Loving Smoke (The Royal Bastards MC Tijuana, Mexico #1)

Chapter 1

1

I sprawled out on the cushioned lounger—warm sun overhead, and a perfect view of the infinity pool and the Pacific Ocean a few hundred feet in the distance. A beer in one hand and a half-smoked joint in the ashtray next to me made for a perfect afternoon. But even all that couldn’t compete with the naked beauty emerging from the freestyle pool like some kind of goddess from the Land of Un-Fucking-Believable.

Like a grade-A porn flick, Tamara ascended the pool steps, her blond hair slicked back from her perfectly tanned face, in all her naked glory. No tan lines for this princess. Even the droplets of water glistening over her tawny skin didn’t wanna leave her body.

She glided over to me, yeah, that’s right, the roll of her hips was pure magic. Money and privilege filled every pore of her toned, fuckable frame and when she slid onto the chaise next to me my dick hardened to the point of pain. Her manicured hand tried to relieve some of the pressure, but the greedy bastard wanted in, and he wanted in now.

“Feels like you’re ready for me again,” she purred in my ear as her other hand traced over the intricate tats on my chest. “I just love fucking my bad boy.”

That about summed it up. Tamara got off on the fact I was a tatted, outlaw biker who rode with the Royal Bastards MC in San Diego. Just a short twenty minute ride to La Jolla where I’d spend two or three days a week quenching all her dirty fantasies. And let me tell you, she had a shit ton of kinks and freaks. Some shit I hadn’t even heard of before meeting up with Miss Tamara Spindler down at a dive bar in Tijuana. Yeah, that Tamara Spindler, daughter of Eric Spindler, the hotel baron who spent his spare time buying and selling NFL teams like produce in the supermarket.

Needless to say, Tamara wanted for nothing and filled her days with sun-bathing, massages, facials, and fucking me, Smoke, prez of the San Diego chapter of the Royal Bastards. I still don’t know what the fuck she was doin’ in Tijuana, but after sharing a few shots of tequila we hooked up in the men’s room and three months later she was still hot for my cock.

I didn’t know how long it would last and I didn’t give two fucks because I was never one to pass up a good deal, and this gig was golden. Booze and cold beer on tap, all the weed I could smoke, and this fuckin’ over-the-top pool with a goddamn waterfall. Plus, Tamara’s insatiable needs. It was only noon and we’d already fucked four times and she was gearing up for number five.

She straddled me on the lounger, lowered her head, and devoured my dick. Deep throating every inch of me, and I wasn’t small. My head turned into the cushion on a groan and she pumped me harder. I had no fuckin’ clue where this society girl learned to suck dick, but she was a pro. My breathing faltered, as my fingers gripped her scalp holding her head in place.

“Ohhh, yeah, babe, fucccck!”

I pumped my hips desperate for my release and my cell phone went off. I eyed the screen barely able to focus and the damn thing kept playing “Born to be Wild” the ringtone for Blood, my VP. The ringtone I had to answer no matter what. The ringtone insisting I pull my dick out of Tamara’s warm, wet mouth.

I shifted on the lounger, and she released me with a popping sound. I swiped my phone off the travertine patio and stabbed at the screen.

“This better be good.” The growly rasp in my voice left no mistake of what I was doing.

“Get your ass back to the clubhouse. Now.”

Blood never overreacted or blew shit out of proportion. His cool head simmered my fiery temper making us the perfect officers. So the level of pissed off in his voice spoke volumes.

“What’s goin’ on?” I gripped the phone tighter than necessary as Tamara propped herself over me pouting.

“Bad shit.” The call disconnected and I looked at the phone for a few seconds trying to guess what the fuck had my VP so worked up. We’d had some trouble with a gun shipment two weeks ago, but we’d taken care of it personally.

Pushing Tamara to the side, I swung my legs over the lounger, snatched my jeans off a nearby chair, and tugged them on along with my t-shirt and cut.

