Throttle's Seduction: Insurgents Motorcycle Club (Insurgents MC Romance Book 7) (18 page)

Dr. Redman glanced at his watch, then peered over his reading glasses. “I have thirty minutes before my next class. If that’s not enough time, you can make an appointment.”

“That should be more than enough time,” she replied as she followed him to his office around the corner.

Sitting down on a cushy chair near his desk, she glanced at the degrees hanging on the wall.
Damn, I’m thirty years old and just working on an undergraduate degree. Dr. Redman doesn’t look more than ten years older than me, and he already has his PhD. I’ll never get the fuck out of school.

“What seems to be the problem you’re having with your project? Have you identified the business you want to start?”

They spoke about the specifics she needed to have for an effective business plan, as well as hiring people, healthcare, and all the other issues that went into owning a business with employees. As she closed her notebook, she smiled. “Thank you for sorting all this out for me. I’m really enjoying your class. I signed up for your fall Business Ethics class.”

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to teach it. It’s not common knowledge yet, but I’ve been appointed dean of the college, and my position starts in the fall school year. I’m not too sure how it will all work out.”

Disappointment weaved through her; Dr. Redman was one of the best teachers she’d ever had. “Who’ll be teaching the class?”

“I believe it’ll be Dr. Donsky. He’s very good and students seem to like him.”

“I have him for Business Marketing. He’s fine.” The truth was she thought Dr. Donsky was a bit of a letch, the way he’d stare at the women’s legs and chests. He was subtle about it, but she’d caught him checking her out on more than one occasion. He seemed harmless enough, and his kids were pretty cute. One night she actually babysat for them when he and his wife had to attend a school function and their babysitter flaked. She’d needed the money because Hawk had started her out real slow to see how she’d do.

“I’m a teacher at heart, so I’m hoping I can still teach a class a semester. Do you have any other questions or problems you’d like to go over?”

“No. I’m good.” She gathered her books and ambled to the door, then stopped and swiveled around. “Congratulations on your promotion. The college is lucky to have you at the helm.”

He smiled. “Thank you, Kimber. I look forward to reviewing your project in a few weeks.”

She rushed over to her Harley and threw her books in the saddlebags. She was going to be late; it just seemed like she never had enough time.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said breathlessly as she dashed to the bathroom to change her clothes.

“No worries. Your security system has been installed,” Hawk said.

She stopped and looked at him. “Thank you, but I insist on paying for the installation and the monthly service. You can take my payments out of my check. I want to pay the club back.”

He waved his hand. “Forget about it. Throttle told me what happened. You listen to what he tells you, okay? This fucker doesn’t sound like an average peeping pervert. Watch yourself, and let Throttle take care of you.”

She stiffened. “I don’t need a man to take care of me.”

“Cara used to tell me that too, and I’m gonna tell you what I told her. It’s okay to need a man to help you out, and sometimes it’s fucking necessary—like now for you. Just let Throttle lead on this one.”

“Okay.” She left to change into her uniform. She wasn’t stupid, nor was she a martyr; she would let Throttle help her out because she had no intention of being the Lingerie Bandit’s next victim. She had a gut feeling that was who’d been watching her, and the thought chilled every nerve in her body. She rushed to the bay, cranked up the radio, and shoved back all thoughts of danger to the recesses of her mind.

By the time the shop closed, Kimber was sweaty, greasy, and totally charged. Three of the customers told Hawk that she’d done the best work they’d ever seen on their bikes. Plus, the one Harley she’d customized for an old, burly dude who didn’t trust her near his motorcycle came back to the shop and gave her a case of Coors as a thank you.
That
fucking made her day.

Kimber went to her locker and took out her tote, then slammed it shut. With the overstuffed bag on her shoulder, she passed by the front counter on her way out. Patrick was the only one left, and he was stacking the receipts for Hawk to go over in the morning. “See you,” she said, waving at him.

“You going to the clubhouse party tonight? I heard Hawk and a couple of the members talking about it this afternoon. It sounds like it’s gonna be a big one. From what I heard, a lot of members from the other Insurgents’ chapters are staying at the club for a few days. It sounds like it’d be fun.”

