“We need a new fucking couch,” Hatchet grumbled. “My spine is turning into a pretzel.” He threw off the thin blanket covering him then swung his legs around so he could sit up. The scent of fresh coffee tickled his nostrils.

“So sleep in a bed like the rest of us,” Orlando said, far too bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for first thing in the morning. He stood next to the couch wafting a mug back and forth. His lime green top hurt Hatchet’s eyes.

“Gimme that coffee, brat.” Hatchet made a swipe for the mug but Orlando stepped away out of reach.

“Nope. This is for Smith. He deserves it more than you do.”

“He’s the reason I need a chiropractor on call.” Hatchet rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Fuck, I need a shower.” He’d slept in an old T-shirt and sweats.

Orlando’s delicate button nose wrinkled. “I could hose you down outside if you like?”

Hatchet levered himself erect. At his full height, he towered over Orlando. “The only scenario I’d enjoy involving you, me and a hose would have the nozzle invading a certain part of your anatomy.”

Orlando’s eyes widened. His lower lip quivered. He thrust the mug of coffee in Hatchet’s direction.

“You think I’m falling for that hurt puppy routine?” Hatchet grabbed the mug before Orlando could change his mind. He took a long swallow. “This was for me all along, wasn’t it?”

Orlando grinned. “I gave Smith his ages ago. You were still snoring. Like a water buffalo.” He scampered toward the kitchen before Hatchet could react. He’d need at least one more mug before he felt up to chasing after Rogue’s obnoxious sub. The coffee was good though.

“The brat giving you trouble?” Rogue, leader of The Wyverns motorcycle club, strolled over.

“Always.” Hatchet raised his mug in a mock-toast. “Makes good coffee, though, so providing you keep warming his ass on a regular basis, I can handle him.”

Rogue ran a hand through his dirty blond hair. “Well, you could be in for a few rough days. I’m thinking about heading out to California. A road trip, then a few days on the beach. I want to see if I can still stand on a surfboard without wiping out.”

Hatchet’s eyes narrowed. “Wait. You’re leaving him here?”

Rogue shrugged. “I told him we were both going, but he said he had to stay here and take care of Smith since you were doing… What were his words? Oh, yeah. A piss poor job of it.”

“He said what?” Rogue had better find himself a new plaything. By the time Hatchet finished burying the brat, they’d never find hide nor hair.

“I’m kidding. Yeah, we’re leaving later today. You okay to handle things here while I’m gone?”

“You know it. As long as you’re taking the brat with you. And, yeah, I almost had a heart attack when you suggested you weren’t.”

Rogue chuckled. “I’m going to let him know now. Smith’s leaving today, right?”

“So he says.” Hatchet shrugged. “Shelton thinks he should rest up a few more days but that man is stubborn as a mule.”

“At least you get your bed back.”

“There is that.” Hatchet stretched, easing the kinks from his muscles. He’d rather Smith remained in his bed, preferably naked, possibly tied down, but he wasn’t going to admit that to Rogue. From his grin, Rogue knew what he was thinking, anyway.

“I’ll have my cell. Call me if the world explodes.” Rogue carried on to the kitchen. A few seconds later, there was an excited scream, then Orlando passed Hatchet at a run, heading for the bedroom wing. Hatchet shook his head. He ambled through to the kitchen in search of food. Crow was dishing up bacon from a sizzling pan.

“Hey, Hatch, you wanna eat?” Crow gestured at him with a spatula.

“Sure do. How come you’re cooking?”

“Thanks to Rogue, Orlando had a packing emergency. He abandoned breakfast. Shelton’s still in bed. He had a late night.”

Hatchet could guess why. Crow couldn’t keep his hands off his young lover. “I’ll take some eggs if you haven’t charcoaled them too badly.” He joined Rogue at the table. “You want anything specific done in the next few days?”

“Nah.” Rogue shook his head. “There’s been no news about new jobs from Trap, though that might change when Smith gets back to work. Keep Bull and Artie on watch duties—they’ve had the most rest recently. Teddy’s in town with the Sheriff, but he’s available if you need him.”

“Shelton’s still more tired than he’s saying after his unscheduled trip to Mexico,” Crow said. “We’ll be hanging around here. I’ll service the dirt bikes and get some other general maintenance done while he rests up.”

