Page 8 of Kash
The ocean’s roar outside is a constant, like a heartbeat I can’t escape, and it’s doing nothing to calm the storm in my head.
I take a swig of the whiskey, the burn grounding me, but it doesn’t erase the image of him.Spike. Those green eyes, that cocky grin, the way he leaned against my bike like he owned it.
Trouble doesn’t even begin to cover it.
I’m thirty-eight, old enough to know better, but that kid has me twisted up in ways I haven’t felt in years.
When he touched my Harley, when he stood there challenging me with that smirk, I wanted to grab him, pin him against the bike, and show him exactly what happens when you push a man like me.
But I didn’t.
I let him skate off, his laughter echoing in my head like a taunt.
I can’t afford to lose focus, not when the Vipers have me framed for a cop’s murder, not when every snitch in a hundred miles is itching to collect that five-grand reward and turn me over to the cops.
Man, I fucking hate the Vipers. I know a thing or two about rival beef with other MCs. All’s fair in love and war. But there still needs to be a code, a system of honor amongst us all. And the Vipers just don’t play it like that. Setting me up for the murder of a cop? That’s lower than low.
Shit. I need another slug of whisky.
I scrub a hand through my salt-and-pepper hair, the scar above my eyebrow itching under my fingers.
It’s all so frustrating.
I was across state lines, pulling a bank job with the Riders when that cop got his chest blown open. No way I’m admitting to that, not unless I want thirty years—or probably more given my record—in a cell. I’ve already done time, and even a short stretch like eighteen months was too long for me. I nearly went crazy. The prospect of spending potentially the rest of my life in some filthy cell and being pushed around by guards is enough to make me want to face the firing squad instead.
Fuck.
I’m in a hole.
I need a distraction, something,anything, to make me feel better.
The burner phone buzzes, and I snatch it up, heart pounding. It’s a text from Jace, short and coded…
JACE: No leads yet. Vipers tight-lipped. Working to get you free, man. Don’t do anything rash. Trust in me. Stay low.
I curse under my breath, tossing the phone back on the table. Staying low means no attention, no connections, no green-eyed skater boys who look at me like they want to climb onto my lap and sink their ass down on my cock.
I take another swig of whiskey, trying to burn away the heat in my gut, but it’s no use.
Spike’s under my skin, and I hate it.
A sharp rap on the door jerks me out of my thoughts. My hand goes to the knife at my belt, instincts kicking in.
No one other than Spike knows I’m here except Gus, and he’s not the type to drop by for a chat. Or at least I hope he’s not. The last thing I want is to spend the next twenty minutes or more shooting the shit with that oily bum.
I move to the window, easing the blind aside just enough to see the porch.
Shit, the only person other than Gus who knows I’m here…
It’s him. Spike.
Standing there with his skateboard tucked under his arm, wearing a ripped tank top and those tight jeans that show off every lean muscle. His dark hair’s a mess, falling into his eyes,and he’s got that same defiant grin, like he knows he’s not supposed to be here.
I open the door, keeping my face hard.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Spike?” I growl, not wanting to give the boy a single hint of encouragement.
Spike shrugs, all casual, like he’s not standing on the doorstep of a wanted man.
