Have Gun, Will Travel (The Bare Bones MC Book 5) (16 page)

I walked arm in arm with Cassie, sipping my own beer. I wasn’t a big drinker so I knew it’d hit me hard, and I was right. I was already feeling loopy and had barely started my second beer. I wasn’t worried, because Maddy was driving us both back later to her house.

Cassie said, “Your convent idea is starting to sound better and better, Bee.”

I giggled. “What do you mean?”

“I mean this biker life. It can’t go on forever. It’s like modeling or being an actress, or the way I guess being a stewardess used to be—sorry, ‘flight attendant.’ It’s got a short shelf life.”

“Oh, baloney.” I still hadn’t gotten the hang of swearing, although I knew I should, to blend in better with this crowd. “Look at Duji’s old lady Dominique, Faux Pas’s wife Sapphire, they’re both in their forties, even fifties. Tuzigoot’s wife Brunhilde. They’ve been together for-fucking-ever.”

Cassie squeezed my forearm. We nodded at some members of a brother club, The Bent Zealots out of Lake Havasu. The former Veep of the P and E mother chapter, Turk Blackburn had gone over to found this new gay MC, shaking up the MC world. They were all super-nice guys, and I’d heard a rumor that their tracker, Lock Singer, was going to join us in our Tormenta quest, but he was away in California on business.

“Yes, but that’s if you’re someone
old lady
, someone’s wife. Sweetbutt lifespan lasts until you hit thirty, if you’re lucky.”

I shrugged. “I’m twenty-five. I’ve got five years to go.”

“Plus, you’ve got your own business to run. You’re not just a sweetbutt. You’re not one of us, really, at all.”

“Well I’m not doing a very good job running my business from here,” I said sullenly. “Don’t have much choice though. I’ve got to stay with Maddy.”

“I’m sorry, dear. I never should’ve pushed back on Tormenta in the first place. I should’ve just let him throw me around. Defending myself is what escalated his rage.”

“You shouldn’t have to apologize for defending yourself, my dear!” It was then I saw Sax. Built like a brick shithouse, wearing only his wifebeater under his black leather cut, he stood with a group of men, former Tucson men I thought, but off to one side. He truly was a lone wolf, the way he stood aside from the group. With his hands on his hips, he seemed to be listening to what the men were discussing, nodding without adding to the conversation.

“Ah,” sighed Cassie. “The world’s always a sunnier place when Zane Saxonberg’s in town. You like him,” she observed.

I would have to admit it eventually, even if it meant Sax split town after his job was done and left me eating his dust. “Yes. But he’s not the best bet in the world, traveling like he does.”

“He just bought that new rock shop in town.”

Did
every-
fucking-body other than me know about that damned rock shop? “I assumed he’d be getting someone else to run it. Anyone can run a rock shop. Not everyone can ride around buying and selling gems.”

Sax noticed me. It was like a giant lightbulb went off over his head. He became so still, like a crouching tiger willing to wait hours for its prey to make a move.

“Oh, believe you me,” said Cassie, “not everyone can run a rock shop. Zane has a PhD, didn’t you know that? In a serious rock shop, one that doesn’t just sell amethyst geodes and dyed agate bookends, serious buyers come in and expect to talk turkey about serious geology stuff.”

Sax was moving toward me. He didn’t take his eyes off my face, as though afraid if he did, I’d vanish. He moved beautifully, stealthily, just short of breaking into a jog.

“You sound like you know something about geology,” I said distractedly.

Cassie admitted, “I do. I’m fascinated by it. But whoa, I’d be much more fascinated with what you’ve got running toward you.”

Now Sax
was
running, and I felt my feet take me toward him too across the parking lot. It was like one of those corny movies where two people rush across a wheat field toward each other, the sky filtered by an autumn-colored lens.

Indeed, when we met we twirled around in each other’s arms, just like those cornball flicks. He gripped me with his long, steely arms, his face buried in my neck. We just stayed like that for a long time, emotion surging through my chest. He smelled like the outdoors, like he’d just ridden through a pine forest.

“Sister Colette,” he murmured lustily.

This led me to understand what role he wanted me to play. “Father Zane,” I said, calling him by his proper given name.

This caused him to exhale with a large grunt of satisfaction and slide his palms down my lower back, stopping just short of gripping my ass. I may be small-titted but I’ve always been a rather wide load, and good thing that was coming back into style. He stopped short, but his lips wandered across my cheek to open over my mouth, and I accepted his kiss thirstily.

