Chapter One
SladeSlaterfinishedchanginghis Harley’s oil, stood, stretched, and then wiped his hands on a shop rag. The harsh Alabama sun beat down on his bare back. It brought out the details in the Road King’s paint job: a pack of wolves running against a twilight sky, on a background done in shades of black, purples, and blues. Aerosmith’sBack in the Saddleblasted from the attached garage, the door left open to let out the music. Easier access to the minifridge full of beer too.
About time to clean up, head for the bar, and select the evening’s entertainment. Saturday night hopefully meant better variety at the bar than the usual pickings. That last guy? Too fucking clingy. A quick fuck on the living room floor did not make a relationship.
Arms came around Slade from behind. What the ever-loving fuck? He spun, fist ready to fly.
“Whoa, whoa! It’s me.”
“Me” appeared vaguely familiar, early twenties maybe, blond hair, blue eyes. No one you’d notice in a crowd. Oh, yeah. Right. Mr. Clingy.
“What are you doing here?” No sense hiding his irritation. The uninvited visitor violated Slade’s Rule of Sex #1: Once you leave, stay gone. Ride the Harley, come back to the house, trade cum, go home.
A brief bit of fun, nothing more.
The blond’s bright smile fell. “Aren’t you happy to see me?” A bit of his smile returned. “You were happy to see me last Wednesday night.” He approached, tangling his fingers in the mat of black curls on Slade’s chest.
Oh, no. Slade grabbed the man’s wrist. “What do you want, Kyle?” No, not good when a one-night stand came back. Oh, hell. Tears?
“Kerry. My name is Kerry.”
Right. Names didn’t matter if you made a point to never, ever use names during sex. “So, Kerry. What. The. Fuck. Do. You. Want.” Slade checked his cellphone. Time to go.
“Why are you acting like this?” Kerry took a step back, rubbing his wrist.
“Like what?” Slade had better things to do than waste time on bullshit.
“Like I’m nothing to you.”
No! Not this again! Slade sighed. Twinks. Fun on occasion, if they understood the meaning of “one-night stand.” He hated explaining. If he’d wanted to teach, he’d have gone to college instead of art school. “Look, kid—”
“Kerry!” Color stained the guy’s cheeks. He balled his hands into fists at his sides, confusion giving way to anger. “Was I just a fuck to you?”
No use denying the truth. “Yes. As I was to you. I got off, you got off, end of story.” Slade folded his arms across his chest, making his biceps bulge, showing off his colorful sleeve tats and the top part of the snarling tiger on his chest. No sense in asking the kid to keep his voice down. Nobody in this neighborhood gave a damn about arguments in somebody else’s yard.
Until weapons came out.
Even in his growing rage, Kerry followed the movement of Slade’s muscles, like on the night they’d met.
Slade sighed. “Listen, I picked you up in a bar. You don’t meet people who’ll stick around in a bar.” Roughly forty minutes of sex wasn’t worth the aftermath.
“You…”
Slade fixed the kid with a glare known to back off many a rival. The boy fled. Five minutes. The last guy he’d chased off needed ten to get “go the fuck away” through his skull.
Good riddance.
Slade watched until Kerry disappeared down the street, then turned and headed into the house for a shower. Tonight, he’d make sure his pickup understood from the get-go. Sex. Nothing else.
A late model gold Bentley sat in Slade’s driveway when he stepped out of his front door smelling of cologne, hair hanging in damp strands down his back. The man leaning against the hood wore blue jeans, a casual polo shirt, along with the unmistakable aura of money.
What did the rich muthafucker want?
Handsome, possibly ten years older than Slade’s thirty-five. Touches of gray frosted the stranger’s otherwise light brown hair. A man not afraid of showing his age—years worn well. Firm muscle, more toned than ripped, filled out those clothes.
He didn’t rake his gaze up Slade’s body like many prospective fucks. No. With single-minded regard, he made his assessment, dismissing Slade with a sneer.
At six-four, Slade towered over the man, his T-shirt and sleeve tats a stark contrast to the wealthy man’s casual elegance. “Hey, buddy. You lost?” No one in such a car ever ventured into this neighborhood.
