Last Mile (Vicious Cycle #3) - Katie Ashley Page 0,11
world.” He stared straight at Gavin. “As an attractive man, you will immediately garner the attention of the sweet butts and club whores.”
Gavin swept a hand to his chest. “Thanks for the compliment.”
With a shake of his head, Peterson added, “But the first time one puts her tits in your face or grinds her ass on your dick and you don’t rise to the occasion, so to speak, you’re in big trouble.”
“I could fake it,” Gavin argued.
“Too much is riding on this case to put you in that position.” His expression grew grave. “Although we have no proof that the Raiders have ever participated in this type of initiation, some prospects for other clubs have been forced to show their allegiance to a club by gang-raping women.”
“Jesus,” Gavin muttered.
“There’s no way in hell we can have an ATF agent partake in such violence, and if you were to refuse, you could lose your life.” His gaze flickered to mine. “That’s why we’re sending you in with him as his girlfriend.”
With the tension high in the air, I couldn’t help the nervous laugh that bubbled from my lips. “You’re joking.”
“No, I’m dead serious. With you at his side or on his lap, Gavin won’t have to worry about female attention, nor will he be expected to partake in any illegal activity with women. At the same time, women can fly under the radar in MCs. If Gavin were to appear to be nosing around, he could get his ass kicked. No one suspects a woman who is just hanging around.”
I nodded. “I understand.”
Gavin smacked my thigh under the table. “Guess this means you’ll be expanding your slutty wardrobe to be my babe.”
When I realized what he meant, I groaned. “I’m going to have to wear spandex with my boobs hanging out, aren’t I?”
Peterson laughed. “I’m afraid so. Although Gavin isn’t an MC member, you will want to fit in with how the other women in the club dress.”
“I highly doubt the president’s wife and former deb dresses like a hooker.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not a former deb. You’re just a simple mechanic’s girlfriend,” Gavin argued with a smile.
“Lucky me,” I muttered.
As I listened to Peterson discuss the reading material and video the bureau expected us to submerge ourselves in, I took a few moments to get my head together. There was little I feared in this world—years of law enforcement training had toughened and hardened me. But bikers were my equivalent of a childhood bogeyman and an adult Grim Reaper.
Not even in my wildest dreams could I have imagined how much my life was about to change because of a biker named Bishop Malloy.
THREE
SAMANTHA
Just as I was adding an extra coat of eyeliner, the doorbell rang, causing me to jump and send a squiggly black line up my temple. “Fuck,” I muttered before grabbing a tissue and rubbing off the liner. To say that I was slightly on edge tonight about my first meeting with the Raiders would have been a mild understatement. It pissed me off that I was letting them have an effect on me. After all, I’d taken down criminals who on paper were a hell of a lot more intimidating than a bunch of small-town bikers. But tonight it all really boiled down to the merging of my past and present.
Leaning out of the bathroom, I called, “It’s open.”
The beep of the security system went off as Gavin opened the door and stepped inside. “I know you’ve moved up to the East Side and all with a house in this posh neighborhood, but you still need to lock your door, for fuck’s sake.”
I grunted and stepped back in the bathroom. “I knew you were coming, dickhead.”
He chuckled as he walked down the length of the hallway to meet me at the half bath. When I looked at his reflection in the mirror, he was doing a sweep of my attire—the practically painted-on black jeans, the skintight black top, and the knee-length leather boots. When he met my eye in the mirror, he winked at me. “Looking good, Vargas.”
“So you won’t be ashamed to call me your old lady?”
He waggled a finger at me. “Wrong terminology. Hang-arounds don’t have old ladies—only full-patched members.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered.
Gavin tsked at me. “Do I need to tell Peterson you’re not doing your homework?”
“I’ve done my homework, asshole,” I snapped, brushing past him out into the hallway. Normally, his ribbing wouldn’t have gotten to me, but tonight was a different story altogether.