Throttle's Seduction: Insurgents Motorcycle Club (Insurgents MC Romance Book 7) (3 page)

“Yep.” The teenager bent down, then stood up and tossed a large plastic bottle at her.

She straightened up and caught it, then grinned at him, causing his cheeks to redden. “Thanks.” She unscrewed the top and took a long, deep drink. Throttle watched the way her shoulder-length black hair spilled out from her baseball cap. The tips of her hair were colored a bright pink. He hadn’t noticed how snug her blue coveralls were, especially around her small hips and firm ass. She glanced at him. “What the hell are you lookin’ at?”

Hot sparks rose in him. “Not you, that’s for fuckin’ sure.” He turned to Dwayne who had a goofy smile on his face, one Throttle wished he could smack off. “I’m outta here. I’ll tell Banger that his bike will be ready tomorrow.”

“It will.” Kimber wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Amid the grease on her fingers, a splash of neon purple filtered through. One of her arms was covered in colorful tats of flowers, butterflies, and crosses. It seemed the chicks always went for the frilly shit.

“I wasn’t talkin’ to you.”

“You should’ve been, since I’m the one working on the bike.” She tossed the empty bottle in the trashcan across the room, and, much to Throttle’s chagrin, it made it in. Smiling smugly, she brushed past him and went back to work behind the metal door.

By the time Throttle arrived back at the clubhouse, he was fuming. Who the fuck did the little bitch think she was? He ought to teach her a lesson about disrespecting an Insurgent. And what the hell was Hawk smoking? Hiring a chick mechanic. Cara had definitely brainwashed him, and he was thinking with his cock instead of his brain.
Fuck it!
He slammed the club door behind him and went to Banger’s office.

“When’s my bike gonna be ready?” Banger asked as Throttle slumped into the chair in front of his desk.

“Tomorrow at closing. Did you know a bitch is working on your Harley? Can you fuckin’ imagine that? What the hell was Hawk thinking?”

“You mean Kimber? She does damn good work. Bruce over in Silver Ridge recommended her. Seems she was workin’ there for a couple years.”

“You’re cool with this?”

“Yeah. I don’t give a shit if it’s a baboon fixin’ my bike, as long as it’s done right.”

They’ve all become fuckin’ pussies now that they got old ladies. One more reason not to have an anchor around my cock.

“Does it bother you?” Banger asked, an amused smile playing on his lips.

“Yeah, it sure as shit does. You can let her get her nail-polished fingers all over your bike, but she’s not ever gonna touch mine. I’m gonna make sure Hawk is clear ‘bout that.”

Banger shrugged. “Rock was lookin’ for you a few minutes ago.”

“Thanks.” He pushed himself out of the chair and sauntered out. He was still pissed as hell when he bumped into Rock coming down the stairs.

“Good, you’re back. Fuck, why didn’t you tell me how hot those two bitches are? We’ve been having a good time, but the redhead is anxious to have your cock up her ass.” He chuckled. “And it’s a very sweet one.”

“I don’t know. I’m not really into it right now.”

Rock stared at Throttle. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m just pissed as hell. Did you know Hawk hired a chick as a mechanic?”

He shook his head. “When did he do that?”

“Fuck if I know. And she’s got a real mouth on her.”

“Is she hot in her little greaser outfit?”

Throttle glared. “She’s a bitch. I mean, she looked okay, but she doesn’t have any tits, at least not the big ones I like. What the hell am I sayin’? Even if she had humungous tits, I’d never be interested. She’s a smartass, and she’s got pink shit in her hair. No way is she ever touching my bike.”

Rock laughed. “I gotta check out this chick who’s got you all riled up.”

Throttle crossed his arms across his muscular chest. “She hasn’t got me riled up. I don’t give a fuck.”

“Really? You coulda fooled me. Let’s go and have some fun with the horny bitches in my room.”

What the hell was wrong with him? When he left, he’d been anxious to get back to the two women’s pussies, but now he was too pissed to even get it up. It was all
her
fault
. What was her name? Something like timber. Oh yeah. Kimber. Well, fuck her!

When he and Rock came up to the third floor, Throttle went to his room, shrugging off a surprised Rock. Since Throttle had been elected Road Captain for the club, he had been moved from his room in the basement to one of the officers’ rooms on the third floor. He liked being closer to the club whores who had rooms in the attic; it made it easier when he was horny as hell. Since he’d patched in with the Insurgents fifteen years ago, he’d always lived at the club. He never saw any reason for moving away and getting a place of his own.

