Throttle's Seduction: Insurgents Motorcycle Club (Insurgents MC Romance Book 7) (29 page)

When they got
back from their shopping trip, Kimber set her new laptop with the shiny pink cover on her table, eager to try it out. Throttle grabbed a beer and flopped on the couch, turning on the TV.

“Pizza and salad?” he asked as he flipped through the channels.

“If you want. I’m not that hungry.” She didn’t share the fact that she’d stuffed her face with chips and cupcakes before the Riley incident happened. “Just order a medium. I only want one slice.”

He ordered the pizza and while they waited, she played around on her new computer and he cussed at the boxing match on the television. When the pizza came, she sat near him on the couch and they watched an action movie. After it was over, she cleaned up and they went to her bedroom, where they kissed and touched. But before he could roll her over, her eyelids had grown heavy and she fell asleep with his arms cradling her close to him.

*     *     *

A scowl crossed
the man’s face as he watched the dark house. He knew the biker was spending the night with her. He ground his teeth, his heart pounding. The man breathed noisily as the anticipation of what he could have had consumed him. Molten rage burned within him.

He wanted her. He’d targeted her a while back, and that night was the time to be with her, but the motorcycle man thwarted his plans. He wasn’t happy about that at all; he couldn’t chance entering with the outlaw in there. Everything was ruined.

His nostrils flared. He couldn’t just go home; his wife would ask too many questions, and besides, the desire was too strong. The man stood for a long time hidden behind the cluster of trees staring at the house. He glanced at the biker’s Harley on the street and considered cutting the tires as punishment for screwing up his plans. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized what a bad idea it would be. The biker probably had a sixth sense about his motorcycle and would be on top of him in no time. As tempting as it was to slash the bike’s tires, he couldn’t risk being caught.

He sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly before he strode away from his hiding place, walking the two blocks to an unlit street where he’d parked his SUV. The man took off without turning his headlights on until he was on the main street. He roamed up and down the neighborhoods until he spied a woman in her mid-twenties exercising on her treadmill. Her blinds and windows were open; he surmised that she probably didn’t have AC, so she was letting the light nighttime breeze in.

He watched her for a long while, excited by the way her toned body moved. No one else appeared to be in her small carriage house that backed up to a dark alley. It was a perfect location for him to slip in and out without detection.

After an hour, the woman went to a back room, closed her blinds, and soon the lights switched off. He became a part of the shadows in the inky blackness. Only a sliver of moon hung in the dark sky; it was a perfect night for hunting.

As an owl hooted, its cry—forlorn and dismal—piercing the stillness of the night, he walked around back and cut her window screen. Like a lion on the prowl, he silently slipped into the small home. Waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, he illuminated his way with his cell phone, his ears pricked for any sound. The soft, even breathing from a room to the right told him she was in there. His brown eyes blinked rapidly, and he wet his lips as a tightness formed in his pants.

He padded over to the room and stood in the doorway, his lust-filled gaze raking over her figure. From the sound of her breathing, he knew she was sleeping. A large smile broke out over his face as he stalked to her. In one movement, he had her on her back, duct tape over her mouth before he quickly secured her hands, her bulging eyes and trembling chin giving him a rush. He tied her legs to the bed, then relaxed. He now had a few hours before sunrise, and he could do a lot. Taking out his pocket knife, he slowly cut away her nightgown.

Small whimpers emitted from Amber Hewett’s throat. She’d woken up to a nightmare where the bogeyman was real, and happy endings didn’t happen.

K
imber shuddered when
she read about the previous night’s rape and murder of another woman not too far away from her neighborhood.
Why can’t the cops find this psycho?
A weighted feeling came over her as she thought of the woman who’d lost her life to a madman. The poor woman never would have imagined when she’d gone to bed that she wouldn’t see the sunrise; her life was at the mercy of the killer.

Sighing, she closed the paper and poured herself another cup of coffee. The previous night, a woman had lost her life and Kimber had gained one. She’d been floundering ever since her dad had been killed on his motorcycle, and Chewy had not even come close to filling her life. And then she’d met Throttle, a man she’d thought would be the least likely to occupy her heart and soul. Little did she know when she’d first met him—pissed as hell at her for working on Banger’s bike—that he’d invade her dreams and her life.

Since she’d left Chewy, she’d tried to forget about bikers and their world, but the truth was she loved them and their way of life. She loved living against the grain, not conforming to what society dictated. Since she’d ridden her first Harley, she’d been hooked on the machine, the men who rode them, and the men who gave the finger to socially accepted standards.

She’d fought her attraction and feelings for a long time and it didn’t work; she was in love with Throttle. Just thinking those words made her giddy and jittery. She was pretty sure he cared about her, but she wasn’t sure if he was in love with her. But she didn’t care. For the first time in her life, she’d found a good-hearted, tough, kickass guy who treated her like a lady—no man had ever treated her like that.

She stared out her window and watched the sprinkler water her neighbor’s grass, the drops dancing in the air before they came down and were absorbed by the thirsty lawn. Throttle had been an angel the night before—
never thought “Throttle” and “angel” would be in the same sentence
—and she wanted to have him over for a nice dinner. She’d tell him she loved him even if he balked and ran from her. She picked up her phone and sent him a text.

Kimber:
Hi. Thinking about u.

Throttle:
I like that. Thinking bout u too.