“I wasn’t invited. Are you going?”

His eyes widened. “No, but I’d love to. If I went, my mom would kill me first and my uncle Banger would do it all over again.” He slumped against the back wall. “When I turn eighteen, I wanna prospect for the Insurgents. I know I still got two years to go, but I’ve wanted it ever since I can remember.”

“I’m sure your mom’s not too crazy about that plan.”

He shook his head. “She’s not, but my uncle’s thrilled and told me he’d work on her so she’ll let
me
make the decision. He said I may even change my mind once I turn eighteen, but I know I won’t.”

“Prospecting isn’t an easy job, and you could end up doing it for two or three years, so I’m with your mom on that one.”

He shrugged. “So, are you gonna go tonight?”

“I’ve been to club parties before back in my hometown, and they can be pretty damn wild, especially for a woman who isn’t patched or with one of the members. I don’t think it’d be a good idea for me to go.”

“You don’t have to worry. You’re with Throttle.”

Pink streaks painted her face as she stared wide-eyed at Patrick.
Damn. I didn’t expect
that. “I’m not with
anyone
.”

“Really? That’s not the word around the shop. All the guys refer to you as Throttle’s woman.”

“Oh, do they?”
That fucking asshole. He’s gone and told every man to keep their distance from me. No wonder all the guys have been acting like I had the damn plague for the last week.
“Well, I’m setting the record straight—I’m no one’s woman. I’m my own person.”

Patrick lifted one of his shoulders, then went back to stacking the receipts. In that moment, Kimber decided to go to the party. Hawk would be there, and he’d make sure nothing happened to her. She’d show Throttle that she’d go and be anywhere the fuck she wanted. She’d bet he wasn’t playing the chaste card at the clubhouse. When she walked in later that night, she’d gamble her Harley that he’d have a few women wrapped around him. He was such a biker stereotype, and she couldn’t wait to rub his hypocritical bullshit in his face.

After a long warm shower, she dried her hair and put on her makeup. A while later, she stood before the mirror, assessing her outfit: a short, sleeveless black spandex dress with a low-scoop neck that showed some decent cleavage thanks to a cute push-up bra; three-inch biker boots with gunmetal studs; neon pink polish on the nails and toes that matched the tips in her hair; smoky charcoal eyes; pink lemonade lipstick and gloss; and large silver hoop earrings.
Not bad at all.

She pulled down on her dress again. She didn’t normally dress so provocatively, but she was in the mood for it. Restlessness coursed through her body, and she wanted to have a good time. She could’ve called her friends and suggested going to a club, but, whether she liked it or not, the biker world was her familiar stomping ground. It’d been a part of her world for a very long time. It would be nice to be back amid all the leather and denim and eavesdrop on some good Harley discussions. She’d missed that ever since she’d left home.

She engaged the security system, hiked up her dress a bit, started her Harley, and headed to the clubhouse, loving the way the wind whipped around her hair. The sun had just set and the street lights had clicked on, dusting the sidewalks and roads in a warm golden glow. The night came to life: the melodious trill of the crickets hidden in the trees, the moths’ frenzied flapping against the beam of porch lights, and the fireflies dancing, electrifying the darkness. The heat of the day had been replaced by a cool breeze, and riding at a good clip made goose bumps appear on Kimber’s arms.

When she arrived at the clubhouse, several groups of men stood around, thick clouds of smoke encasing them, and the sweet smell of weed hung thickly in the air. A few of the men looked surprised to see a woman on a Harley, and when she walked past them they whistled and called out to her.

“Hey, sweet butt. Come over here and show us what you got,” an older man with a long brown beard called out.

“I want you to ride me like you did that Harley,” a young biker said. She noticed his cut had “Utah” on the bottom rocker.

Kimber ignored them and walked with her head held high. From nowhere, a man pinched her butt, and she whirled around and clobbered him with her fist. “Don’t fuckin’ touch me unless I tell you to.”

For a couple seconds, there was complete silence, only the hum from inside the clubhouse and the rush of the Colorado River that snaked behind the club penetrating the quietness. Then the bearded older man burst out laughing, the others joining in as the victim of Kimber’s ire rubbed his face, glowering at her. Keeping the guys in her peripheral view, she walked through the doors, loud rock music greeting her.

