, not a single break in the taillights bottlenecking Michigan Avenue.

My heart thundered, my hands slick with sweat in the gloves as I surged to the finish line, fueled by memories of my mother. Growing up on the back of her motorcycle. Her patient instruction as she taught me how to ride my first sportbike. All the broken bones. Her loving care as I healed.

But it was always tainted by the terrible fear. Fear that pinned me to my hiding spot as I watched her killer clean his knife. Fear that saved me then but wouldn’t save me now.

I shook it off and focused on the joyous moments of my childhood, on the passion she’d ingrained in me. Heat radiated through my chest, charging my blood with wild energy. Nothing beat this feeling, the grip of battle, the fight for supremacy, dominating with skill and lethal speed while straddling the kind of power few mortals could harness on congested streets.

God, what a rush. I flexed my fingers and pinned the throttle.

Chase vehicles zipped past, headed in the opposite direction, with mobile cameras mounted on the hoods. Enthusiasts chattered via two-way radio, using CCTV security cameras to channel the race on an underground network. The live feed bridged to the illegal web of electronic gambling, which enabled betting right up to the final mile.

The helmet’s built-in police scanner added an incessant buzz to the noise. Miles behind us, cherry tops had two major disadvantages. They didn’t know the layout of the racing grid, and squad cars couldn’t touch the velocity of a hyper-focused sportbike. But if they located the cluster of racing fanatics likely gathering around the final marker, they could organize a barricade there. One I would find a way to hurtle if it came to that.

In this two-man race, one of us would win. The other would die—maybe not tonight, but wealthy gamblers didn’t take to losing lightly. I drew in a determined breath and rolled my shoulders. I had this. Triumph was as easy as the whores waiting for me at the finish line. And a helluva lot more fulfilling.

Vernay Lebeau pursued my tail, gaining ground with each block. As rev-happy as he was annoying, his speeds through throngs of civilians while trying to lay me out might’ve spooked the shit out of anyone with a pulse. But his ham-handed desperation to win would ultimately cost him his dignity. And his life.

Twenty miles into the race and I had yet to max out the speedometer. Lebeau, on the other hand, took the hole-shot out of the grid and held the front door through the first half. I let him. Sportbikes malfunctioned at top speeds, just one of the numerous factors that could throw a race. Besides, I’d stolen the lead when he tried to whip a chain around my drive train.

It was a dick move, but that was the only kind he had. I grew up around bikes, lived and breathed in a cloud of exhaust, learning their inner workings until my heart pumped like a motor. Unlike Lebeau, who was just a street punk with his balls to the road and his eyes set on a six-figure prize. The French fuck didn’t have a chance.

Holding steady at 150 mph, I stitched a line through the oncoming traffic and watched the readout on my visor. He closed in at ten meters. Five meters. Four.