Shelter From The Storm (The Bare Bones MC Book 6)(17)
He had twisted me around so we were face to face. His back was to the wall, and my legs dangled against his hard chest. Suddenly the airy summer dress I’d put on that morning seemed completely insubstantial. It felt like I wore a dress made of tissue paper—or worse, that I was naked. Suddenly we felt so intimate my * lips bloomed with arousal. My pubic bone rubbed against his collarbone, and my bare thighs below my hemline could actually feel the ridges of his six pack.
When I strained to yank the arrow from the wood, I squirmed more than was necessary. He had the side of his face pressed to my belly, sending torches of heat arrowing into my womb. It was then I had to admit that I was, maybe literally, on fire for this man. We synced together. We had good chi. I hadn’t done it with anyone since leaving Corpus Christi, but I wanted to do it with him. Just blow off a little steam, really.
By the time he let me down, I could tell my panties were damp. He let me down slowly, too, sort of corkscrewing me, letting me squiggle erotically. My mons veneris bumped down over his pectorals, over that six pack, banging lightly on his enormous pewter belt buckle. With my hands on his bare shoulders, by the time my toes touched the ground, it was like we were dancing. Just the two of us in an enormous silent ballroom. Except the ballroom was lit by fluorescent tubing. And there were posters on the wall for The Hunger Games and Brave. And a guy with a red afro was waddling through the shooting lanes holding a bunch of new paper targets.
I’d never noticed how much shorter I was than Fox. I lingered there, looking up with adoration. He just exuded virility and stamina. This close, I could breathe in his natural musky scent. It was as though each breath I took filled me with a drug I needed—a drug I was quickly becoming addicted to. I knew I was gazing at him starry-eyed, and possibly even cross-eyed. I didn’t care.
But suddenly he broke the trance. Businesslike, he picked up our other arrows from the floor and strode back to the bow racks. I was completely stunned and more than a little dejected. He could’ve kissed me. I even sort of owed him at least one kiss after he’d saved me the day before. But he just walked off, and suddenly a guy wearing a business suit was walking across the shooting pads.
“Slushy!” cried Wolf Glaser, on his way in the front door with a tray of our smoothies. “I should’ve asked you if you wanted something.”
“No worries,” said the lawyer, trying to get past Wolf with his briefcase.
Slushy. The club’s lawyer. Fox and I looked at each other at the same time. Now I knew it wasn’t a juice bar down here. His law office was somewhere.
Wolf was trying to say, “Hey, I’d like you to meet—”
But Fox beat him to it. With his hand out, he got smack in the lawyer’s path. “Fox Isherwood. Dr. Driving Hawk has got me researching why the f*ck Ochoas would be in the Leaves of Grass backyard snooping around. I’d appreciate any insight you’ve got.”
Slushy didn’t say hello. With his free hand, he pointed at Wolf. “This guy’s for real?”
Wolf never lost his shit-eating grin. “Oh, he’s for real, all right. A for real sicario, a friend of Slayer’s.”
Slushy relaxed. “Oh. All right.” Only then did he shake Fox’s hand. “The Ochoas? I should say I know them. I used to cook the books for them, hence the name Slushy.”
Fox had a look of recognition. “Ah. Back in the pirate days, the ship’s cook was named Slushy. He made slush or something.” How the hell did he know that? Did he study maritime law? It just didn’t look like the sort of thing an inked, muscular killer would know.
Slushy pointed at him. “Exactly. And although they left me for dead in the middle of the Sonoran desert, it all worked out for the best. I traded up, not down. Ochoa owns the whole Four Corners area.”
Fox said, “Near the meteor crater. Show Low.”
“Right. That’s where Ruben Ochoa’s plantation is, plus a lot of other unsavory items.”
“I heard human trafficking.”
“Exactly. He’s got dungeons over there, pits built into the ground to hold beaners he’s selling into domestic slavery on this side of the border.”
Fox said, “Some sick f*ck. You guys don’t deal in that.”
“Oh hell no!” barked Wolf vehemently, almost spilling his drinks. I took mine out of the tray. “We deal in legitimate, honorable stuff that’s on the up and up, like iron and work!”
Slushy explained to me, “Guns and drugs.” To Fox he said, “I’m here to tell you I’ve gone straight. The Bare Bones is the best thing that ever happened to me. I can practice the law that I love, earn straight green, and watch The Big Lebowski on my widescreen. Can any of those Ochoas say they’re not constantly on the run looking over their shoulder?”
Again, I exchanged glances with Fox. This time, we were uneasy. Both of us were running, looking over our shoulder. I didn’t know what Fox was running from, but I lived in such holy terror of someone from my old days recognizing me, I’d started seeing a counselor who prescribed anti-anxiety drugs for me.
Slushy continued, “I’ve even got a Facebook profile with something like my real name on it. I can ‘like’ my daughter’s photos of her dog, and penguins giving noogies, and photos of Charlie Hunnam shirtless.”
“Well,” said Wolf, “you don’t ‘like’ those ones.”