It was almost perverted, doing this in front of the entire club. Sax’s tongue tasted of clean, fresh air, and I twined mine around his eagerly. I was a brazen slut doing this in such plain view, and I even lifted one sandal off the tarmac so I could place my foot around the back of his boot, leaning my pubic mound into his full crotch.

He rapidly broke the kiss. “Let’s get the fuck out of here. Come.”

He took me by the hand. I had to stumble to keep up. He would’ve dragged me across the asphalt like a bag of hardware in his determination to reach the hangar. As I fumbled my way along, I took note of that odd bounty hunter, Santiago Slayer. What the fuck was he doing palling around with old-timers Duji, Tuzigoot, and Gollywow? What the fuck was he doing here, anyway? I thought he and Sax were rivals for the head of Tormenta. I also passed by a very glum Tobiah Weingarten, who looked like he’d just lost his inhaler from his fanny pack. I knew Tobiah was in on Sax’s mission, so I wondered what had gone down. I’d probably never find out.

Inside, the hangar was hopping with people checking out the motorcycle repair shop and climbing on the heavy equipment and Ford’s new tank. Sax pivoted on one foot a few times, looking for a quick escape from the well-wishers who hadn’t seen him in a while, brothers who headed for him with their arms in the shape of a thug hug. Sax adroitly ducked away from one such inked guy, turning the doorknob on a door marked
DISPATCH
.

Bound to him at the wrist, I automatically followed. But Sax never got the chance to shut the door behind us.

His nephew Harte Saxonberg was on his knees, hungrily inhaling the long, veined prick of another brother.

I gasped.
Oh, my
. I was so fascinated with the scene I held absolutely still, and Sax did too, out of shock, no doubt. Harte sucked eagerly on the thick tool, holding it in his palm like an idol, worshipping at its shrine, massaging the ball sac with great, loving squeezes. The recipient of the voracious hoover job—I didn’t much look at his face—pumped his hips frantically, plunging his dick in and out of Harte’s hungry hole. Harte looked almost beatific—I had seen that rapturous look many a time, but usually only at the abbey—as he suckled at the long dick, clearly taking a huge delight in every aspect of the act, running his hands up the belly and hairy, bared chest of his lover.

And it was not the first time he’d indulged in man-on-man, either. I could just tell.

“Come on,” whispered Sax.

It was only when he said that and we turned to leave that Harte’s eyes darted to us. I have to give him credit for concentration—he didn’t even detach his mouth from the penis when the flicker of recognition slashed through his eyes. The jig was up, he knew we’d seen, and his partner Dayton Navarro was the one to pull back in shock, his dick bobbing purplish and shiny in the air.

We were out of there. Sax obviously didn’t want to get involved in any sort of confrontation, not now, and maybe not ever. He dragged me up the inner stairs that led to the club side of the hangar. If anything, the scene I’d just witnessed made me even hotter. It was incredibly erotic in a forbidden, taboo way. The only thing that could have made it more erotic was if Sax had unfurled a bullwhip and started punishing his nephew for such a lewd act.

I was on my way to my own lewd act, and Sax had cuffed one of my wrists before he’d even shut and bolted the door to the game room. He picked up a bar stool and banged it down near a wall where a coat rack with pegs was bolted to the wall. He slammed me onto that stool and stood so he was straddling one of my thighs.

“I have a gift for you,” he said, looking down at me with deep sincerity. “You have to make a vow to trust me in everything I do. But first I want to see your naked titties.”

“Oh, but I
do
trust you,” I said honestly.

The deft fingers of one hand unbuttoned my customary plaid shirt. I had grabbed a dozen of those from my apartment before making a run for Pure and Easy, and with a shock I’d realized I owned nothing sexy. I had managed since our last encounter to purchase a nicer, underwire bra, so now when Sax yanked my shirt down to my elbows behind me, my small boobs at least sported a pretty bra. His slight smile told me I’d done right.

“We need to make a covenant.” His fingers made short work of the bra that I’d been so proud to display. When he stepped closer to unhook it behind my shoulder blades, the heat from his crotch hit me like a bullet. His cock was extended and plump, like it had been when he’d turned me over his knee, and my mouth actually watered to re-enact what I’d just seen his nephew perform on another man.