“You’re leaving?” Tamara stood and faced me hands on naked hips, her tits jiggling from side to side.

“Gotta go, babe, business.”

“More important than me?” She threw her shoulders back and it made her magnificent tits sway. Was she trying to fuckin’ kill me?

“Afraid, so.” I pushed my feet into my boots.

“I can’t believe you’re just going to leave me.”

That was the only downside to privileged chicks. They couldn’t take no for an answer.

“Believe it, babe, ‘cause I’m out. ”

“What if I say, if you leave I never want to see you again?”

I shrugged. “Then I guess I’d say we had a good ride while it lasted.”

“What am I, a horse at Santa Anita?”

I pointed at her, and smirked. “Good one.”

Then I turned and jogged down the steps and made my way to the huge circular driveway out front, and my prized Harley.

Her piercing screech competed with the seagulls overhead, but I figured in a few hours or a day or two she’d give me a call and I’d have my ass right back in that lounger.

Twenty-five minutes later, I entered our clubhouse which was not only empty, but deadly quiet.

“Hey, fuckers! Where is everybody?” I yelled into the empty bar. Fuckin’ weird. The place was deserted so I headed toward the back office and our inner sanctum wracking my brain as to what the fuck was going on.

I pushed through the door and froze.

Jameson sat at the head of the table in the president’s seat, my seat.

My heart kicked up as his eyes bore into me like lasers.

“What the fuck is goin’ on?” I directed my question at Jameson, then let my gaze fall on Blood shifting his feet while avoiding my eyes.

Jameson continued to stare at me making me go from nervous to pissed off real damn fast.

“Where were you?” Jameson finally asked.

“Out.” I was thirty-five years old and he was making me feel like an irate teenager. Fuck this.

“Don’t fuck with me, Smoke. I would think my presence alone would raise some red flags, but it seems you don’t know what’s goin’ on in your own house.”

“Look, we can play word games all day, but if you came to say something, spit it out.” I hadn’t gotten to be prez by backing down, and yeah, Jameson was the National Chapter President, but I wasn’t about to break.

Jameson nodded to Blood and he left the room, again avoiding eye contact with me.

When the door closed behind him, Jameson slowly pushed out of my chair, then walked around the table putting about five feet between us. We were matched in height, but my muscles were leaner and more defined from regular workouts and cage fighting on the weekends. An activity that brought in big bucks for the club and the chapter.

“You take on a prospect a few months ago?” Jameson asked the question like he already knew the answer.

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Who vetted him?”

“He was Crank’s boy, said they came up in the same neighborhood in East L.A. He’s been with us for about three months.” I looked over my shoulder. “Where is Crank and the rest of the brothers?”

Jameson flipped a glance at this watch. “Right about now I’d say they’re in central booking.”

“What?”

“That’s what happens when the DEA comes in and does a sweep.”

“DEA?” I gripped the back of the chair next to me. “What the fuck?”

“Seems your prospect was an undercover agent.”

“Nah, impossible.” My heart skipped a few beats as a cold sweat crept up my spine.

“Not when you don’t do your homework.” Jameson leaned in and growled in my face. “Not when getting your dick wet is more important than keeping an eye on your clubhouse.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“At five o’clock this morning your clubhouse was raided by a government agency and instead of being here doing damage control you went missing. Blood managed to slip out the back, but everybody else got hauled in. He tried calling you but you had your phone off.

I squeezed my eyes shut trying to recall the timeline of the last forty-eight hours. Hazy memories filtered in—lines of blow, tequila shots, and losing my phone in the tangle of Egyptian cotton sheets covering Tamara’s bed. Then waking up mid-afternoon and stumbling out to the pool for more booze, weed, and blow jobs. Sure, I lost track of time, but shit, if Jameson got a look at Tamara’s body or her plush lips he’d understand.

Jameson cleared his throat and I focused on his deadly glare—Or maybe not.

I kept all that to myself figuring it was safer to stay quiet and let him blow off steam. When he was done I’d call our high-priced lawyer and figure all this shit out.

