King's Barber Page 2

  The air smelled fresh like rain and I stopped to breathe it in. I loved rain, but as it neared the end of fall, I probably wouldn’t see too much of it in the next few months. I didn’t like cold much, either, because that meant we couldn’t ride without the worry of snow, sleet, and the chilly wind whipping at our faces.

  My bike gleamed under the last tendrils of sunlight that gave way to a full moon rising halfway in the sky. Angry rain clouds clumped together to my right and it wouldn’t take them long to come across. It would have been a perfect night for a ride if not for the incoming storm. I’d have enough time for a short stop, though. While I’d told Oli that I’d either be fucking or drinking, I couldn’t give half a donkey’s saggy dick to find an ass or a good bar. I’d just get a drink of my uncle Errol’s homemade liquor, the shit that’d had King walking sideways.

  Slamming the full helmet onto my head, I decided to leave the dark smoke visor up as I got onto the black leather seat, kicking the stand up and pushing at the ignition button. The bike rumbled pitifully. Frowning at my baby, I tried again, and while she spluttered for a second, she finally came to life with a roar. The attempts concerned me and I made a mental note to get Scar or Bishop to look at it, even if they’d ream my ass for not bringing it to them sooner. Scar had already warned me she didn’t sound well. While I could service her myself, I wasn’t a trained mechanic like they were.

  Taking off down the streets of the city, I weaved through the bumper-to-bumper traffic, giving one guy the finger when he honked his horn and ducked his head out the window to insult me—all because I was the smart asshole with a bike.

  “Should have kept it in your pants, then, dude, and you could have a bike, too.” I laughed, nodding at the woman and children in the car before I took off. He cursed something else out at me, but I veered too far ahead to hear what he had to say.

  I turned a few corners before I took the highway east to get away from the lines of cars. At least this way I could open my lady up and test her full potential and escape the threat of dark clouds. I closed my eyes, giving myself brief moments to enjoy the sounds of the wind whipping against my face and the rev of the engine.

  When I came to a familiar exit, I took it and drove to a small bridge with a parking lot for people who wanted a break. There was a tiny coffee shack there, but it was closed. Pulling into a spot, I killed the engine and then slid off the bike to walk over to the bridge. I leaned on the railing and stared at the water that gushed down the river and toward the lake. It was calming, an array of glinting blacks under the full moonlight. Sometimes a guy like me needed the silence, and this was one of those times. I lived with Uncle Errol and his oops-baby—now a teenager—Sophie. They were my family and I loved them, but this kind of tranquility calmed a racing mind.

  But because my brain was a traitorous prick, it went straight to Quain and his pert ass, and how good he looked in the black turtlenecks he permanently wore, not to mention those tight jeans that seemed to become one with his long legs. Hell, even his snitty attitude was a turn on, which was fucking weird. Was that a kink? Getting bitched at by someone hot? If it was, I was definitely into it.

  The trash can issue was a constant problem, something he loved to whine about, but it hadn’t been the only subject he liked bringing up. More recently it’d been my brothers taking up his customers’ parking spaces, and how he could smell the weed I’d been smoking out back. Hell, I couldn’t deny that last one. Weed helped quiet the brain sometimes, and after dealing with a neighbor like him, I needed it… only to have him complain about that, too.

  So, why the hell did I want to fuck that ass? I’d bet my nonexistent savings that his hole would be tighter than a nun’s.

  I snorted and opened my Kings of Men MC jacket, tugging out my cigarettes. I knocked one loose of the pack and shoved it between my lips, lighting it with the silver metal Zippo King had bought me when I’d officially became a King. The damned thing still worked, eight years later. That spoke about King’s idea of quality; he only got the best of everything—at least of the shit he cared about.

  Puffing on the cig, I sighed and blew out a stream of smoke, watching it billow in the lazy wind that danced in the same direction as the river. Fuck, that was good. Not quite like weed, but it’d have to do for now.

  I stood there for about half an hour enjoying the smoke and the cool breeze. As winter approached the nights got colder, and while I didn’t mind it so much, I preferred to be warm at home with a big bottle of whiskey and a joint.