“A covenant of what?” I dared ask. “
Ah!
” I gasped when he pinched one of my nipples, his other hand sliding both bra and shirt off my hands, tossing them without looking behind him.

“Dominance and submission.” I thought I could see his cock flex inside his well-worn jeans. My nostrils flared as I detected his pheromones, his aroused male scent telling me he was ready to be pleasured.

I guessed at what he meant. “I’m ready to be dominated by you, Father. Your long, thick penis is making me wet. Wondering what you plan to do to me is making me wet. Everything about you makes me horny, makes me wet.”

The edges of his mouth turned up. I’d done well. He fondled both nipples now, but gently, just making soft peaks of them. Arrows of arousal shot directly to my clit, and I wondered what it’d be like to be actually fucked by this man, to have his entire massive, cut body on top of me, plunging inside me to my deepest, most vulnerable places. It would be a religious experience—my new religion. “Good. I’m glad to hear that. I think you’re the perfect submissive for me, Sister. You get turned on by the visual, don’t you? Watching others perform?”

I had to take a risky dive on this one. “You mean what we witnessed just now, down in the dispatch office?”

“Yes, things such as that. The bodies of men. You go weak in the knees at the sight of a handsome, fit man.”

“Oh
yes
,” I admitted heatedly, squirming on my stool, pushing my little breasts into his palms. Then I remembered where I was. “If the man is
you
, Sir.”

“Good.”

Abruptly he stopped fondling my boobs. Before I knew it, he’d somehow managed to cuff both my wrists together and hung me from one of the coat hooks over my head. They were padded suspension cuffs, the
D
ring allowing me to swivel, and not uncomfortable at all. Being bound in this way, forbidden to touch the glorious piece of man before me who orchestrated the scene, made me squirm even more. When Sax removed his cut and respectfully placed it on the back of a chair, I knew he meant business. His incredibly developed pecs bulged beneath the flimsy cotton of the wifebeater, a fine dusting of downy chest hair peeking out below his collarbone, tantalizing and mouth-watering.

I realized that I felt sexy. I knew I wasn’t much to look at—Lord knew, Roscoe told me that all the time—with my flat chest and wide hips. But having my hands bound helplessly above my head, being admired by such a virile specimen of manhood, I felt downright
desirable
. I knew the only reason Sax wanted me was because of my background, my seeming innocence, my skill as a sub. He could toy with me whenever he was in town, using and discarding me when a whim struck him to go onto the road again. He was the incurable playboy, a woman in every town.

But something happened in the next five minutes that finally caved my heart in.

“I found this beautiful trinket for you.” Sax must have withdrawn this exquisite collar from his cut. It glistened with gems, and I remembered he was a gemologist. My greedy, vain eyes searched the stones embedded in the black leather collar. Were they real? I felt ashamed of being so covetous.

He displayed it before my eager eyes. I could have stretched out my neck and licked it, it was that close. “Do you understand the responsibility of being collared by me?”

I nodded like an excited puppy. “I believe I do. I must allow only you to play with me.”

“Exactly. You’re a reflection of me, and all of your actions fall back at my feet.”

“Yes. But—”

“Do you accept me as Master, Mentor, and Teacher?” He frowned. I had interrupted him. “What?”

My face flushed with embarrassment, and I looked down at his belt buckle. “But I need you to do the same for me. No other women in other towns. I can’t bear the thought of you playing with another woman. It just tears my heart from my chest, Sax.” I had second thoughts, and added, “Zane.” Maybe I thought it would sink in more if I called him his Christian name.

He did seem to pause for thought, holding that gorgeous collar in one hand. God knew how many women he was toying with around the country. What, really, was I asking him to give up? It seemed only fair to me. If he expected me to dump Roscoe, shouldn’t I be allowed to expect the same from him? But he was asking me to give up one man. Maybe I was asking him to give up fifty women.

It was as though he’d read my mind. “Do you know what you’re asking me to do?”

My voice was small. “Not really.”

He exhaled. “I didn’t think so.”

If I peeked from under my lashes I could see him stride back to his cut, replace the collar in one of his cut pockets, and withdraw something else.
A flogger.
I had blown it. Blown it radically. What the fuck was I
thinking
? Giving up asshole old Roscoe was no big deal. From the sounds of it, we were done, anyway. And I had just asked Sax to give up
fifty women
in
fifty cities?
What was
wrong
with me? Give an inch, take a mile! That’s what my spiritual mentor had always said about me. I’d take a mile.