He slammed his door and peeled off his T-shirt, anxious to take a cool shower to wash off the sweat of the day. After an hour, he sat naked on his bed, a glass of Jack Daniels in one hand and a joint in the other, staring at the TV screen, watching the images of the world’s disasters play out on the international news. The sound had been muted—he rarely listened to what the establishment said—and the image of Kimber leaning over the counter with her uniform tight across her ass floated front and center in his mind. Why the hell he was thinking of
her
pissed him off immensely. He’d have to put her in her place.
Tomorrow, I’ll go to Hawk’s shop and set her straight. Show her not to mess with me.
A faint tingle of anticipation pricked at him, but he crushed it with another large glass of whiskey. He didn’t have time for that. She wasn’t even his type. Hell, it looked like she had mosquito bites for tits. Besides, she was a chick who was a mechanic. In his world, that concept didn’t make any sense.

Fuck her—cute ass, pink hair, smart mouth, and all.

K
imber Descourt laughed
aloud when she heard Throttle’s Harley peel out of the parking lot.
What a chauvinistic asshole. I bet I fix a Harley way better than he does. I probably ride better too.
She smiled and went back to fixing Banger’s motorcycle. Since she’d decided to earn a living as a mechanic, she’d run into all types of guys, but the worst, by far, were the bikers, especially the old-school jerks like Throttle. She loved yanking on their chains, confident in her abilities as a class-A Harley tech. She had her dad to thank for that.

Kimber paused and took a deep gulp of air; oil, gas, and grease filled her lungs. Her dad had often told her that the smell of exhaust fumes and earth were the best scents in life because they symbolized freedom. A small ache pulled at her heart; she missed her dad. Even though he’d died seven years before, the pain was still raw, and she missed talking to him, riding with him, and working with him, side-by-side at his repair shop in Johnston, Iowa.

At twenty-three years old, she’d felt lost, even though she and Chewy had still been together. They had gone back about five years. They’d met at a motorcycle rally, and he’d tried really hard to impress and catch her. When she finally let him in, they were inseparable until she was hooked and hopelessly in love with the tall, tattooed biker. After that, club parties until four in the morning had been the norm for him, and when she’d threatened to move on, he’d calm down only to start it all up again when things had smoothed over.

She’d suspected that he’d been fucking the club whores at the parties, but she couldn’t pin anything on him, and none of his brothers would ever have breathed a word. When she’d found the neon thong in his back jeans’ pocket, she’d been livid and had been ready to shove it in his face when she’d received the call that’d changed her life: her father had been in a life-threatening motorcycle accident. Chewy’s late-night partying with his brothers, his drug use, the scent of cheap perfume, and the neon thong paled in comparison to what she’d been told over the receiver.

After a month on life support, she’d made the toughest decision of her life—letting her father fly free to join her mother, who’d died when Kimber had been three years old. She’d had to admit that Chewy had stepped up to the plate and had been there for her, holding her close while she’d wept inconsolably, supporting her decision to set her dad free and holding her up at his funeral.

Chewy had told her he wanted them to get serious, so they’d rented a small house together, and he’d given her his patch. She’d been thrilled to wear it, and she’d even begun dreaming of having kids. She’d stopped her studies at the local college and threw herself into running her dad’s repair shop, even though she’d have to lock the door to his office several times during the work day to hide her tears of sorrow. It’d seemed so incongruous.

A couple years later, Chewy had begun using again, staying out all night with his brothers, and reeking of cheap perfume. The fights between them had escalated until one cold winter night he’d slammed her head against the wall, causing bits of plaster to fall on the floor. Two black eyes, a couple broken ribs, and a bump the size of the state of Iowa later, she’d lain on the hospital bed realizing that she’d had enough. In all the times they’d fought, he’d never once laid a finger on her. Everything had changed. His bouquets of flowers, his apologies, his pleas for forgiveness, and his statements of undying love meant nothing; they’d all been crushed with that first punch.

By the time Chewy had staggered home from one of his club parties, she’d been on her way to Silver Ridge, Colorado, to work at her dad’s old Army buddy’s bike shop. She’d sold her dad’s business to Buster, the manager, and left everything behind except for her photo albums, cards her dad had given to her over the years, and her clothes. She’d left her patched vest on the bed with a note that had simply said, “Don’t come looking for me, asshole. We’re through.”