“Seems like it’s gonna be a non-eventful few days.” Hatchet said. “I can go with that. We’ve been riding from one crisis to another recently. I can do without any more drama for a while.” He ate the food Crow delivered, surprised that it was good. “Not bad, Crow.” Hatchet licked his lips, making a satisfied slurping sound to demonstrate his pleasure. “You want some help clearing up?”

Rogue chuckled. “Fuck, for a badass biker gang, we sure are getting domestic.” He stretched his legs, crossing his booted feet at the ankles. “Go see to Smith, Hatch. I’ll help out here.”

Hatchet stacked his dirty dishes next to the sink before making his escape. He needed a shower and a last look at Smith before the pretty man left. Hatchet tapped on the door to his room but didn’t wait for a response before entering. Smith was half-dressed, wearing a pair of jeans borrowed from Shelton, who was close to his size. The bare skin on show was quite tan. Hatchet wondered if Smith sunbathed naked. He wouldn’t mind assisting with lotion application.

“Good morning, Mr. Hatchet.” Smith straightened. The wound on his arm seemed to have improved. It was less inflamed. The antibiotics Shelton had been giving him were doing their job. He pulled on a plain navy T-shirt that made his pale blue eyes seem even more distinctive.

Hatchet’s cock twitched. “I came in to use the shower.” He stripped off his clothes, dropping them at his feet. He gave Smith a challenging stare. There was just a slight hint of pink on Smith’s cheekbones as he examined Hatch from head to toe, his gaze lingering for a long while on his groin.

“Thank you for giving up your bed for me.” Smith made unblinking eye contact.

“You needed it more than I did. You should stay a few more days.”

“Tempting. Very tempting.”

Hatchet didn’t think Smith was talking about the offer of a place to sleep. He opened the door to the small attached wet room then turned on the shower, giving Smith a great view of his ass. He thought he detected a small squeak but when he turned around, Smith was pulling on his socks.

“Don’t leave before I’m done in here.” Hatchet waited for a nod of acknowledgement. He hadn’t realized how much gold there was in Smith’s sandy thatch of hair. The glints caught his eye as Smith inclined his head. He showered quickly, wishing Smith was beneath the spray with him. He wanted to put heat into that cool expression, ignite flames in Smith’s frosted blue eyes. Repressed passion seethed under Smith’s rigid, controlled exterior, Hatchet knew it. He just hadn’t quite worked out how to set it free. He was a stubborn son of a bitch, though. He’d get there.

He padded naked into the bedroom. It was empty, the bed made with neat hospital corners. There was no indication that anyone other than Hatchet had occupied the space. Hatchet shrugged. He pulled on underwear then his softest leathers, scuffed and battered though they were. His black T-shirt had the faded image of a dragon on the back. The Wyverns didn’t much go in for symbols but dragons were a theme amongst their clothing and tattoos if anyone cared to look. He took his time with socks and boots. Smith would wait. He wasn’t the type to run.

Out in the common room, Smith stood facing the door. Apart from the two of them, the room was empty.

“A car will be here for me shortly,” Smith said without turning. “I will return Shelton’s clothing as soon as it’s been laundered. Please pass on my appreciation to him.”

“How many accents do you have, Smith? That sounds like New York to me.”

“Why such curiosity about my origins, Mr. Hatchet? What does it matter?”

“Maybe I want to get to know you better. I assume you know everything about me—if the mysterious Horatio Trap shares, that is.”

Smith swiveled to face him. His lean frame made even Shelton’s old clothes look good. He was clean-shaven, his hair trimmed and styled. Hatchet rubbed his bald head then fingered the stubble covering his chin. Smith would be much improved with stubble rash on his smooth cheeks. Face or ass—Hatchet wasn’t picky.

“Alcoholic mother, absentee father. Nelson Jeremiah Hatchet signed up to the military out of high school. Teachers said you were too bright for your own good. Could have gotten yourself a full ride to college, but ended up in the Rangers where you gained a reputation for getting the shittiest jobs done. On your second tour, you defended a local woman from a drunk officer and ended up in the stockade. Hitting him during the court martial got you time in military prison. Mr. Trap decided your talents were better suited to his purposes and here we are. Does that about sum it up?”

“Don’t sound too great when you lay it out like that. Trap pulled my ass from one fire then dumped it in another. I’ve paid my debt to him.”

“Your contract runs for another year.” Smith didn’t blink.

“Good of you to remind me.” Hatchet stepped closer to Smith. “You know so much about me. About all of us. What about you? How did you end up in Trap’s web? I don’t even know your first name.”