  Rolling out the pins and needles in my shoulders after being bent over the river railing for so long, I headed back to the bike and threw my leg over. I hit her ignition, but this time she didn’t so much as rumble. I frowned and jabbed at it again. Nothing.

  I groaned and stared up at the sky as a drop of rain splattered against my face. This was not going to be my night, especially after another three or four dropped in the exact spot as the last. Angry gray clouds crowded together in the sky above me and I gave it five minutes before it poured. I’d be drenched before anyone got anywhere close to me, but I had no choice. I couldn’t stay here, not when the Ducati wouldn’t even give me a hopeful sign of a growl. Whatever was giving her troubles had finally gotten the best of her. That was entirely my fault for not going to Scar earlier. He’d told me she sounded sick, but I’d laughed it off and jokingly accused him of wanting my hard-earned cash.

  Fucking karma.

  A sleek black car pulled into the parking lot from the road just as the rain started to fall harder, and I narrowed my eyes on it. The bright LED headlights glowed in the darkness, taunting me about my decision to drive my bike here when I knew there was something wrong with her. The BMW stopped beside me, and I reached for the gun tucked into the holster against my ribs, just in case this was a hit or something. I’d seen cars like that before, and while they weren’t unpopular in New Gothenburg, the Killough Company mostly drove fancy vehicles. Who else would be pulling up beside me, a Kings of Men biker with an array of tattoos on my neck and arms. No one else would have the balls.

  The window lowered, and I stretched my finger around the trigger guard at the ready, then paused when a familiar but annoying face became visible when the interior lights switched on. Quain smirked at me, laying his arm along the length of the window.

  “Well, isn’t this a fun coincidence?”

  I gritted my teeth and inhaled, removing my hand from my jacket. At least I didn’t have to shoot, anyway. King would kill me. He always hated the messy jobs I left behind. I leaned against my bike, crossing my arms and cocking my head. “Are you stalking me?”

  “Why yes, Mr. Booth, I have nothing better to do with my time than follow you around.” Quain huffed and blinked up at the sky. Rain had begun to fall harder and I was quickly becoming soaked. “Would you like a ride?”

  “Are you offering me one?” I raised my eyebrows, not moving.

  “I wouldn’t be sitting here otherwise. Do you want a ride or not?”

  “Don’t want to leave my bike.” I nodded at the Ducati. “Someone could steal her or scrap her for parts.”

  He shook his head. “Get in the car, Luke. I’ll call someone to help.”

  I thought about arguing, but the sky had opened up and rain pelted down like it was on a mission to make me miserable. Between getting wet and having no choice but to hop into Quain’s car, this was definitely not a great night. I sighed and pushed myself upright and off the bike, running around to the opposite side of his car and jumping into the passenger’s seat. As soon as I landed on the soft leather, he stared at me in irritation.

  “You’re wet, get out.”

  “What the fuck?”

  “Out, I have a towel in the back. I don’t want you ruining my seats.” He shoved at my shoulder, and I grumbled, opening the door again and hopping out so he could lay a towel over the seat. Only then was I allowed to get back in.

  “Fussy fucker.”

  Quain sent me a nonchalant look b
efore he hit the green phone icon and a name on the dash screen. The Bluetooth of the car overtook the quiet hums of a song and the sound of ringing filled the silence between us. After a few seconds a male voice answered the phone.

  “Yo, K dog in the house.”

  My lips twitched and I glanced at Quain in question. Whoever answered the phone like that with Quain seemed like someone I wanted to know.

  “I hate it when you do that,” Quain said, glaring at me. For a moment I thought he meant me, but the man on the other end laughed.

  “Sorry, papa bear. What’s up?”

  Papa bear? I glanced at him with a frown, but Quain ignored me.

  “I have a… friend”—he took a moment to stare at me in disdain—“who has a broken-down motorcycle at Dixon River Bridge. It’s pouring rain, and I didn’t bring the truck. Could you come and get it for us and have a look at it?”

  “Sure thing. What kind of bike?”

  Quain glanced at me questioningly.

  “Ducati Scrambler.”

  The other guy whistled. “Nice. How’s that V-twin engine?”