Jameson’s jaw twitched. “You got nothing to say?”

“I had no idea about the prospect. Crank said he knew him from back in the day.”

“And guess what, my contacts at SDPD told me Crank and the prospect are nowhere to be seen. Word is they’ve already put them in WITSEC.”

“Fuck, so Crank was in on it too?”

“He brought the motherfucker in here,” Jameson yelled. “The DEA got to him and made him a deal. Another thing you might’ve noticed if you were around here taking care of business, but no.” Jameson gripped the back of a chair and pitched it against the wall. “You’re off in La Jolla shoving blow up your nose while some bitch sucks your dick.”

I drew in a ragged breath at Jameson’s accurate description. His temper was legendary. One time he got so pissed off at the L.A. chapter he broke every bottle of booze in their clubhouse .

“Look, I know this looks bad, but I’ll get our lawyer on it. There must be some kinda loophole, or some shit.”

“Loophole? There’s no fuckin’ loophole. Apparently, the rat prospect’s been feeding them information for the last three months. Pages and pages documenting all the shit that went on here. Then today they swept the place including the basement with the pallets of smuggled guns, dope, and every other piece of contraband you store down there.” Jameson dragged his hand through his hair. “It’s all over. You’re done.”

“Done?”

“I made my decision. This chapter is closed down.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, closed down?” I motioned around the room trying to make out what he meant.

“There is no more Royal Bastards in San Diego.”

Jameson’s words hung between us as realization crept over me. The place I called home for the last ten years was no more, but I refused to go down without a fight.

“That’s bullshit. You can’t just close us down. I’ll go to Colt and see what he says.”

Jameson barked out a rough laugh. “Ohhh, you really don’t wanna do that.”

“Why?”

“Cause he’s even more pissed off than me. If it was up to him you’d be stripped of your colors along with the tats on your back.”

“Fuck.” Five years ago I witnessed a guy get stripped of his club tats. There were two methods. Acid or gasoline poured over the tat then lit on fire. Not a pretty sight. If I concentrated I could still smell the sickening scent of burning flesh and the piercing screams of the six-foot-four biker.

“The bottom line is you and Blood got one hour to get whatever shit you want outta here, then this place is gonna be torched. ”

“Torched?”

“The cops took plenty of pictures and samples, but the bulk of the shit is still in the basement. We can’t chance moving it, so I called in some favors and in an hour this place is gonna be lit up like a firecracker on the Fourth of July.”

“And then what?”

Jameson paused and rubbed at the scruff on his jaw. I knew his tell. It meant bad shit was on its way. Of course, how bad could it be after hearing my home of the last ten years was gonna be cinders and my club no longer existed.

Jameson drew in a breath. “We want you to set up shop in Tijuana.”

“Tijuana?” I was wrong. It was worse. Way fuckin’ worse.

“You can’t stay in Cali, and we’ve been looking to set up a base in Mexico.”

“But, Tijuana? It’s the asshole of the earth. Geez, fuck, you can’t even drink the water.” I pounded my fist on the table. “Forget it. I ain’t goin’ to Tijuana.”

“Fine.” Jameson shrugged. “Then you have two choices—gasoline or acid.”

Another long silence as I digested Jameson’s ultimatum. He wasn’t a man who made idle threats. He also didn’t give a shit which way this went because the man was all about business. A trait I usually admired.

“And what the fuck are we gonna do when we get to Tijuana?”

“You’ll have better access to the main guy down there, Rico Sandoval. He’s the top dog, and pretty much runs the city. The Bastards have been trying to make inroads with him for awhile, but last year his wife got shot and he’s been out for blood ever since.”

“With the Bastards?”

Jameson’s jaw ticked. “Seems a year ago a rival cartel copied our cuts, dressed like bikers then invaded Sandoval’s compound and shot his wife.”

“Fuck.”