It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dark; the large room was lit by red bulbs and the bar had a greenish glow from the tube lights around it. The place was packed with people, a sea of black—T-shirts and cuts. Several of the men and scantily clad women grabbed at each other and tottered around in drunken revelry. The club’s insignia—a skull wearing a menacing grin with two smoking pistols on either side of its head—covered the length of the back wall, popping out at her as the eyes glowed red. In the far corner, pool tables looked ominous under black lights. She noticed a woman on her knees on one of the pool tables giving a member a blow job while another banged her hard from behind; several hands squeezed and tugged at her swaying tits. Kimber swallowed hard, kept her chin up, and pushed her way to the bar.

She squeezed in and propped her elbow on the wooden surface. Several men stared at a large monitor to the left of the bar, which flashed grainy footage from the security cameras positioned all around the clubhouse. They seemed mesmerized by it, and she was thankful it provided a distraction from her. She recognized the bartender—he was the prospect Throttle had sent to watch over her. She couldn’t believe he’d done that. He was an enigma—sweet and thoughtful on one hand, but brutish and too possessive on the other. She knew bikers could be that way, but even her asshole ex waited to show his controlling properties after they dated for a while. And was she even
dating
Throttle?

Blade came over and she smiled broadly at him. “Hi, Blade. Do you have Coors on tap?”

He acted as though he’d never seen her before, turning around without a word. A few seconds later, a frothy mug of beer stood in front of her. Before she could thank him he was gone, serving up more drinks for the members. She scanned the room for Throttle and noticed several pairs of hungry eyes boldly assessing her. Looking around again, she hoped she could see Hawk, but it was too dim and all the guys blended together. She swiveled back around on the barstool and reached for her beer. She took a drink, then jumped when an arm encircled her waist. Kimber turned her head and met the leering eyes of a blond man in his thirties.

“You looking for some fun?” He was so close that his whiskey-scented breath fanned over her face.

“Not really. Just having a drink. From the looks of it, there are plenty of women who are up to having fun with you. I’m just not one of them.”

His glassy, unfocused eyes ran over her chest. “You’re pretty.” He lifted his hand and motioned for Blade to bring him another drink.

She turned away from him, deciding to ignore him, when another man sidled up next to her and pressed real close against her, his excitement obvious against her hip.

Pushing him away as best she could, she shook her head, meeting Blade’s gaze. Being a prospect, he’d never tell a patched member to back off, but he did break in by asking her if she wanted anything else. For a moment, it seemed to have given the pushy man some pause, but then he was back to pressing his hardness against her, like that was going to turn her on.

Again, she pushed at him. “Do you mind? I’m trying to drink my beer. Move back a little.”

“You a regular?” the man asked thickly.

She shook her head, glancing at his cut. One of his patches said “Itchy” and another spelled out that he was vice president of his chapter. “You?”

He laughed and took out a joint. “Want one?” He handed it to her. The man who had his arm around her waist must have grown bored—or he may have passed out, she wasn’t sure—because, much to her relief, he was gone. Itchy lit her joint and his, then inhaled and blew out slowly. “Fuck, that’s good stuff.” She had to agree with him. “You hitched with someone?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“You’re not looking like you wanna fuck.” He inhaled again.

She laughed. “I don’t. Just having a drink.”

He stared at her then shuffled back a step. “Are you fuckin’ with me? You came to the party just to drink? Woman, you need a good fuck to set you straight.” He came back and rubbed against her. “After your drink, let’s go to one of the rooms.”

“I don’t think so. I’m good right where I am.”

“I’m cool with you sucking me off right here.” He put his hand on her thigh and squeezed it. “I’ll show you a good time.” Kimber tried to push his hand away, but it was like a clamp. “You like fun, don’t you? I’d like your pink lips around my cock.”

“The only cock that’s going in her mouth is mine, Itchy. She’s with me.” Throttle’s voice was steely.

All of a sudden he pulled away from her, his hands up in the air. “Fuck, brother, I didn’t know she was your woman.”

“Now you do.” His voice was sharp like broken glass.