  “She runs beautifully. Usually. I’ve had troubles starting her recently, and now she won’t even give me a purr.” I had no idea who this was, but at least it sounded like he knew what he was talking about.

  “Hm. Sounds like a good mystery. Maybe the starter. I’m coming now. Wait there. If you leave her alone, some prick might strip her. That’s not the best spot.”

  Didn’t I know it. While Dixon River Bridge was a beautiful area, it was close to some of the worst suburbs of New Gothenburg, the type you’d expect to see Demons hanging around.

  “See you soon.” Quain ended the call and fell back against his seat with a sigh. “And now I’m stuck with you. I’m too nice for my own good.”

  I laughed. “You’re anything but nice. You’re a fucking whiner, that’s what you are.”

  He frowned and turned in his seat to look at me directly. Quain really was handsome in an almost pretty way—short brown hair cut stylishly, liquid brown eyes that could melt the clothes off any poor soul, and the highest cheekbones I’d seen on a man. His lips, soft and full, were a dream come true. I bet he’d put them to good use around a dick.

  “Do you blame me? I was assured the city was a good place to set up my business—my livelihood—then I move in next door to a man who has no definition of professionalism. You have rock and metal music playing loud, you overflow your trash cans so high that you bring rats, and you smoke weed day and night. I have elderly clients with breathing problems. They don’t need to smell weed.”

  “Boo-fucking-hoo. If they don’t like weed, they should go to a state where it’s illegal.” I rolled my eyes.

  “It might be legal, but it’s disgusting,” Quain said with pursed lips.

  “Not my problem. I have less than three ounces, so I can smoke it whenever the hell I want.” I leaned back against the seat and let my gaze roam the dashboard, black as the outside paint job. The leather inside was red and dark gray—very upmarket. Not the kind of car I could afford, but it was definitely something I expected Quain Beaumont would have. “What type of BMW is this?”

  Quain regarded me carefully, as though he was trying to work out whether I was mocking him or not, before he answered. “Series 8 Coupe.”

  “You a BMW guy?”

  “I’m a nice car guy.” He shook his head. “Please don’t touch anything with your grubby hands.”

  “I don’t fucking have grubby hands.” I stared down at my palms, as clean as any biker’s, which I guessed wasn’t as nice as someone like Quain would want in his expensive car. “How far away does this guy live anyway?”

  “Vert Island.”

  “Jesus Christ, you fucking a rich old dude or something?”

  Quain snorted. “Just sit there and shut up, Luke.”

  I grunted. Leaning forward, I turned up the music. It wasn’t the shit I liked to listen to, but anything was better than having a boring conversation with Mr. Prissy Pants. I liked that. That would be his name from now on. Or maybe Prince Prissy Pants was better. Yep, much better.

  My gaze slid to the ring on his necklace again, and I was tempted to ask him why he wore it but pursed my lips instead. I could live without knowing.

  2

  Quain Beaumont

  Luke fucking Booth was the most frustrating man I’d ever met. I’d dealt with all kinds of people, from the Irish mob to the Russian bratva, and even the Reyes Cartel on occasion, but no one was quite like this jackass. He was so brazen, as if he didn’t care what he said or who he hurt in the process. I didn’t get hurt, especially not by words, but whenever he said something, he intrigued me even more—I wasn’t here for that. Even though New Gothenburg was my hometown and I still lived here, I had one job when it came to this asshole.

  Protect him.

  I didn’t ask questions I didn’t need answers for when it came to Luke. I had everything I needed from the district attorney who’d hired me to keep an eye on him. What I did know was that Luke Booth was this attorney’s son and he’d taken off from LA when he was sixteen. He moved in with his deadbeat uncle in New Gothenburg and had been here ever since. The elder Booth knew his son was part of the Kings, but that didn’t seem to concern him. He didn’t want Luke protected from the bikers—even though he’d once gone after the clubs—or the mafias he tried to take down. His biggest concern right now was the same cartel I’d worked for previously, the one that belonged to Thiago Reyes.

