Page 2 of The Chase

“And when the fuck do I get to see them?” Colt snapped back. This impatience, he wasn’t faking. Sure, he had a bad feeling about this, but now he was beginning to get annoyed.

Nails slid him a large glass full of dark colored whiskey. He hadn’t had a drink the whole time he’d been inside. He brought it up to his lips, breathing in to smell it through his nose. The alcohol burned his nose. The familiar oak smell. This would taste good.

But before he could take a sip, there was a commotion at the door. Someone busting through it. Two other snot nosed, scrawny prospects, shouting, running forward catching up to-

He blinked. A woman. Fuck, he hadn’t seen a woman in five years, either. His senses were bombarded. It felt like a punch to his gut, his eyes, his balls all in one go. Black dress. Short, lots of leg on show. Little gold, stupidly high, strappy sandals. Shouting, she was huffing and screaming, she sounded extremely pissed off. He could smell her from the other side of the room. Expensive floral perfume. She had long blonde hair, fancy color job on it. But had a black rag tied around her face, covering her eyes. Or at least it had been, she had obviously fought and struggled and pushed it up so it was halfway up her forehead, her hair all bunched up. She’d been led into the building by the prospects, her hands had been tied together in front of her by a plastic zip tie, but she’d somehow shrugged it off and now was refusing to come quietly. Fucking good for her, he thought.

He got back into obnoxious Prez mode. “Finally, is this my welcome home present?” Colt drawled cockily, unashamedly eyeing her up and down. He didn’t have to fake his interest and attraction to her. Maybe she really was his welcome home present, maybe this was an elaborate role play, maybe these prospects hadn’t gotten the memo that he was the fucking President and they’d get their asses ridden when the others got out of church. He had no clue what was going on, but judging from the arrival of her, things were about to get interesting.

He tried to take a sip of the whiskey, wanting to lean cockily at the bar and down it and then take this sweet little morsel to bed with him. But even the fumes coming off his drink caught in his throat, making him cough. Fucking hell. He put the whiskey down.

Her head snapped to him, and she rounded on him, assuming he was in charge. “Hey! Who the fuck do you think you are, kidnapping me like this?”

At least someone could tell who the leader of the pack was, he thought wryly. His former escorts, Nails and Club, gave each other another loaded sideways glance, but then headed over to conflab with the two other prospects who’d hauled the woman in. They looked nervous, like they knew something was going to go down. Like they shouldn’t have brought the two of them here, at the same time, together.

“You total dick. If you think you can get away with this, think again,” she shouted, strutting toward him on her long, bare legs. Legs he wanted wrapped around his waist. Legs he wanted wrapped around his neck.

He couldn’t help but smile. “Feisty, like a little kitten that got wet in a rain storm. Fucking perfect,” he drawled. It was true, he didn’t mind a little spirit, a little push back. He felt his cock plumping. She was hot. Tiny, a little firecracker, plucked from God knows where, dressed like she was on an evening out. Hell, she sported a vintage leather jacket to boot. A little cropped thing, the finest Italian calf leather. A true classic. Where did she get that? He blinked. Something about it was familiar. Something about her... a memory tugged at him, from the past. He hadn’t spent much time dwelling, looking back. It was pulling him further back than the five years he’d done in prison. Further back than he wanted to go.

Colt turned away, both from her and wherever his brain was trying to take him. “Prospect.” He snapped his fingers. Yes, it was rude, but that was the life of a prospect. You were treated like dirt, you grafted until you had proved yourself as a true brother. Like an apprentice, but shittier. He’d done it himself, everyone had done their time at the bottom of the ladder. “Whiskey, for the lady,” Colt barked.

Nails turned and thought about it for a second. Then shrugged and slouched about behind the bar, fixing her a drink.

Colt ran his tongue around his teeth inside his mouth. He needed a cigarette. He had them in his back pocket. He pulled one out, put it between his lips. The woman stared at him, tutted, huffed, looking at him with burning anger and indignation. As if she was offended by the cigarette. As if that was somehow more serious than this kidnapping. He lit it up with a single, confident flick of the lighter.

Fuck yes. He breathed in deeply, feeling the glow at the end of the cigarette. Feeling the bliss hit his lungs, flit into his veins. Calm him and excite him at the same time.

“Those things will kill you, you do realize,” she stated, irritated. She fixed him with the most piercing blue eyes. Fuck, she was beautiful. He wanted to tease her, this little uptight hellcat. He took another deep drag and blew a puff of smoke toward her, letting it out of his nose and his mouth. She was far enough away that it didn’t really bother her, but the gesture was plain.

And then he saw something flit across her face that he had not expected. Desire.

Her eyes hooded, for just a second. Her lips parted. Her gaze dropped to his mouth. Lower, raking over his body in one lusty sweep. What the actual fuck?

He did a double take of her. No way would a woman like her look twice at a guy like him. She was beautiful, yes, but intelligent. It oozed out of her, the way she pronounced every letter in the words she spoke, her upper class indignation at something unexpected happening to her. Her diamond earrings. Her hair, it must have cost a bomb. It was no cheap job from a box from the supermarket. She reeked of class and sophistication. She’d probably been on an evening out, at a cocktail bar perhaps, when she was grabbed by those prospects. And why the fuck had she just given him the come-to-bed eyes when she clearly was annoyed with him and everything around her? Yes, he’d been flippant about taking her to bed, he’d thought about it the second she’d marched through the door. She would be sweet, clean, supple. She would be a joy to sink his starved cock into. But no way in hell would she volunteer for that with the likes of him. A dirty old biker, a convicted felon. A no-good bad-boy.