“Kimber, you got a phone call,” Patrick’s voice echoed in the bay.

She looked up from the floor and realized she’d been daydreaming. She headed out to the shop and picked up the phone.

“Hi, Kimber. This is Riley. We met the other night at the Neon Cowboy?”

She racked her brain for a few seconds, trying to recall someone named Riley. She’d had too many shots and had danced with so many cowboys. Since her disaster with Chewy, she’d decided bikers were out and she’d give cowboys a chance. And there were plenty of good-looking ones who treated her just fine. “Riley? I’m sorry but I was kinda wasted the other night.”
Wasted? That’s an understatement. I was fuckin’ trashed. Thank God Sarah was the designated driver.

“You don’t remember me?” Disappointment crept into his voice. “I was the one with the black cowboy hat.”

All the guys had either black or white cowboy hats, you idiot!
“Oh yeah, now I remember. How’re you doing?”

“Doing great. I’m glad you remembered because we sure danced good together.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I remembered the shop you told me you worked at. You didn’t want to give me your number.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t usually give out my number until I get to know someone better.”

“That’s why I called. I want us to get to know each other better. You doing anything tonight?”

Who the fuck calls and asks for a date
the day of
? No way.
“Yeah.”

“Oh. What about tomorrow night?”

“Busy again.” She yawned.

“How about Thursday night?”

Oh God, he’s gonna go through all the days of the damn week, probably the whole month.
“Thursday night could work. What do you have in mind?”

“Dinner and maybe a drink somewhere?”

I gotta eat, and he sounds nice enough. I haven’t had a date in a while. What the hell?
“That sounds good. It’ll have to be around seven ‘cause I don’t get off work until five thirty or so.”

“That’s awesome. Yeah, seven is fine. What’s your address?”

“I’ll meet you.” Kimber rarely let a man she didn’t know pick her up at her home. She didn’t like him knowing where she lived in case he gave out weird vibes or things didn’t click. It made it safer and less complicated that way. So, she’d meet men in a public place on first dates. The fact that she’d obviously met him a few nights before didn’t count since she’d been wasted. If he wanted to give her a hard time about it, she’d chalk him off. It didn’t really matter to her since she had no intention of getting serious with any man. She’d done that before and it had been disastrous.

After a few seconds of hesitation, Riley said, “Can we meet at your work and go from there?”

Kimber thought about it for a few moments. “Let’s meet at Jim’s Service Station. Do you know it?” She was friendly with the old guy who owned the gas station and she knew he kept it open until ten o’clock.

“Yeah, I do. Can you give me your number in case I have to get a hold of you.”

They exchanged phone numbers, and she placed the receiver back on its cradle. The front door swept open and a blast of hot air blew over her. Hawk walked in, taking his gloves off as he approached the counter.

“Hey, Kimber. How’re you doin’ with Banger’s bike? He left me a bunch of messages wanting to know when the fuck it’ll be ready.”

“Tomorrow. He sent over one of your members. The guy seemed to have a real problem with me being the mechanic. You know, me being a woman and all?”

Hawk looked at Patrick. “Who was it?”

“Throttle.”

Hawk laughed. “Yeah, he would have a problem with that. He’s old-school. Did he give you a hard time?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” She smiled. She liked working with Hawk, and he never treated her any differently from the other mechanics who worked at the shop. She’d been surprised he’d hired her on because, from the way he looked, she’d have thought he would’ve been old-school. But his fiancée was a lawyer, so maybe he was a biker who’d slipped through the caveman cracks. She headed back to Banger’s bike.

A couple hours later, Kimber swung her leg over her metallic pink Harley and made her way to her small house on the outskirts of town. She wanted to live in the town, but the rents were too expensive and she didn’t want to spend all her money on housing. Her house was a cute two-bedroom/one-bathroom in a semi-shady part of town. Her next-door neighbors were a couple in their late twenties, and they made her feel very welcome. They seemed to have a perpetual barbecue, and Chyna was always coming over and knocking on Kimber’s door with an invite. She’d gone over a couple times, but mostly she wanted to just crash and veg in front of the TV, watching her favorite shows after a long day of work in the garage.