Chrome: With a Heart Forged in Steele (Carolina Bad #4) Read online

  After months of watching her, endless hours of wanting her, I’d set my plan in motion. She’d approached me that night, a sly smile on her sexy lips. When she’d trailed her hands up my chest and winked at me from those gorgeous, big, hazel eyes, my cock had pressed hard against my black leathers.

  “So tell me, old man.” She toyed with a button on my shirt. “Is the business called Chrome and Steele because you’ll be losing your hair soon?”

  Losing my hair? Jesus, she had balls. But I had bigger ones dangling between my thighs, I was sure of that. And my hair? It was thick and black and cropped short. I was in no danger of losing it.

  “Princess.” Taking hold of her waist, I’d flipped her around so I could crowd her against the wall.

  She sucked in a breath, her gaze lifting to mine.

  That’s right.

  I had surprises up my sleeves and down my pants she couldn’t even begin to guess at. Couldn’t wait to show her.

  I’d skimmed my stubbled jaw against the soft skin of her cheek. “You don’t need to worry about my age. I’m old enough to handle you, and young enough to make good on my promise.”

  I’d stepped closer into her heat. My body grazed hers—her big curves against my hard muscles.

  “What promise would that be?” the bold woman had dared ask.

  Her lips were plump and pink. Her body smokin’. Her challenging attitude totally in place until I’d answered.

  Leaning toward her, I let my lips glide against her ear. “I can rock your world. Rock your bed. Make you come so hard you forget your own damn name and can’t walk straight the next day.”

  Her body had rocked against mine. Her fists had tightened on my shirt.

  She’d goddamn whimpered.

  It’d taken an inhuman amount of willpower to slip free of her grasping grip. But this woman wasn’t so easy to get. And I’d needed her to know I wasn’t just fucking around.

  Low and rumbling, I’d said, “But I usually save that for more experienced women.” I’d set her gently away from me, taking in her dazed hazel eyes one last time. “See ya ’round, racy Rayce.”

  Ambling away from her?

  Sheer torture.

  Worth it when I’d glanced back and she’d sagged against the wall, staring after me.

  The remainder of the night had been more partying and more drinking but not an excessive amount for me. I saw my brethren as men I needed to look out for even if they were more than capable of bringing on the pain when needed to those who threatened our mixed-up, messed up, all-legit MC family.

  Okay, almost all-legit.

  Rayce had been on my radar bigtime since day one. When she’d left that November night—alone, thank fuck—I’d cut out shortly after.

  Since then it had been more cat-and-mouse, stop-and-go, with her.

  A foxy, smart, talented woman.

  That honey fucking owned me.

  Sexy, gorgeous, undaunted, foul-mouthed.

  Beautiful and hard-edged.

  All for a reason I’d just discovered. She protected other people always above herself, and she didn’t want to get hurt.

  Sure, Rayce could take care of herself.

  But she deserved to be cherished and safeguarded by the right man.

  I was that man.

  I made it home without turning around and storming into her trailer, ordering her to pack a bag, and manhandling her to my truck.

  Parking in the brick driveway, I locked up and strolled out back. The house had been my folks’. The big clapboard cottage with huge porches faced the narrow street in the Old Village of Mt. Pleasant, but the back yard rolled down to the Cooper River. Cold weather grass crunched underfoot, and steam rose off the roiling water that appeared black and depthless in the middle of the frosty December night.

  I walked to the dock, lanterns lighting the way along the silvery wooden wharf. Icy crystals clung to the pylons. The boat, christened the Becky Sharp after our mom, had been raised, covered, docked for the winter although it never got too cold to take her out if we wanted to trawl around the Intracoastal Waterway.

  Dad had bought the Grady-White outboard once Chrome and Steele really took off. I’d been fourteen at the time. He’d let me captain that stunning seaworthy beast for the first time a year later.

  “Take the wheel for a sec, Boom?” he’d casually asked, as if requesting me to do something as normal as filling the cooler with more ice.

  I’d put my hands on the sun-warmed metal, spinning the wheel with the tides. Dad disappeared with a secret smile, and before I knew it, I was guiding the Becky Sharp down the river, threading along the buoys as dolphins—gray and sleek—water-danced beside us.

