Chapter 4: Chapter 4

Tucker sat at the Rebel Rousers’ bar with a beer between his hands. He was slumped over, though not because he was drunk, but because he didn’t feel like being noticed. He wanted to be alone tonight, and if he got to looking around, someone, likely a female, was bound to bounce over and offer him up a piece.

Not that he’d turn it down. He wasn’t insane. It was just that he was in a mood, and entertaining someone wasn’t on his agenda for the night. Considering he always aimed to please, taking a woman to bed would only work against the phenomenal reputation he’d worked hard to achieve. So no, no women tonight. Not unless he came across a total giver whose only aim in life was to please him, and a woman like that simply did not exist.

None that he’d found anyway.

Lifting his beer, Tucker slugged back the last of the lager and held up the bottle, giving it a little shake. The bartender, some college kid that reminded him of Tom Cruise in Cocktail, jerked his chin up, retrieved a replacement, and slid it down the bar to Tucker’s waiting hand.

It was his third. No, fourth. Fifth? He was losing track. It might be time to slow down, sober up, he told himself. After this last one.

As he nursed his drink, his thoughts did a slow turn down memory lane, though they didn’t travel far. A few short hours ago, he’d spotted a car outside the Spartan compound. A woman, looking to be in her late twenties to mid-thirties, was watching him. Or maybe the club, he wasn’t certain. Her behavior, however, had been suspect. Why was she sitting there, alone, as if waiting for something to happen? Why the camera? Why the secrecy?

He recalled the blackout shades she’d strategically slid over her eyes to prevent him from figuring out who she was, which made him wonder if it was an old lover. But, despite all the women he’d spent time with, Tucker was certain he’d never been with what he’d assessed to be a five-foot-nothing blonde with a mane of fake-as-hell brunette locks that was most definitely a wig. Regardless, he’d have remembered playing with a fun-size female. Oh, the things he could do with a woman her size.

Licking his lips, Tucker brought the bottle up and slugged it back. Damn, now he was horny. That’s what he got for thinking dirty thoughts when he should have his head on other things—like Ricky fucking Cruiz.

That rat bastard had gotten under his skin, running off into the night like he had. It wasn’t often that someone got one over on him, but Cruiz had. Not for long, though. Tucker would have him under his boot like the cockroach he was soon enough.

It’d been nearly a month since the whole showdown at the Okay Corral took place, resulting in a shootout between Cruiz’s men and the Spartan brothers. Cruiz had lost a lot of manpower that night, but that’s what the shitstain got for kidnapping the Prez’s ol’ lady. Grievances like that did not go unanswered. Cruiz would learn that lesson very soon.

After moving the money that had set the wheels in motion in the first place, Blake put Tucker in charge of guarding the cash and using his SF background to dig up some answers. Since Cruiz was a fiend on his best day, cooking up meth here and trafficking women there, they were operating under the assumption that he would be back to claim what he thought to be his and to exact his revenge.

After all, a person didn’t cross an egotistical drug lord, kidnapping father killer and not expect repercussions.

So, yeah, Tucker had his work cut out for him. Although he’d always missed the thrill of the job, he was already longing for the days when all he had to worry about was putting enough gas in the tank to get him across state lines and back, and finding a ripe, juicy peach to sink into at the end of the day.

The simple things in life, donchaknow.

So back to the female. Tucker considered the possibility that the club was under surveillance, but what for? They hadn’t done one illegal thing before or since the massacre at that ranch. Of course, there had been enough bloodshed and drugs to tip off some major levels of government. The DEA came to mind. The woman could be an agent, but what were the odds, and why would they peg the Spartans for it?

Cruiz’s fingerprints had no doubt been all over that place. If the government was involved in any way, surely they’d know about Cruiz and his lackeys enough to know that’s where they should concentrate their efforts.

Of course, the woman could always be a crazy. That was a definite possibility. In today’s world, nothing could be ruled out. Especially with the often questionable tail the brothers brought home on a daily.

But enough drama for one evening. Tucker didn’t have the patience for it, not in reality and not in thought. The whole point of coming to Rebel’s tonight was to block it out. Not to mention, he was newly unattached. That was something to celebrate.