  When Ardan, a Society assassin who also belonged to the Killough Company, came into town, I’d thought he’d been after Luke. I didn’t like the idea of taking out a friend, but a job was a job. Assassins like Ardan and I had work to do, and Ardan would have done the same thing. Luckily for both of us, he hadn’t been after Luke.

  Now I sat with Luke in my expensive car, dripping wet from the rain that pounded against the windshield, and I hated that I’d felt sorry for him being stuck in the middle of nowhere. I had followed him, because making sure he got home safely was part of my assignment, but what wasn’t in the guidelines was making sure he didn’t get a cold.

  Calling KC had been my only option. I knew Luke wouldn’t have left his bike out in the rain, and I didn’t blame him. The suburbs close to Dixon River weren’t safe, and with a pretty bike like that, anyone would take the chance to steal it.

  Luckily for both of us, KC didn’t take long to get here with the truck. He pulled it up next to the bike and stuck his hand out the window of the rusted red Ford that used to belong to my dad with a wave. I shook my head at him. Luke was already out of the car before I could say anything, and he and KC met with a handshake.

  KC was about Luke’s height, which was amusing considering he was only seventeen years old. He’d turn eighteen in a few months, but he was built like a monster. Tall and bulky, he was good with his hands when it came to vehicles. This wasn’t the boy I’d adopted, at least in the sense of appearance. The KC I’d first met was short and thin enough to be blown over by the wind, but he’d also been quick and could disappear within a crowd. This seventeen-year-old KC couldn’t. The only thing that reminded me of the KC I’d first met was the dark red hair.

  I didn’t bother to step out of the BMW. It was easier to let KC and Luke do all the work of getting the bike onto the bed of the truck. They were obviously talking, and while I didn’t know about what, I trusted my son. He knew who Luke was and why it was important he watched what he said. I could hazard a guess they were discussing the bike because KC was waving at the engine with awe.

  By the time they had the Ducati secured and had jumped off the truck, they were both sopping wet. KC gestured to my car, and Luke nodded. With another handshake, Luke left him and walked toward me again. This time when he hopped into the passenger seat, he was drenched.

  I glared at him, and he grinned, shrugging.

  “Sorry?”

  I doubted that was the case. Muttering about his stupidity, I started the
BMW and followed the truck out onto the road. We traveled on the highway and over another bridge to get to Vert Island, the small device on my windshield beeping as we passed the toll station, and finally arrived at my mid-century modern home. It was a five-bedroom beauty I’d paid for with cash. Most people I’d met who didn’t know my real identity assumed I must own a line of salons, and while I was as trained as any normal hairstylist, it was easier to make a lot of money with hits.

  Taking the job to protect Luke made sure I could do both—be a hairstylist and an assassin; although, I hadn’t killed anyone since I took the assignment. I had no idea what his father was worried about. Sometimes I caught an itch to kill, though. Murdering was what I was good at, and it was better to be paid to take some criminal out than go on a killing spree like a serial killer.

  Luke let out an impressed whistle as I pulled the car into the driveway. At least it wasn’t raining as hard on Vert Island as it had been near Dixon River. “This belong to KC?”

  I chuckled. “You do realize KC is seventeen, right?”

  “Fuck off.” He turned wide eyes at me. “He’s built like a fucking linebacker.”

  “That’s appropriate because he is a linebacker on his high school football team.” I smirked and opened the door, stepping out of the car. KC had driven the truck around the side of the house and toward the back garage we kept for his projects, which was large enough to fit ten cars—eleven if one or two were small. “And he’s my son. I own this house.” I shut the door before he could react and chuckled to myself.

  Luke was quick to follow me out of the car and closed the door too hard. I glared at him as I walked toward the front door of my home. He was right behind me.

  “You can’t make this much money from a salon.”

  “Why not?” I asked over my shoulder as I unlocked the oak door. The house had been built with stone and glass, and thick bulletproof windows replaced some walls. My bedroom, which was upstairs, had three walls of glass so I could stare out into the extensive green backyard and crystal pool. I never brought strangers home with me, so I’d never fucked in that bedroom before, but it was something I’d always wanted to try. I’d make sure KC wasn’t home, and I’d leave the curtains open while a man fucked me against the glass, my body pressed flat against it as he drilled his cock into my hole.