King's Barber

  King’s Barber

  M.D. Gregory

  King’s Barber © M.D. Gregory

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations in articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publishers, M.D. Gregory. Copyright protection extends to all excerpts and previews by these authors included in this book.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. The authors or publisher is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

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  Credits or It Takes a Team to Raise a Book

  Line Editing by Susan Reeves.

  Early Reading by Kortland Wood.

  Early Reading, Developmental, and Line Editing by Anita Ford.

  Copy Editing, Proofing, and Editing Coordination by Kiyle Brosius.

  Cover Design by Meg Bawden.

  Ebook Formatting by Meg Bawden.

  The Undercover Assassin

  Quain Beaumont is paid to kill people and he’s good at it. When he’s contracted, for a hefty sum, to protect a district attorney’s son in New Gothenburg, he can’t say no. However, he doesn’t expect Barber to be such an attractive pain in the ass. Complicating matters, Barber is part of the Kings of Men MC. He can’t risk a romantic attraction to a target, but Barber’s charm makes it hard not to fall into bed with him.

  The Shit-Stirring Biker

  There’s nothing more exciting to Luke “Barber” Booth than pulling pranks and causing problems. The reactions he gets out of people keep his days interesting, even if it sometimes results in fist fights with his club brothers. His next-door business neighbor is no different. Quain is uptight, so Barber takes pleasure in annoying him, which ensures nearly daily visits from Quain to the barber shop. Quain might be a whiny hairstylist, but he’s beautiful. Barber is only too happy to take a bite out of him.

  An Attempted Murder and Confessions

  When there’s an attempt on Barber’s life, Quain does what he’s been paid to do—protect him—but Barber’s uncle and cousin are kidnapped instead. In order to set things right, Quain must admit the truth to Barber about his undercover status and assignment. To Barber’s disgust, they need to work together to get his family back. By the end of this mess, it’s not only their lives at risk, but their hearts, too.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to Ki Brightly for always having my back and working hard to help me write the best books I can.

  And thank you to Kortland Wood, who gave me true stories about her own sleep talking, which inspired Quain’s unusual sleeping habit.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  1

  Luke “Barber” Booth

  I never hid the fact that I was a King. There was a certain loyalty and pride that came with being one of the brothers, which was why I’d named my shop A Barber for Kings. But honoring the club colors came with the trouble, too. Some guys thought they could shit stir when they came in for a shave or a haircut, as though me having a straight razor in my hand wasn’t dangerous.

  The idiot sitting in my chair now was another one of those losers who liked taunting death. He grinned at me through the mirror, his chipped incisor mocking me. He looked like one of those boys pledging a fraternity who thought pissing off a biker would be a good way to prove to his brothers he had balls. As far as I was concerned, it didn’t show anything except he lacked brains.

  “Say that again,” I said, low with warning. I gripped the razor tighter and pressed the blade against his neck with just enough pressure to make blood well.

  His eyes widened and the smile disappeared, leaving behind a terrified expression. Blood dripped down the dip of his neck onto the collar of his white polo shirt. Probably Ralph Lauren or some shit like that—brand name. This guy seemed like the type to wear something expensive. I bet my ass his parents lived on Vert Island.

  He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing just above my blade. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean….” His voice wobbled and he made a face, lips pulled tightly into his mouth.

  Some smart-mouthed bastards pissed themselves at this point. I hoped this one didn’t because I’d just cleaned the brown leather seat.

  “You didn’t what? Repeat what you said. Do it.” I dug the blade in deeper, and he gasped, leaning back as far as he could in the chair.

  The only other person in the shop was my underling, as I liked calling him, and Oliver was used to this type of thing. He was only seventeen, a wannabe high-school dropout like I’d been, who wanted to pursue being a tattoo artist. His mother wouldn’t let him leave school, though, and I didn’t blame her. Unfortunately for Oli, he had to settle for being my assistant around school hours until he could convince PD, our club artist, to take him on as an apprentice. PD thought he was too young.

  “I’m sorry.” There were tears there now, trailing down the idiot’s cheeks as his bottom lip trembled, and he glanced at Oli as though asking for help. Oli leaned back in his chair behind the register and stared at his blunt nails, looking decidedly bored.

  “He’s not going to help you,” I whispered close to the guy’s ear, excitement making my skin tingle. I fucking loved this part, when I got them so scared they were about to beg for their mama. “The next time you think about coming into my shop, leave your attitude outside, or I won’t be the only King that’ll fuck you up. Got it?”

  The idiot nodded, bottom lip shaking harder.

  I smirked and removed my razor, and he stumbled out of the chair, yanking off the cape attached around the bottom of his neck and throwing it to the floor. He didn’t make it to the door before Oli stepped in front of him, clearing his throat.

