Ride Steady (Chaos, #3)(24)
Tasted as Good on His Tongue
Joker
THERE WAS NO ring. Just cement and a throng of bystanders who got out of way whenever the fighters got too close.
Bare feet. Bare chest. Bare knuckles.
Joker hit him with a right hook but knew even before he threw the punch the guy would take it and go down.
With a jarring thud, he did.
The crowd roared.
Joker just stood there, staring down at him, taking deep breaths and flexing his fingers.
There was no referee. There was just a promoter, a sleaze named Monk who had a legal business running a local nightclub. But for this business he took bets and had a few of his bruisers act as crowd control and bouncers, ousting anyone who showed who didn’t lay down a bet.
So he waited until Monk wandered toward him, grabbed his hand, and lifted it.
The crowd again roared.
Joker tore his hand from Monk’s, not liking the little weasel touching him, and he turned away.
He didn’t look to the cinderblock wall, where he knew Rush and Shy were leaning, watching the action through the crowd. His brothers knew he fought underground. Rush and Shy weren’t the first to come and watch him. Hound was at nearly every fight.
No. He looked to the girl he’d clocked earlier, jerked his head, and she grinned huge, immediately moving toward the door.
Then he walked to his shit, tugged on his tee, socks, and boots and grabbed his cut. He went to Monk’s boy and got his pay. He shoved the envelope in his back pocket, shrugged on his jacket, and after that, enduring claps on the back, bumps to his arms and ignoring anyone who tried to stop him, he pushed to the door and out of it.
Up the steps and into the alley.
She was at his bike.
They wouldn’t have company. He was one of the last fights of the night, but everyone stayed until the end. There was blood to be drawn. Sweat to be leaked. Money to be won. Or lost. No one would leave.
Even if there was, he didn’t give a shit. And she was a fighter groupie, she wouldn’t either.
“Hey,” she whispered when he got near and she shifted closer to his bike.
He let his lip curl and grunted. “Wall.”
She looked disappointed but he didn’t give a f*ck.
She might have been disappointed but she moved right to the brick wall of the alley.
She stopped, facing him. Joker jerked his head once in a no.
He watched her face change when she understood him, not disappointment, far from it.
Then she turned to face the wall, putting her hands up to it.
He moved in behind her and yanked up her short jean skirt.
He looked down at her bare ass.
Commando.
He didn’t know that’s the way she played it, but the girl she was, he could guess.
Carissa wouldn’t go commando. Not ever.
He put Carissa out of his head and gave the girl the absolute minimum of what she needed to get her ready. He heard her greedy moan when he was done doing that and kicked her feet further apart.
She tipped her ass.
He unzipped, freed his cock, expertly dealt with the condom he pulled out of his pocket, drove in, and f*cked her against the wall, barely touching her, just enough to send her over the edge.
He pushed her there with her making a lot of noise, especially when she took the fall.
Joker didn’t make noise, not even when he planted himself to the root and shot hard.
And that was the only time he gave her something, but he did it because he couldn’t stop it. Bending his neck to rest his forehead on her shoulder as the release of coming followed on the heels of the release of beating the shit out of someone.
He rushed his recovery, pulled out, yanked her skirt down, and growled, “Get gone.”
She turned to him, wanting more.
They always wanted more.
“Jo—”
“Gone.”
She took in his face, his tone, nodded, and rushed away.
Leaving the spent condom in the alley, not doubting for a minute it joined others of its kind, Joker went to his bike. Then he rode to the Compound.
It wasn’t a surprise when he went in that Rush was sitting at the bar, Shy behind it. He’d seen their bikes outside before he walked in.
Unlike Joker, Rush had his own place, didn’t stay at the Compound often, usually only after a party. Shy had a sweet crib with Tab, and Shy just had Tab, so unless Tabby was with him, he never took a bed in the Compound.
He also knew Tack had set them on him. Both had seen him fight, neither of them came often, but they were there that night for a different reason.
They were in the Compound right then for that same reason.
Shy took the bottle of tequila that was in front of him, poured a shot, and sent the glass skidding down the bar toward Joker. Joker nabbed it, shot it, and even if he didn’t want to, moved to his brothers.
He liked them both. But he wasn’t in the mood.
When Chaos took him on as a recruit and he found out that Rush was a recruit with him—and remembered the guy, knowing he was Tack’s son, Rush being the kid Joker used to watch with his father at the garage—he didn’t think he’d like him.
Joker knew it was jealousy, but he didn’t care. The guy had everything worth anything all his life, and Joker had none of that shit.
It didn’t take long for him to learn to like him. Rush was solid. He was smart. He was loyal to his brothers. He loved his sister and had the balls to show how much. Same with his dad, even if they butted heads. Same with his stepmom and half-brothers. He could be funny. He was honest, spoke his mind, was an alert, aware, prepared partner when they were on patrol, and he was an excellent wingman when they were out and Joker was in the mood for a f*ck that didn’t happen against the wall of an alley.