  “Look at you, hot shit.” Brodie had shuffled up beside me.

  Mom snuck up and smacked him on the back of his head. Even then he’d had the blond surfer-dude hair.

  She ruffled it afterward saying, “Watch your mouth, Broderick.”

  “Jesus, Ma. That hurt.” He’d frowned, rubbing his head.

  Long black hair swinging to her waist, pre-teen Cat had squealed, “Oooh, Broderick’s in trouble again!”

  “Shut it, Cat.” Brodie had rounded on her, his angelic looks the direct opposite of her dark devilish ones. “Just ’cause you finally started shaving your legs don’t mean you’re the hot shit.”

  “And just ’cause you finally grew a few hairs on your chin don’t mean you’re the man.”

  “Break it up!” Mom had shouted.

  “No probs,” Cat had called back.

  And then she pushed Brodie overboard.

  His middle finger breaking the surface first, Brodie spluttered up.

  Cat dove in after him—cleanly slicing the water like a knife cutting through melting butter.

  I’d hauled up the wet and weary assholes after they’d tried to drown each other a half dozen times.

  We’d spent so many spring and summer days on the Becky Sharp—Mom, Dad, Cat, Brodie, me. Fishing off Isle of Palms. Swimming in the Wando River. Waving at other boatgoers as we crested the downtown peninsula.

  Those days were long gone.

  I’d been numb for too many years to count.

  Everything had changed, some for the better.

  Parents dead.

  Cat married and finally happy.

  Brodie hooked up and totally settled.

  Loneliness seeped into my bones like the cold air rising from the ground. Like someone walking over my grave. The mist grew, drawing me closer to the water—that dark mirror that haunted me like black ice on the surface of a road.

  I saluted the water for Mom. For Dad.

  Stalking into the house, I knocked my boots free of any lingering frost. I heard Sherlock—affectionately known as Shitlock—clacking down the staircase. He prowled toward me in the kitchen. After kicking off my boots, I bent down to pick up the fatass cat.

  Shitlock had shown up a couple months after Watson, aka Twatson, during the days Brodie and I bachelor-padded it here. Our own Cat, our sis, had moved out, so we’d taken in the mangy fleabags for a little extra company. Although, really, I thought Brodie was soft on the fluff balls.

  Once Brodie shacked up with Ashe, he’d taken Twatson, bequeathing Shitlock to me.

  I didn’t mind too much. The feline just needed some lovin’ now and then, food and water, and bonus? He couldn’t talk so I didn’t have to listen to another human being yammering on at me.

  I’d had the house to myself for four months now. Couldn’t say I missed Brodie all that much. I saw him enough at Chrome and Steele and Retribution anyway.

  But something was missing here.

  A big family house just waiting for the family part to make it feel like a home again.

  And that was enough thinking like I had a vagina.

  Just because I had a damn cat didn’t mean I needed to be a pussy myself.

  Knuckling under Shitlock’s chin just where he liked it—purr, purr, purr—I scooped out some kitty kibble one-handed. />
  I set the orange cat on the floor. “Eat that and go do some mousing or something useful for a change. I need a shower. It’s been a fucker of a night.”

  It was almost two in the morning by the time I dropped all my clothes in a heap on the bathroom floor. I flexed my fists, stretched my arms. Groaned as muscles bulged and popped.

  Jesus. I was tight. Tight in my skin. Felt like I was coming loose in the head though. I couldn’t shake thoughts of Rayce no matter how hard I tried.

  I flipped on the shower, waiting for hot steam to billow out over the top of the glass doors. In the clouded mirror I could just make out my form. The breadth of my tattooed shoulders, wide as the doorway. Dark hair. Eyes the same shade as both Cat and Brodie’s—a color my mom had called blue ice. A color Brodie called ladykiller blue.

  Fucking Brodie. He thought I’d been practically celibate for years. Just because I was discreet didn’t mean I wasn’t snagging pussy whenever I could. And I’d snagged a lot of pussy.

  Up until the first night I’d seen Rayce inside the MC. Yeah, that was four-plus months ago. So the celibacy thing at this point was no goddamn joke, and I needed something more on my cock than my hand.