  “You did get a haircut.” He crossed his arms, dark eyebrows raised.

  The other guy stuttered, reaching inside his pocket to tug out his wallet, which he fumbled with. He dragged out a fifty and threw it at Oli before stumbling his way out to the sidewalk.

  I rolled my eyes and huffed out a laugh. “Another one bites the dust.”

  Oli pursed his lips at me and bent to scoop up the cash, waving it in my direction. “What a nice tip he left you. Are you going to share it?”

  I pointed at him. “Don’t push your luck, kid. Come clean my razor.”

  He snorted and stalked his way back around the register, jerking the drawer open to throw the bill in before he stormed toward me. His cheeks flamed red and he snatched the razor from me with a glare, making his tight brown curls bounce against his forehead.

  “I’m not your slave,” he grumbled, the freckles on his cheeks disappearing under a rosy flush. He was an adorable kid, and at one point I’d been tempted to set him up with my cousin Sophie, at least until I saw him checking out Hound when he’d come in for a good shave. Sometimes it felt like the
Kings attracted men who preferred their own gender, which I usually didn’t complain about. Oli, though, was underage and not my type. I preferred slim hairstylists who drove me crazy.

  The thought of Quain made my mouth twist in disdain. The prissy hairstylist had been a thorn in my side since the moment he set up shop next door, and while I wanted nothing more than to slit his throat, I also wanted to fuck his pretty mouth, which made everything a lot more frustrating. I’d learned that when I thought about the devil, though, he appeared, and today was no different.

  The door to my shop flung open, the bell tinkling as Quain stepped over the threshold and glanced around the room.

  I sighed, leaning against the chair I’d had the idiot in, and smiled too politely at him. “Quain, what a pleasure as always. How can I help you on this warm, sunny day?”

  Oli glanced from me to Quain and made his retreat to the back, past a red curtain to the little area I called the staff room. It had a sink where he could clean the razor before putting it in the autoclave to be sterilized without Quain seeing it.

  “One of your clients ran out of here bleeding from the neck. I was going to offer him a free cut for your obvious lack of skills, but I couldn’t catch him.” He crossed his arms, lips pursed as he stared around the shop with distaste. I still had the same metal music on that he hated, but much to my annoyance, I’d had to lower the volume so as not to annoy Quain’s clients. It didn’t matter to our landlord that I’d been here first and paid on time, every time. What this prissy bitch wanted, he went after until he got, or at least that’s what I’d found with him. He knew how to pull strings and that irritated me beyond words.

  King wouldn’t even let me kill him.

  “How thoughtful of you, but I can take care of my own customers.” I stepped forward. Usually people retreated if I gave them the very look I was giving Quain now, but he didn’t move, merely raised himself to his full height and pulled back his shoulders as though he was facing off with me. That was the other thing I hated—he wasn’t scared.

  “Clearly you can’t, if they leave here bleeding, Mr. Booth.”

  “It’s Barber.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s Luke Booth.” He waved his hand at me. “I’ve never understood you bikers and your need for nicknames. It’s easy to figure out who you are.”

  I gritted my jaw and gave him a long once-over, stopping at the necklace that hung against his chest with a ring on it. He never took that damned thing off, and I’d been curious about it since the first time I saw him. “It’s how we do things. We don’t need your opinion.”

  Quain raised his eyebrows and smiled in that smarmy way I hated. “That’s the thing about opinions, Mr. Booth—”

  “They’re like assholes, everyone has one?” I stepped into his personal space until our faces were close. He smelled like rosewood—earthy and fresh—but that described Quain’s entire appearance. He was a well-put-together man with fashionable clothes. Then there was the cleanliness. He was always so spotless, not a single piece of hair on his skin, even though he worked with it all day, whereas all it took was one shave and I was covered in the stuff.

  “Yes, but that’s not what I was going to say.”

  To my surprise he shifted closer until our noses were touching. If this wasn’t a game of who had a bigger schlong, I didn’t know what was. The pupils of his eyes swallowed his brown irises, making them nearly black.

  “I was going to say that everyone can voice theirs. It’s a free country.” He patted me on the cheek, and my muscles stiffened, but he was already spinning on his heel and gliding toward the exit like he was walking on air. Graceful prick. He stopped before he reached the door, though, and turned toward me with a smirk. “And Mr. Booth… your trash can is overflowing again. Fix that or I’ll contact Henry.”

  Henry, the fucking traitorous landlord.

  Quain fluttered his fingers at me and left.

  A combination of need and frustration pelted my stomach and I gritted my teeth, hissing in the direction of the closed door. Bastard. That good-looking, prissy asshole. I wanted to pound his pretty face into the pavement, but also kiss it, too. Hands curling into fists, I started forward. Someone grabbed my shoulder, stopping me, and when I spun to tell them to fuck off, I was met with Oli’s unimpressed look.

