Blood and Tears
Kat pushed open the swinging doors of the only other place she called home and was greeted by the smell of fried foods, tobacco, and the grim faces of every member of the Free Guns Motorcycle Club.
It’s true. Kat could see the truth etched in all the faces around the bar, members that had been with the club since their president Jamison formed it over ten years ago. She could see from the tight muscles, drawn faces, and watery eyes of every member except Solomon Parker.
Despite knowing that he was dangerous and about as good for Kat as a root canal, she was drawn to him. Drawn to blue eyes the color of rainwater, hair as black as night, and a body tightened and muscled with the sort of strength you didn’t find at a gym.
Solomon Parker, number one on my list of suspects in Jamison’s murder. Kat growled into her mind as she was engulfed in her first--but not at all last--hug of the night.
“He’s dead, Kat!” Mindy, Jamison’s wife wailed as she wrapped tightly in a fierce hug and dampened her grey t-shirt with tears. “Jamison’s dead!”
Kat embraced the woman back just as fiercely as every eye in the bar looked to her, seeking her out. They wanted a leader--needed one who would continue on with the traditions Jamison had set out for them. They looked at her, because they knew she was that person.
However, Kat’s eyes remained on Solomon, following his every move, taking note of everyone he talked to. She might have a serious case of lust for the guy, but Kat wouldn’t let that impair her. Solomon had made it clear he didn’t like Jamison, made it clear that he had a specific vision of how the club should operate, and made it very clear where he thought Kat belonged.
On a shiver, she closed her eyes and relaxed into the next hug. Solomon had made it very clear that he wanted to be president of the Free Guns and he wanted her wrapped around him, screaming his name, fucking him with an abandon only a man who knew his power could give her.
But it was wrong--he was wrong. Kat reminded herself the same thing she had reminded herself nine years ago when she joined the gang and first saw Solomon. The man was trouble with a capital T, and if she wanted any hope of calming her club members and becoming the new president, she’d stay away from him.
***
Kat splashed cool water on her face and rubbed at her eyes. She was physically and emotionally exhausted. Not only had she dealt with Jamison’s grief stricken wife, but also every single member of the Free Guns.
It wasn’t like Kat had ever been a warm and fuzzy person--she wasn’t. She preferred being out on the range testing out the latest firearms than consoling anyone. Kat didn’t really do people, as strange as that was. She was--at her core--an introvert and independent to boot.
Relationships were not her forte, especially the romantic kind. Kat much preferred to pick a guy up at a bar, have hot, sweaty sex as his place, then hightail it home to catch the last few minutes of whatever late night talk show there was. Sex was a stress reliever. It was fun, exciting, and necessary for Kat. But that’s all it was.
Sighing loudly, she reached for a paper towel but her hand came up against a hard male body instead. Wayward fingers traced over rock hard pecs before Kat could control herself.
***
She’d know that body anywhere, had watched the man straddle a bike like he’d been born riding, watched him use women like tissue papers and climb his way up the ladder any way he could--by fair means, or foul.
“Solomon Parker ,” Kat blew out as gusty breath as she pulled her hand back and wiped them off on her jeans. Screw paper towels!
“Kathy Sullivan,” Solomon returned in that slow southern drawl that lit a girl's panties on fire. Kat had the same accent, but it didn’t have anywhere near the same impact on the ears.
“Want to tell me why you’re in
Legs McNeil, Jennifer Osborne, Peter Pavia