  I just did not want a cheap babe, an easy fuck, a one-night stand. I’d had plenty of those. They never stuck. I hadn’t wanted them to. Easy come, easy go, and that had been the point.

  Not anymore.

  I popped into the shower, practically sighing when the hot water beaded on my skin. I’d taken a few punches during the showdown earlier. I’d handed out more, though. Lathering my hands, I scrubbed my arms, my legs, across my torso. More lather. Hotter water to work out all the kinks.

  My fingers brushed my balls, went for the long thick pole of flesh between my legs.

  I thought about Rayce. Imagined her in the shower with me. Her nipples peaked. Her tits glossy and wet. Water and foam trailing over her body like the come I wanted to spray all over her, into her.

  Instant cock-hardener.

  Groan.

  I placed a hand on the shower wall, glaring down at the dumb-stick sticking up from my groin. Bastard piece of meat practically waved at me from where it stood, the tip grazing the trail of black hair above my belly button.

  Gripping the base of my shaft one-handed, I flicked the water to cold. Icy, cock-freezing cold.

  I did not want to jack off about Rayce one more time.

  I wanted to have her.

  ****

  After placing a call to Josh Stone first thing in the morning to find out what time Rayce’s shift started, I jumped into my TopKick. The road warrior truck came second only to my Vincent Black Shadow motorcycle. Fully customized with huge fog lights and silver stovepipes, the grill alone looked like mean metal on wheels.

  I blasted the heat. December was not getting any warmer. The cold weather didn’t bother me too much as a rule, but today had a sharper feel to it.

  It was a twenty-minute drive to Rayce’s. And, Jesus, the place looked even more desolate by daylight.

  Fuck.

  Looked like her dad had been in the junk business—or was just a freakin’ packrat—because there was shit heaped up everywhere. Shapes that had been dark and indistinct last night took form.

  Dense piles of rusted out car parts. Old bikes by the dozens—not a single one of them whole. Leaning towers of hubcaps. Walls of tires. Every kind of shit in every stage of neglect and disrepair one could imagine.

  In the middle of the boneyard sat the trailer.

  I cursed under my breath.

  What used to be white metal siding was dark red and brown with rust and age. The steps looked moldy. Not shades or curtains but what appeared to be bedsheets hung over the windows from the inside.

  It hurt my fucking heart to think of Rayce living here.

  Walking up the steps, I tried to soften my footfalls. I knocked on the door of the ramshackle trailer.

  “Rayce, get the fucking door!” filtered out from the inside.

  My jaw tensed.

  I heard some sort of muffled reply. Followed by heavy stomping feet.

  The door was yanked open, and a man stood there, glaring at me. “What the fuck you want at this hour of the morning?”

  Chapter Three

  Dickhead Dad

  THE MAN WAS TALL. Not as tall as my six-foot-five, though. He was broad. Not as broad as me. He looked like he could’ve been a boxer back in his heyday. Now his body tended toward flab whereas I was worked out every day of the week. I easily outweighed him pound for pound by sheer muscle mass alone.

  The hair at the back of my neck rose. I felt like a fucking alpha dog, protective urges for Rayce prickling all over my body.

  I towered in front of him, and he wobbled back a little.

  Alcohol fumes rose off of him like steam from the frost-covered ground when the sun rose on a winter’s day.

  He squinted at me through pink-rimmed piggy eyes. “You one of them deaf-mutes or what? I said what the fuck do you want?”

  It took a major effort to remain civil. “Mr—”

  “Lafayette, shit-for-brains. Leroy Lafayette. As in Le-roi, French for the king.”

  I didn’t know what he thought he was the king of. Bullshit, maybe.

  “What. Do. You. Want?” Foaming spittle formed in the corners of his slug-like lips.

  “Mr. Lafayette. I’m Boomer Steele. Came to pick up Rayce for work.” I held out my hand.

  He spat on the top step, narrowly missing my boot.

  I glared, just about ready to take out the redneck in the stained wife-beater with my fist in his fucking butt-ugly face.

