Page 81 of Smokey's Distraction
“Callahan,” he replied quickly.
Iknewit. I never would’ve pictured her helping out in a homeless shelter. There’s gotta be a reason for it.
“Why are you asking?”
There was an edge to Brady’s voice that puzzled him. “I was curious. Turns out, she’s working on a project for my company.” Did Brady’s jaw just tighten?Fuck, he’s got the hots for her.
“That’s interesting.”
He put his hands behind his head, interlocking his fingers as he fixed Brady with a glare. “It is.”
“What does that mean?” he asked, picking up a pen.
Smokey noticed how tightly he gripped it. So tight, in fact, his knuckles turned white. “She’s a smart woman with great marketing insight. How long has she been volunteering at the shelter?”
“A few weeks.”
“She’d be great in mapping out a marketing campaign for the summer fundraiser.”
Brady let the pen drop to the desk, the tenseness in his face dissipating. “That’s a good idea. I’ll talk to her about it.”
Over dinner, I bet.A stab of jealousy hit him hard, catching him off guard.
“I’ll have to make a note to call her tonight,” Brady continued.
Another unpleasant pang shot through Smokey as he wondered if Ashley had been going out with the director. As if jolted by an electric shock, he jumped up from the chair.
“I’ll see ya.” Without waiting for Brady’s reply, he walked out of the office and straight to the parking lot.
Mounting his Harley, he fired up the engine and peeled out of the lot.
He headed out of town, loving the feel of the road beneath him. Cool wind whipped against the back of his jacket as the sun warmed his face. Following the swells of the road, he passed pine trees and shrubs as he increased the bike’s speed until he hit that place where he felt weightless—like flying—and the rage inside him dissolved. Riding always cleared his mind; he couldn’t imagine not being on a motorcycle. Riding was in his blood—it was his life.
For the next two hours, Smokey rode on narrow roads around canyons, valleys, and streams before heading back to the clubhouse.
When he walked into the main room, he saw Rags and Klutch sipping on beers between shots at the pool table. Cruiser was enjoying a blow job from Tania, while Jax, Chas, Shadow, and Gopher engaged in a conversation at the bar.
“Smokey,” someone called out.
He looked over at a table where Tank was sitting on a chair with Kristy on his lap, his heavily tattooed arms wrapped around her. Kristy had been with the Insurgents the longest of all the club girls. She’d become part of the club fabric when she was only nineteen years old, and fifteen years later, she still held the record among the club women for giving the best blow jobs. Two years before, the Insurgents had given her a room of her own, which made the other girls, particularly Lola and Brandi, madder than hell, but they hadn’t dared complain. They knew the score: if they didn’t like the way things were done, they could leave. As far as the men went, there wouldn’t be any hard feelings or regrets, because there was always a line of willing women ready to take the plunge into the wild side of living. Outlaw bikers never had a shortage of women who wanted to party and spread their legs for them.
Smokey pulled out a chair and sat down. “Hey, Tank. How was the poker run?”
“Fuckin’ great.” Tank patted Kristy’s thigh, and she jumped off his lap. Blowing the two of them kisses, they watched her ass sway as she strode away.
Looking back at Tank, he asked, “How much did you win?”
“Over a grand—not too shabby. I spent most of it on food, lodging, and gas. Bear made out okay, but Itchy lost his ass.” He laughed. “There was this sweet piece in Duluth who knew how to party. I almost took a detour on the way back just to spend a few more nights with her. Hands down, it was the best fucking on the trip.”
Smokey grinned. “How did Itchy make out?”
“He’s not choosy, so he made out just fine.” Tank put his hand into a yellow bowl on the table and scooped out some popcorn. “Itchy’s such a horny fucking bastard.”
“You got that right.” Smokey chuckled. “Whatcha got going on for tonight?”
“A group of us are heading out to Twisted Spoke. Why don’t you join us? The brothers are saying you work too damn hard,”—he leaned in over the table— “and that you’re stuck on some chick.”
“Right on the working, total bullshit on the woman. What time are you heading out?”