Kimber:
Come over for dinner 2nite. Making something good.

Throttle:
Yeah? I’m in. Would love to taste your cooking and other things.

Kimber smiled and reread the text. That simple message went straight to the throb between her legs.
Damn. There’s something about him that gets me all hot and bothered.

Kimber:
Bad boy. I hope u stay that way.

Throttle:
No plans on changing.

Kimber:
See you at 7ish?

Throttle:
Can’t wait, babe.

Butterflies swarmed her stomach, and she placed her hand on it and pressed hard to quell the fluttering. What if Throttle didn’t want anything more than casual sex and some laughs? She was taking a big chance revealing her love to him, but she couldn’t contain it any longer. If he bolted, then at least she’d had the best time in her life for a couple months.

She ambled over to the cupboard and pulled out her mother’s recipe box—the one thing she cherished the most from her—and flipped through the cards until she found the one for crispy oven fried chicken. In her opinion, her mom’s fried chicken recipe was the best she’d ever tasted. Mashed potatoes with sour cream and chives, a crisp cucumber and tomato salad, and her father’s bacon baked beans should take care of Throttle’s stomach. Later, she’d take care of the rest of him. With a devilish grin curling her lips, she sat down and made out her grocery list.

*     *     *

“Steel’s asked for
our help down south. Seems that punk club, the Skull Crushers, is infringing on their turf. Since the Night Rebels are our affiliates, we gotta help ‘em. Anyway, I don’t like the punk shits for nothing.” Banger jutted out his chin.

“They don’t think we’re in with the Night Rebels, otherwise they’d leave it alone. I heard their fuckin’ prez ‘bout died when he got the care package we sent them.” Throttle laughed.

“Heard one of the fuckers we eliminated was the prez’s brother. Guess he wants to join him.” Chas narrowed his eyes. “I can’t stand these wannabe outlaws who don’t know shit about what the brotherhood means.”

“Me neither,” echoed Jax. “What are we gonna do?”

Banger narrowed his eyes. “Also, the word’s out that the sonsofbitches are wearing a ‘Colorado’ bottom rocker.”

The membership exploded. The bottom rocker always stated the location of the territory belonging to an outlaw club, and Colorado was Insurgents territory; it had been since 1976 when the MC staked its claim. The importance of it was that no other club could use the state on its bottom rocker—no exceptions. The Skull Crushers, either through ignorance, sheer stupidity, or arrogance, had violated that rule. When an offending club wore the bottom rocker, they were asking for a violent confrontation. The Insurgents were more than ready and willing to defend their territory.

“Fuck
that
!” many members yelled, their fists pounding walls, tables, and chairs. Several members threw their chairs against the concrete walls, splintering the wood frames. For an MC to even consider wearing a bottom rocker claiming the Insurgents territory was an offense that called for immediate, violent punishment.

Hawk held up his hands. “A few days ago, several of these fuckers forced an Insurgent in northern Colorado off the road and beat him with chains, hammers, and pipes, and then they stole his bike. We can’t let that shit go unpunished.”

“When the fuck we gonna straighten these fuckers out?” Jax asked, the vein in his neck throbbing. “We should leave after church.”

“I say we annihilate ‘em. There’s no mercy for fuckers who pull that shit.” Rags stood tall, his shoulders straight. “No way is that gonna be tolerated.”

“Steel thinks they got the support of the Demon Riders, which means indirect support from the Deadly Demons.” Hawk crossed his arms.

“I know I keep saying it every time the bastards’ club comes up, but we shoulda fuckin’ killed Dustin and Shack when we were in Nebraska,” Chas said.

“You’re right, and we’ve had nothin’ but fuckin’ problems with them and the renegade Insurgents who followed those two to the Demon Riders. Fuck, we never had troubles with the club before. They stayed in Iowa and we stayed in Colorado. Now there’s all kinds of shit going down. I wouldn’t be surprised if these Skull Crusher assholes were put together by the Demon Riders. They just popped up after Dustin and Shack patched in with ‘em. We gotta show them we don’t take shit from nobody.” Banger pounded his fist on the table.

“Banger and I talked some, and the best way to handle this is for a group of us to go down to Alina and pay them a surprise visit. We’ll beat their asses good, rip off their patches, and burn them. Then—”

“We need to blow their clubhouse to hell and back, and not give a fuck if one or all of them dies. They can’t mess with the Insurgents.” Throttle’s nostrils flared as his face heated.

“As much as I agree with Throttle, we can’t kill any of the fuckers. Maiming is okay, but killing will bring the fuckin’ badges breathing down our backs. With the shit we got going in Denver, we can’t risk any more attention. We gotta make sure we beat them good, but keep them breathing.”

“When do we leave?” Throttle asked as he cracked his knuckles.

“I want to send about ten of our brothers: Hawk, Throttle, Jax, Axe, Jerry, Bear, Bones, Ace, Tigger, and Hoss. Steel and his brothers will also be helping out on this mission. You’ll be leaving in about an hour or two. I’ll leave the particulars of the attack to Hawk and Jax, who’ll be coordinating with Steel. Any questions?”

With his boot, Throttle pushed away from the wall. “Can the club spare one of the prospects to watch out for my woman?” The members sniggered. “I don’t feel comfortable leaving her unprotected since it seems like someone’s targeted her.”