Unless that’s what she wanted. That’s what she’s secretly craved and never had. His cock stiffened in his jeans again. He had to pay attention not to gag on his cigarette now, too.

But he didn’t have to respond, as the big wooden door opened up. The prospects immediately jumped to attention. Nails and Club flanked Colt, grabbing his arms. He stuffed his cigarette between his lips before they could restrain his arms and they frog-marched him into the room, into church. He heard the woman kick off again behind him, and didn’t need to look to assume the other two prospects had grabbed her, too, and were attempting to march her in. And she was kicking up a fuss. He smiled to himself, liking her attitude.

“Come on, you’re our slut now, go in like a good little slut-” one of the Prospects began.

Colt turned around at that.

Her hand whipped out of the prospect’s grasp and back handed him across the face. For a second she went white. Like she was shocked and horrified. That was the look of someone who’d never hit anyone before, Colt thought. The prospect, his head slapped round, brought it back with a wince, checking for blood, for damage. Finding none, he still moaned.

“I’m not going fucking anywhere and I’m most definitely not your slut,” she said, recovering her cool and tossing her head back with dignity. Then she grabbed their hands and stomped forward like she was the headline model at Paris fashion week, the two prospects at her heel like woebegone, shamed puppies.

Fucking hell, Colt fell a little bit in love with her right then and there. Her spirit, her confidence. He wanted to call her his slut. His head spun and his groin felt like he’d just been punched. It hurt good.

Get it together, Colt, he told himself, this is no time to lose your head because of your dick. He let the prospects lead him in for now. Remembering his lessons from prison. Wait, bide time, figure it out. Wait and see and act later. He pursed his lips to grip the cigarette and blow out smoke at the same time. He let a nonchalant, mildly amused smile play on his lips, let his feet drag in an unhurried way, as if this was all a big joke.

They were in the inner meeting room, church, as it was known. It was where he had always aspired to be. Growing up, as a scrawny prospect with nothing to his name, he had dreamed of being one of the fully patched members, with a seat at the table. He’d watch the men stride in there, beyond confident, with their big, muscular bodies and heavy boots. These men got what they wanted out of life. He had dreamed of being one of them. He’d been a bony homeless kid when he first showed up here. He’d been dumpster diving behind the pizza place down the road, Rossetti’s. He’d been caught, picked up by the scruff of his neck, thrown onto the sidewalk and shouted at by the restaurant owner. The restaurant owner, a man in his thirties, had looked at Colt like he was a cockroach, something disgusting, something to fear and hate. Colt had withered under his glare.

One of the bikers had spotted him. A small group of them had been loitering by the entrance of the biker bar and had watched. This biker had shoulder length, steely gray hair, a pierced ear, and icy blue eyes. His name, it turned out, was Blue. He’d taken a long look at Colt, and then called him over. Colt had nowhere else to go, so he tripped forward, gulping back the tears, the hunger and the loneliness. Blue had said if he swept the floor of the bar, Colt could have a plate of food. Colt had agreed. He was a trembling little squirt of a kid, but he swept the whole floor of the bar, front and back, and the kitchens, too. He’d kept his head down but had been in awe of it all. Turned out Blue was the President of a big, bad ass biker gang, men who did what they wanted, said what they wanted, got what they wanted out of life. Colt had never seen anything like it and instantly fell in love with it. They’d kicked him out after he’d scoffed down a burger and fries. But he came back the next night. And the next. They then threw in the couch for the night, as well as dinner. The couch had been saggy and smelly back then, when he’d been fifteen. But he’d sunk into it like it was goose down and silk. The bikers continued to party around him, but he’d conked out and slept like the dead. They threw him out again in the morning, but, again, his determination was all he had. He’d be back by the early evening. Blue would look out for him, and every day, Colt would come scampering up the road. Every day looking a little better for having had a square meal in him the night before. Blue would put his hand out and pat his shoulder, calling him “son.” Blue made him feel human again. And Colt became instantly attached to Blue, seeking his approval, devastated when Blue had to discipline him for an accidental wrongdoing or an adolescent slip up.

The days turned to weeks and they stopped kicking him out. In the morning, he was roused from the couch and given a mop and a bucket, or a sponge, and sent off to do whatever odd jobs he could. The weeks and months and years went by. Colt was taken on as a prospect. Given some mundane jobs, some important jobs. His favorite had been safeguarding Blue’s daughter. Fuck, that had been the best time. She didn’t know Blue had assigned a member of the MC to watch over her, she didn’t even know her daddy was the president of an MC. But in the summers, when she was back from boarding school, and later, college, Colt was her personal shadow. And he’d guarded her like a fucking Fabergé egg. Best times of his life.

The rest of club life suited him fine. Crazy shit went down, parties, sweet butts, gun fights, territory stealing, police raids... all of it. After Blue’s time as President came to an end, it came to Colt. And he thought he’d made it. President, head of the table. Fully patched member of the Black Coyotes. He’d led them for three years. Lived his dreams. He’d insisted on keeping the smelly old couch in the clubhouse, so every day he’d see it and remember where he’d come from. That it was still there, looking saggier and smellier than ever, pulled at something within him.