  “Hey, Rayce!” he shouted back into the trailer. “Got you a guy here, you little whore-slut.”

  And that was it.

  I yanked the white trash to me with both fists gripping his tank top. “That’s how you talk to your own daughter? The woman who takes care of you?”

  Just one more insult, one more push, and I’d have him head first through the dry-rot, fake-wood paneling.

  Daddy dick-face rolled bleary eyes up to mine. “She owes me. She knows it too. Keeps her in her place. A woman gets too high-and-mighty and there’s no controllin’ her.”

  Disgusted, I let him go. It felt like his filth still clung to my fingers. “You’re a worthless slob.”

  “Yeah?” Leroy sneered. “Good luck with the little bitch. Spreads her legs for anyone she can. Wouldn’t be surprised if you’re her pimp.”

  He laughed, and the sound had a maniacal edge to it.

  My fist hammered into his face before I knew I’d reacted. The fast strike sent the asshole spinning before he hit the ground.

  Rayce appeared. “Boomer? What did you—”

  “Exactly what he deserves. And I ain’t done yet.”

  Fuck it. Speak about a woman like that in my presence? I’d beaten up guys for my sister. I wouldn’t hesitate to send this shitheel to the hospital on behalf of Rayce.

  I peeled the scumbag off the floor, my fist primed to do more damage.

  Rayce grabbed my hard-flexing bicep. “Don’t! Boomer! Please. Leave him alone!”

  Reining in the rage, I breathed in and out like a bull about to go full stampede.

  One breath.

  Two.

  Three more.

  I unclenched my hand.

  Rayce’s dad staggered against the nearest wall.

  The whole goddamn trailer shook.

  He opened his mouth, no doubt to rail more abuse.

  I jabbed a finger against his chest. Good thing I didn’t have a gun on me. I’d never felt such undiluted anger. “Don’t. You. Open. Your. Trap.”

  Jab. Jab. Jab. Jab. Jab.

  “Boomer.” Rayce pulled on my hand. “C’mon.”

  I left, walking backward, my stare never leaving her dad’s.

  No one spoke to or about my woman like that.

  No one.

  Harnessing my wrath, I helped Rayce into the truck. I stood against the hood, gulping one
more deep breath. Rolling my neck. Trying to pop the tension out of my body.

  By the time I got behind the wheel, Rayce was already buckled in. But she wouldn’t look at me.

  She sat beside me, trembling.

  I hit the engine and blasted the heat.

  I was shaking, too. Shaking with the undiluted need to commit violence.

  Gunning it out of the place, I glanced back in the rearview. If her dick of a dad thought about coming after us, I’d be a-okay leaping out and pounding him some more.

  By the time we got halfway down the deserted dirt road, I pulled over and stopped.

  “You okay?” I asked, draping an arm across the back of Rayce’s seat.

  “I wish you hadn’t seen that.” She stared straight ahead. Her voice was wooden, hollow.

  “You gonna look at me?” Turning in my seat, I lifted my hand to her face.

  I touched her gently.

  “I can’t.” She blinked her eyes slowly. “What he said. It’s not true, you know. I’m not . . . I’m not a slut.”

  Heart-fucking-breaking.

  I pulled her into my arms.

  She folded into my embrace, and I nuzzled her cheek, her hair, letting my warmth steal into her cold loneliness. I wished I could take away every moment of pain, every put-down, every word that man had probably said to make her feel small.

  Her fingers clung to my shoulders, my back. Her body shook as if she was sobbing, but no sounds came out.

  I closed my eyes, breathing in her scent—one of the first things about her that had enticed me. Feminine and exotic almost, leather, and beneath it, the hint of motor oil because she was a hardcore grease monkey after all.

  Stroking her back, I held her close, taking her silent pain as mine loosened from my chest. I murmured words that meant nothing and everything all at once.

  In time, I became aware of how she rested against me with her breasts against my chest. Her hot breaths fanned the hollow of my neck.

  That was when my cock decided to get in the game.

  I wanted to strangle that untamed beast.

  Rayce must’ve sensed the rise in—ahem—temperature because she slowly shifted away. She peered up at me with big sparkly eyes—part mossy green, part liquid gold.