Then Tucker remembered his promise to himself to sober up. If he planned to ride home tonight on his own, he’d damn well better. Besides, the last thing he needed was to get so wasted that he had to call a prospect to come get his sloppy ass. The brothers would never let him live it down. They’d have all kinds of jokes. Jokes that went on for days. Lightweight. Pussy. Likening him to someone’s mom. Yeah, he didn’t need any of that.

Shoving aside the empty, Tucker ordered a coffee, black, then sat back and waited for it to arrive. No sooner than he’d lifted his iPhone from his pocket, preparing to scroll through his Little Black Book of fine ass bunnies who were always DTF, the seat next to him became occupied.

Tucker did not need to look up to notice the female sitting there. Nor did he need to look to see that she was watching him. He did, however, need to look up at the sound of that soft as velvet voice.

“Shame, a man drinking alone on a Friday night.”

Holy fucking hell. Her voice was pure phone sex operator. His dick swelled instantly, and Tucker shifted in his seat, his lips curling into a slow smile as he turned to face her head-on. “Nothin’ wrong with a man drinkin’ alone, sugar. Now, you on the other hand…” He made a show of eying every inch of her svelte frame. She was well-covered in a pair of tight black pants and black halter top laced with fringe, and even though he’d heard that black was supposed to give that slimming effect, he could tell the thickness of her thighs wasn’t just because she was short. The woman worked out.

Mmmm. Thick, solid thighs. She was sitting, so he couldn’t tell for sure, but Tucker would bet his left nut that she had an ass to match.

She gave him the same once-over, lingering on the bulge along his inner thigh. A bold one, she was. Her tawny eyes rose up and met his, the corner of her mouth and a single eyebrow lifted in amusement. Or perhaps that was appreciation…

“Your date stand you up?” she asked, lifting her chin toward the phone he still held in his hand.

Tucker looked down at the thing, surprised. Forgot he even had it out. A list of numbers identified by nicknames like Double Mint Twins and Freak Nasty stared back at him, and suddenly, the need for a quickie had lost its appeal.

Putting the phone away, Tucker leaned forward, folding his arms on the bar, and stared into the woman’s amazing eyes. “Looks that way. Broke my heart.” He pouted a bit, pure show, and she knew it.

“Bitch.” A smirk played on her perfectly formed rose-petal lips. She leaned in a little. “Just so you know, I’d never break your heart. Now, other things…” She left that one dangling, sparking Tucker’s intrigue.

“Other things…” Lifting his hand, Tucker slid the pad of his thumb across his bottom lip, appraising her once more. “You know, I would not be opposed to see what kind of ‘things’ you have in mind.”

She chuckled, a soft, delicate sound, just like everything else about her. “I don’t know if you could handle the kind of things I’m thinking.”

Tucker’s eyes narrowed and, deciding to match her boldness, he said, “I can handle whatever you want to throw at me, sugar. I should warn you, though. It’s you who might not be able to handle me…” With a start, he realized he hadn’t caught her name.

Reading his expression and extending a delicate, fine-boned hand, she said, “Talia Bruce. And I assure you, it’s the other way around.”

And wasn’t that exactly what he wanted to hear. Grasping her hand firmly, Tucker held onto it far longer than was necessary. “My friends call me Country, but you…” He rubbed his thumb across the soft skin on the back of her hand, then lifted it to his lips, kissing baby soft knuckles that smelled faintly of apple blossoms. “You can call me Tuck.”

She grinned, not understanding the significance of him allowing her to call him by his real name. No woman had ever known him as anything but Country, but her…There was something about this one that made him want to lose the filter. Get a little closer.

“Nice to meet you, Tuck.”

“Exactly my thoughts, Talia.”

Her eyes sparkled at his seductive purr, and Tucker did a mental fist pump. Hook. Line. Sinker.

“Say, how about you let me take care of you tonight, help mend that broken heart. Can I buy you a drink?”

Boldly, she reached out with the hand he wasn’t holding and traced a line down the depression between his fore and middle fingers—a sensual promise if ever he’d felt one. An electric current shot through his hand and up his arm, bouncing around in his chest cavity before shooting straight to his balls.

Tucker’s brows winged up in surprise. Holy shit. If only a touch did that, what would the rest of her pressed up against him do?

His thoughts rerouted, settling briefly on what she’d said. She wanted to take care of him. What had he been thinking earlier about finding a woman who wanted nothing more than to care for him? Maybe he’d been wrong after all.

Eager to find out, Tucker said in his smooth, Southern drawl, “Bring on the shots.”