“You don’t need to know it. We’ll meet again soon, Mr. Hatchet. Perhaps sooner than you’d like.”

Smith didn’t give any ground as Hatchet invaded his personal space. They were so close Hatchet could smell the mint on Smith’s breath. “Then you’ll tell me your name, pretty man.” He cupped the back of Smith’s head, threading his fingers through soft hair. Smith didn’t attempt to pull away. The scent of him was intoxicating. Hatchet kissed him—a rough press of lips, nothing more—then released him. Smith gasped then licked his lips as if savoring the residual flavor.

“Perhaps. We’ll see. You’ll need to be more convincing than that.” The trace of a smile ghosted across Smith’s lips.

Hatchet gave a wry shake of his head. “Get out of here, Smith, before I shove you against a wall and show you how persuasive I can be.” He didn’t get the sarcastic retort he was expecting.

Crow wandered through from the kitchen holding a radio receiver. “Hatch, Bull just called in. There’s a vehicle heading down the track. Blacked out windows. You want him to take it out? He has a trigger finger in need of exercise.”

“No, better tell him to stand down. That’ll be Smith’s ride. I’ll escort him out.”

“Whatever you say.” Crow slapped Smith on the shoulder. “Appreciate your help with the whole situation down in Mexico. Shelton would be telling you the same if he weren’t still so wiped.”

“It was my pleasure.” Ever polite, Smith shook Crow’s hand. “And now I must go. Thank you all for your hospitality. I’ll be in touch.” He took measured paces toward the door, holding himself with a slight stiffness that told Hatchet his wound was still troubling him. Hatch tracked him outside where a sleek black BMW had pulled up in a cloud of dust. A uniformed driver got out of the vehicle. He opened the rear door then waited in silence, eyes hidden behind mirrored glasses.

“Nice ride,” Hatchet said.

“It serves. Not quite as exhilarating as a Harley.” Smith slipped into the plush leather interior. “I understand you’re in charge while Mr. Hellaby is away for a few days. Don’t stray far, Mr. Hatchet.”

The driver closed the door with a soft clunk then returned to his position behind the wheel. Hatchet stared at the darkened window he couldn’t see through. To his surprise it slid down.

“Don’t make me wait too long, Smith. I might just have to come after you.” Hatchet grinned. The thrill of the hunt was quite a turn on.

“Patience is a virtue, Mr. Hatchet. You’ll find me when, and if, I need you to.”

The window closed and, with a spray of gravel, the car pulled away. Hatchet watched until all he could see was a moving cloud of dust. “He wants me,” he said to no one in particular.

“Aww! Hatchet’s in lurve.” Orlando passed him, struggling under the weight of some over-stuffed saddlebags.

“Shut it, brat.” Hatchet grabbed the bags before Orlando collapsed beneath them. “Jesus, what do you have in here, cement blocks?” He slung them across Rogue’s bike.

“Well, I have a toothbrush, a pair of shorts and two T-shirts,” Rogue said, coming to stand next to him. “Everything else is his.”

“I only packed essentials,” Orlando said, hands on hips. “Though how I’m expected to fit everything I need in this teensy space is beyond me.”

“Hope you found room for handcuffs and a ball gag,” Hatchet said to Rogue.

Orlando glared at him.

“Sure did.” Rogue got the benefit of Orlando’s patented stare too. Rogue zipped his leather jacket. “Time to go.” He swung a long leg over his bike. Orlando clambered on behind him, ramming his helmet onto his head as he did.

“See ya, cue ball. Don’t miss me too much,” Orlando yelled over his shoulder.

“Not much chance of that,” Hatchet muttered, though he recognized his words as a lie. Orlando had grown on him. The brat had spunk and he made Rogue happy—that made him good people in Hatchet’s book.

Once Rogue and Orlando were out of view, Hatchet stretched. His body ached—the result of fighting to recue Shelton from Mexican human traffickers. The bruises and scrapes didn’t bother him but his muscles were a bit stiff. He went to find Crow to let him know he was going to take a ride around the perimeter of Wyvern land. He could catch up with Artie and Bull, check things out and feel the dirt beneath his wheels at the same time. He didn’t want to be cooped up inside. Smith confused him and he needed to clear his head. Maybe make a plan to get the staid man back in his bed—and this time Smith wouldn’t be there alone.