“I told him it wasn’t us, and he acted like he believed me, but since then he’s been dipping his fingers into our contacts in Mexico. Fucking with our gun shipments to the States. Plus, he’s trying to stop all product coming over the border for the Bastards.”

“So, you want me to keep eyes on him?”

“Make contact with him. Find out what his game is, what he’s after. He’s gotten even more unpredictable since his wife was shot, and I sure don’t trust the fucker.”

“Great. And you’re throwing me right into this shitstorm.”

“I just want you to keep eyes on him. Then try to find out who really put the hit on his wife and clear our name so this shit settles down.”

“That’s a large order.”

Jameson threw his arms wide. “And this is a big fuck up—because of you.”

“We gonna have a place to lay our heads while we’re doin’ all this negotiating?”

“There’s a strip joint you can use as a clubhouse. The owner wanted out and the club grabbed it.”

Of course, the guy wanted out. Mosquitos the size of golf balls, rats as big as house cats, and sticky humidity clinging to you like a used rubber. Tijuana was great for a night of partying and getting wild, but to make it a home base—no fuckin’ way.

“I was figuring the club could use another front, but this works out better.”

“For who?” I couldn’t help the sarcasm, fuck it wasn’t gonna be Jameson sweating his balls off in Tijuana.

“It’s like the wild west down there. This club sells dope over the bar, the girls fuck for money in the champagne rooms and the cops look the other way. It needs an overhaul, but it’s on the main drag. A place called Golden Tropics.”

“Golden Tropics? You gotta be shittin’ me. I know the place. Me and Blood took some of the guys down there when JoJo got patched in. Place is a fuckin’ rathole. When we were leaving some punk got shot right in the parking lot.”

“Then you should fit right in.” Jameson twisted his lips. “Bottom line is, you don’t got a choice. This fuck up of yours opens up a great opportunity for the Bastards. Too many cartels moving in on our gun deals and if we have a club there it’ll be easier to keep eyes on them.”

I jerked my thumb toward the door. “You tell Blood about this great plan of yours?”

“I’m leaving that for you. After all, you’re the one who put him in the shit, so it’s only fair you get to break the news.”

Jameson swiped at his phone. “You got an hour before this place is up in flames, so I suggest you talk fast, get your shit together, and head to the border. And for fuck’s sake stay the hell away from the se?oritas.”

I locked eyes with the National Prez still trying to digest my future and how to salvage this fucked up situation. Sucked I had to break the news. Also sucked I knew Jameson was right. I had fucked up, and fucked up good.

I thought I had everything under control, but as usual I didn’t pay attention to the details. Five years ago, before I held the president’s seat, I spent eighteen months in MCC for aggravated assault. A bullshit charge escalated by a shit ton of priors. My lawyer fought hard for a lesser sentence, but just my luck I had a female judge who was a big believer of women’s rights. Seems she didn’t think it was so bad I found my girl in our bed with not one but two of the bouncers from the strip club where she worked.

Needless to say, I was pissed off. So pissed I pistol-whipped the one guy, then threw the other guy out our second story window. Neighbors heard the noise and called the cops. When they showed up one guy was unconscious on the bedroom floor and the other guy was tangled in the bushes below the window with a broken leg. All this was going on while the bitch was screaming her damn head off buck naked. They hauled me off to jail, and I found out later my whore of a girlfriend ended up screwing one of the cops in the back seat of his patrol car.

When I got out, the brothers made me VP, probably cause they knew I got a bum rap. Two years later, our president got cancer and I stepped up. I brought in fast cash from cage fighting and swore off any long-term relationships. Until Tamara got her lips around my dick three months ago—right around the time Crank was selling us out to the DEA. So yeah, Jameson had a point.

Women are definitely my kryptonite.

Now, I had to go tell my VP not only did he have to stuff everything he owned into a garbage bag, but then had to haul ass south of the border and try to put together an alliance with a drug lord who already had it out for the Bastards. Basically, we were screwed before we even got down there.

What a bad fuckin’ day to have a raging hangover.