Bomb: A Day in the Life of Spencer Shrike

Her hands come up at the same time and she shoves me hard on the shoulders, trying to get me to back up and give her space. I don’t even move an inch. Instead, I grab each of her knees and open up her legs so I can slide right between them.

“Back off!” she growls.

I press my palms on either side of her faded-jean-covered thighs and lean in until we’re face to face, her blue eyes looking up at me in surprise. “No. I want an appointment with you. Give me one.”

She kicks out and struggles, then tries to scoot back across the glass and escape that way, but I grab her calves and slip my hands behind her knees and squeeze until she squirms, stifling down a tickle laugh.

“Don’t,” she says through her squealing. “Stop it!” She laughs.

I ease up so she can stop wiggling against my grip. “Give me what I want, Bombshell. And I’ll walk out of here and I won’t come back until our date.”

“Date?” she scoffs. “An appointment is not a date. There’s no f**king way I’m dating an ass**le like you. You think you can come in here, manhandle me, threaten me, and get—”

I kiss her. I crush her mouth silent, slip in my tongue, slide my hands up to her tits, squeeze hard enough to make her moan, and then grab her hair and keep her there.

She kisses me back, her pouty red lips pressing against mine. She’s panting hard as I pull us apart and she actually moans.

Fuck yeah.

“I want a tattoo appointment, Veronica Vaughn. Give me a date and a time, right the f**k now.”

“Tomorrow at four,” she breathes, her spectacular chest once again heaving.

I shoot her with my finger and wink. “I’ll see you then, Bombshell. Be ready for me.” And then I turn and walk away.

“Wait!” she calls. “What’s your name? And how do you know my name?”

I don’t turn, just open the door and call out, “You’ll know my name soon enough. And the rest is recon, baby. It’s my job to know.”

Chapter Four

I chuckle to myself as I live that memory over again in my mind. I had her. Man, I so, so had her the minute I walked into that place. She was feisty with her little pink .38 Special, but my lips are irresistible. They call to her, they suck her in places she’s never dreamed of, they whisper dirty things in her ear and make her blush, tremble, and come all at the same time.

But her lips. Fuck. My bombshell’s lips make me explode every single time. She’s got a pucker that won’t quit. She’s got a tongue that can swirl a pattern in my mouth so erotic, I just want to throw her down on the ground and f**k the life out of her. She uses her teeth with such skill, it makes me hard just thinking about them. And when you combine all of those things with the wetness of her mouth and the heat of her breath…

Fuck. I need her right now. Why the hell did I leave her alone so long? The commotion leftover from the human trafficking shit in Chicago died down months ago. Veronica was not pestered once during the whole debacle, I made sure of it. She’s right about New Year’s. She was pretty f**ked up, but we still had a good time. We always have a good time, I just need to remind her how good it gets.

I press on the accelerator of the Shrike truck and speed towards Highway 14 that will take me into FoCo, then ease on into downtown and strain my neck looking down the street to see if her Mini Cooper is outside Sick Boyz. I hold out hope until I’ve passed it. That damn deathtrap always hides out among the trucks everyone else drives around here.

But no. I see her oldest brother Vic’s bike, her father Vern’s bike, her twin middle brothers Vinn and Vonn’s bikes, and her baby brother Vann’s Vespa.

I laugh at that. Poor Vann. The Vaughns are ruled by traditions. Everything they do has precedent. And in that family you cannot get a motorcycle until you build it yourself. Vann is only seventeen, and tradition also says you can’t build your bike until you’re eighteen. So the dirty, primer-covered classic Vespa is all he’s allowed.

Sick Boyz must be going off tonight if the entire family is working at the same time, so it’s interesting that Veronica isn’t there to help. I swing a right on Mountain and head over to her house. She still lives at home. I pull up along their old brick monstrosity and scowl to myself. No Mini Cooper.

Gramps opens the door and waves at me to come inside.

Fuck. You don’t say no to Gramps. He might be nine hundred years old, but he’s got a mean streak. A sneaky mean streak. I park the truck in front, get out, and walk up to the open door. “Yo, Gramps! I’m looking for Ronnie, ya seen her?”

He comes out of the kitchen wearing a red-checkered apron around his waist, no shirt on, and flashing his five-hundred-year-old tattoos.

“Ahhhh, put some clothes on, ya old fart! No one wants to see your saggy shit.”

He holds up a spoonful of pasta sauce and shoves it to my mouth. “Taste,” he demands.

I slurp it and nod. “Yeah, it’s good. It’s always good. Tastes the same as last time. Ya seen Ronnie? I’m looking for her.”

“At work,” he barks as he goes back into the kitchen.

“No,” I call out, walking after him. “I went by there, her car’s not there.”

“She walks now. Gonna sell it, so she parks it and walks.”

“What?” She loves that car. “Since when? I just saw her in it like two hours ago.” Gramps is busy stirring the pot on the stove. The whole place smells like an Italian restaurant. “Gramps,” I try again. “Why does she want to sell her car?”