The Billionaire's Secret Love Child(30)

“You don’t know where your nickname comes from?” Sherry asked.

“No. It’s a nickname. I didn’t give it to myself. You got a nickname?”

“I did growing up.”

“Did you give it to yourself?” Colt asked.

“No.”

“There you go,” the man said. “What was your nickname?”

“Love.”

Colt burst into loud laughter, and he slapped a hand down on the grimy bar, so his beer bottle jumped up and clattered over. He picked it up before any beer could spill and drained the rest. When he was done, he looked over to Sherry. “Your nickname is Love, and you’re giving me shit about my nickname?”

“My last name is Loveland,” Sherry clarified.

“I don’t care. That’s a stupid nickname. What’s your real name?” Colt asked her.

“Sherry.”

“Sherry. You know, I gave you a ride and didn’t even learn your name.”

“You tried to do more than give me a ride,” Sherry said.

“No, that would still be giving a ride. I like the girl on top,” Colt said, and he winked at her.

“Tell me those terrible lines and winking doesn’t really get you laid,” Sherry teased.

“All the time,” Colt said. And it was true. He had always done well with the ladies, even while he had been in a pretty serious relationship which recently ended.

“So what’s your real name?” Sherry asked.

“Colt,” the man said with a grin.

“You said it was a nickname.”

“It is. I don’t tell people my real name,”

“You’ll tell me, won’t you?” Sherry asked

“I don’t know. It depends.”

“Depends on what? If I sleep with you?”

“If I say yes, will you sleep with me?” Colt asked.

“No,” Sherry said.

“Okay, well no, that’s not what it would depend on.”

“Then what would it depend on?” Sherry asked.

“If I fall in love with you or not.”

“You only tell people what your name is if you love them?”

“Yeah,” Colt said.

“So who knows?”

Colt smiled. “My momma and dad.”

Sherry rolled her eyes. “I think you’re full of shit,” she said.

“I’m not, scout's honor,” Colt said, holding his hand over his chest with one hand while he flicked a finger in the air for another beer with the other.

“There’s no way in Hell you were a boy scout,” Sherry said, and they both laughed.

They drank together all night, and then it was time for the bar to close, so they headed into the parking lot.

Sherry was too drunk to drive, so she called a cab. It had to come from the next town over, so she had a bit of a wait. Colt offered to give her a ride again, but she was pretty sure he didn’t need to be driving either, so he waited with her, sitting on the back of her car next to her.

The cab came, interrupting idle chit chat, and she climbed into it. Colt watched her go, and then walked on wobbly legs to his motorcycle.

He straddled the machine and kickstarted it. He headed home, which was a ways out of town, a small house built of brick that stood in a dirt yard. Texas, this close to the Mexican border, was practically desert, and he even had a cactus in his front yard. Colt was used to other Viper’s coming and going, and he wasn’t disappointed that night. There were three men and two women there, one a little young thing named Ashley who was always good for a quick lay. He did just that, but even as he was inside the girl, he was thinking of Sherry.

Colt wasn’t used to women turning him down, and Sherry had managed to do it twice in two nights. Damn. Colt fell asleep thinking of her.





3

When Colt awoke, it was past noon, and the Sun was high in the Texas sky, angry and hot. He walked out into his living room in nothing but his boxers, where he found his best friend, Davey, sitting and talking on the phone. Colt sat next to him, and Davey soon hung up.

“You remember that little shit Greg Hosson?” Davey asked him.

“Yeah I do,” Colt said. Greg was a wannabe biker, with a crappy little motorcycle and a bad attitude. He had stolen some money from the Vipers, hoping it would make a name for himself. Instead, it had just gotten him sent to the hospital, and banished from Happy once he could walk without crutches.

“He’s back in town,” Davey said. Davey’s real name was Michael, and Colt had no idea how he had gotten to be called Davey. Davey was a big man, ten years older and fifty pounds heavier. He wore his hair long and had massive sideburns that wrapped down to his chin before stopping.

“Where’s he at?” Colt asked. “Who were you talking to?”

“One of the River Horses saw him, wanted to know if he was still supposed to be gone.”

“He’s always supposed to be gone,” Colt said. “Where is he?”

“Rosebud Apartments,” Davey said, and Colt grinned. That was where he knew Sherry lived, since he had dropped her off two nights ago. And it was Sunday, there was a good chance she would be home. He knew roughing up a snot nosed punk would get him riled up, and if she were there to help him come down from a fighter’s high, all the better. He wanted the woman, and he would get her.