  “You can’t kill him. You’ll land your ass in prison.”

  “Fuck off, kid. You see that weasel? He deserves a beating.”

  Oli grinned at me. “Depends on what kind of beating you want to give him. If you ask me, you’d like to beat off on him.”

  I clenched my jaw tighter and let out a feral growl. “You’re too young to say shit like that. Go do your job and clean out the cash drawer.”

  Oli groaned and grabbed my hand, slapping a closed razor in my palm. “Clean up your own mess from now on. Blood is disgusting,” he snapped, before heading to the register with low mumbles I couldn’t make out. I probably didn’t want to hear what he was saying because I had a feeling it wouldn’t be anything nice about me.

  I sighed and fell into the customer chair, leaning back on the headrest. “You figure he wants me to screw him?”

  Oli paused after he pulled a wad of cash out of the register and slapped it on the counter. He frowned at me, brown eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He’d finally started growing his version of a beard and mustache, but there was barely enough hair there to call it anything but peach fuzz. When I’d asked him why he was trying to grow one, he’d shrugged and not answered, and I had a feeling something was happening at school. If anyone knew what a shithole high school was, it was me. That’s why I’d dropped out and had come to New Gothenburg. “Why? Do you want him to?”

  “Fuck no.” I laughed, running my hand over my crew cut, the spikes on top prickling my palm. “I could fuck any pretty boy I wanted. I don’t need someone who’s already got something stuck that far up his ass. There would be no room for my cock.”

  Oli blinked at me and half rolled his eyes, staring up at the ceiling. “God help me if I’m as stupid as you when I’m a full-grown adult….”

  “Hey, what does that mean?” I sat up straighter and crossed my arms, eyes narrowed on him. “I’m as smart as they come, kid. You would be privileged to be like me.”

  “I’d rather be like King.” He smiled but there wasn’t anything pleasant about it.

  I grunted out a laugh. “Yeah, you and everyone else. Plus, I don’t think you want to be like King—I think you want to get fucked by him. Here’s the thing, Oliver.” I held up a finger to him. “One, you’re too young. He doesn’t fuck anyone under twenty, at least.” I added another finger. “Two, he’s got someone permanent now. The fed is a good guy, but I don’t think he’s going to let a young punk try to steal what belongs to him.”

  Oli’s cheeks flushed red again. “I don’t want to—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all.” I fell back against the chair again and laid my hands on my stomach. “If you’d been a touch older, he might have fucked you before Odessa came along.”

  “Isn’t his name Dallas?” He scratched his chin with a frown.

  I shrugged. “That’s what I said. San Antonio. Amarillo. Arlington. They’re all cities in Texas. What’s the fucking difference?”

  Oli grumbled something, and I caught the words “frustrating” and “confusing asshole.”

  I laughed and shoved myself to my feet. “All right, I need to head out. Get laid. Drink my woes away. Something like that. Can you handle closing this place down?”

  He blinked at me and cocked his head. “I’m only on the schedule until six thirty. It’s six thirty now. Are you going to pay me extra?”

  I rolled my eyes. “You push a hard bargain, kid, but sure, I’ll pay you the extra.”

  Oli grinned. “Then yes, boss, I’ll close the store for you. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

  I gave him the finger. Teenager or not, he had a smart mouth. Potty mo
uth, too, although he was more professional than I was while we worked. Most of the guys who came into A Barber for Kings didn’t give a shit that I swore; they usually gave me a run for my money. Oli had something to prove, though, and PD had more class than I did, so Oli needed to impress him. Acting like me wouldn’t do him any favors in that department.

  “Can you handle the money?” I asked as I leaned down behind the counter to grab my gun and holster from its safe. Sliding off my jacket, I clipped up the straps to my body before I put on the leather again.

  Oli snorted. “Don’t I always? I’ll count it and lock it away for you to take to the bank. There’s not much there.”

  “Good boy. I banked most of it earlier today.” I patted him on the head, and he shook me off, glaring. “Watson’s got the shop tomorrow. Keep an eye on him?”

  He sent me an unimpressed expression. “That’s like looking after a two-year-old.”

  “Thanks, kid.” I didn’t deny it because Watson, who usually did Saturdays for me, wasn’t the shiniest bike in the garage—but he was a good barber. I trusted him more if Oli was here, too.

  Laughing, I left him there to grab my helmet from the staff room and headed out the front door to my baby, a Ducati Scrambler in icon dark, a beauty of blacks and grays. While most of my brothers preferred Harleys, which were gorgeous, too, I wanted something with more speed than weight. I loved feeling like I was flying, an elegant vision that sped through the streets of New Gothenburg, and my Scrambler gave me that thrill. Every time I drove it my balls hummed in excitement.