Nicky's Fire

  Nicky's Fire

  By

  Nancy Fornataro

  Smashwords Edition

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Nancy Fornataro on Smashwords

  Nicky's Fire

  Copyright © 2012 by Nancy Fornataro

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Thank you for downloading this eBook. Quotes may be used in reviews.

  Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Adult Reading Material

  *****

  Nicky's Fire

  Chapter One

  Chloe shifted in the booth, and watched her supervisor, D.E.A. Special Director Ellen McGafferty. The woman was young, and very pretty. A bit of blonde fluff, from all appearances, but Chloe knew better.

  "You're going undercover," Ellen explained in a low voice, as she glanced around the crowded, smoke—filled bar, "in one of the most important operations of this type we've had so far."

  Since Chloe joined the Drug Enforcement Agency, she'd been in several small undercover operations, but nothing big. Her excitement grew, along with thoughts of promotion possibilities, and she plucked at the skirt of her silky dress, anxious to hear just what the plan was.

  Ellen continued, "You and Nick Webster will be working closely on this thing. When it came up, and he asked us for someone, I thought of you immediately."

  "What exactly is it? And who is Nick Webster?" Chloe tried to remember recent names and faces, but she knew she'd never worked with him, or even heard of him.

  "I'm glad you asked the question about Nick. And I'm also glad you don't know him."

  Chloe sensed the woman was going to be tight-lipped about the thing, until her new partner arrived, so she sat back and took a sip of her whiskey. She also wondered why the director had decided on a bar for their meeting, but in the D.E.A., anything was possible. Anything and everything. Especially when a person was about to change identities.

  Looking around the small, rough-neck bar McGafferty had chosen for the meeting, Chloe thought it was probably the rattiest place she'd ever been in. Musty and dreary, filled with dirty, loud, oil derrick bums, it sat on a deserted stretch of road, on the outskirts of the worst section of Ventura.

  And although the red color of her slinky dress seemed to be attracting a lot of attention, Chloe knew it was vastly inappropriate for this place. Plus, the vinyl seat underneath her was torn, and it poked her mercilessly. Shifting her body didn't help and she cursed silently.

  Then, as she waited, and tried to keep her hands away from the sticky table-top, she wondered why on earth Ellen had picked this particular place, miles from Chloe's home in Thousand Oaks. The drive up hadn't been bad, though, with the ocean on one side and majestic cliffs on the other. Very soothing and picturesque.

  Growing impatient, she said, "Ellen, why here? Hey, wait a minute, I think that guy over there likes you." She and the director were on good terms, and very comfortable with each other. They'd hit it off right away, and they enjoyed a friendship unusual to the D.E.A.. They'd even partied a few times, but Chloe wasn't the party type. Nor did she enjoy fending off advances of over-eager men.

  The blonde, petite director looked over at him and smiled, then turned back to Chloe. "Smile pretty, and pretend you're interested."

  "In that?" She looked at the man. He was twice her age, and appeared as if he'd just stepped off an oil rig. After he fell in the oil, that is. "Not in this lifetime," Chloe said dryly, trying to appear available at the same time she said the words. Yes, they were here, two women searching for men. Supposedly. On the surface, at least.

  "Finally," Ellen said with relief, as she looked towards the doorway, "I thought he'd never get here. He's late as usual. Just follow my lead, okay? Nick will trail you home, and fill you in on the details. Remember, smile pretty."

  Chloe did as instructed, smiled, and looked towards the door. It was seven at night this summer evening, so daylight streamed into the dingy bar from behind the man. He stood still, temporarily silhouetted, his huge frame blocking the doorway. Then, slowly, he moved towards them.

  Chloe heard the clink of his boot chains, as he walked, not to mention the thicker chain hanging around his waist.

  "Oh, my God," Chloe muttered, as she watched him lazily stroll their way.

  Nick was six feet of pure muscle, and he looked every inch of the biker he was supposed to be. He wore tight jeans that hugged his huge thigh muscles and left little to the imagination about his sex.

  Chest and arm muscles bulged under his white t-shirt, and his long black hair fell past the collar of his jeans jacket. The arms of the jacket had been severed long ago, biker patches and slogans adorned the front and, she assumed, probably the back of the thing as well.

  Chloe saw his eyes glittering in the dim light, as he approached, and she noticed he had several tattoos on each arm, which moved and shifted with his muscles.

  Born to ride, she thought, as she watched him. The man oozed power; it flowed from him like some kind of prehistoric memory. A memory of how men used to be. But then she remembered he was acting. It was his job, and she thought the biker swagger looked good on him. He was a hunk. His look was at once brutal and sexual, and she was surprised to find herself wondering idly what he was like in bed.

  She'd seen bikers riding along the highway. And there was something that attracted her to them, yet repelled her as well. It was like they were thumbing their noses at society, living one day at a time with abandon.

  Stopping momentarily, he looked around at the motley group of bar inhabitants, who almost seemed to cringe in their seats under his gaze. Then he headed towards Chloe and Ellen with animal-like grace, with a walk that seemed to say, "Stop me if you dare."

  Standing at their table, he leaned both of his huge hands on the thing, and said, in a low, husky voice, "Well, what have we got here?"

  Ellen said, in an equally low voice, "Sit down, Nick. Don't make a spectacle of yourself." Her eyes were nervous now, darting about the room, but her smile was inviting.

  He slid in the booth next to Ellen then lounged lazily, with one arm over the back of the booth, and the other on the table. Then, he yelled at the bartender, "Bring me a beer, old man!" The noise in the bar quieted, momentarily, and a few men looked curiously at the biker.

  The bartender frowned, but did as requested, thumping the frosty bottle in front of Nick, then hastily departing as he grabbed the crumpled bill Nick threw on the table.

  Nick and Ellen began talking out of the sides of their mouths at the same time they had, from all outward appearances, a regular conversation with Chloe. And the bar bums howled noisily again at neighboring tables, seemingly unaware of the three of them.

  "Couldn't you pick someone better than this?" he muttered to Ellen, while he said to Chloe in a louder voice, "What's your name, sweetheart?"

  "Chloe," she answered angrily. What did he mean, better than her? What was wrong with her? Chloe's hand came up and checked her smoothly French-braided hair. Everything seemed in order. With the exception of being over-dressed, she felt fine about her appearance.


  "She'll be perfect," Ellen muttered placating him, "she's got the look." Then, she said in a louder voice, "I told you he was cute, didn't I?"

  His dark eyes raked over Chloe intensely, taking in every inch of her graceful, willowy frame. Then, he snorted softly, saying under his breath, "She looks like she just got out of the academy, for Christ sake!"

  Chloe cast him a scathing look, but Ellen reminded her softly, "Smile, Chloe. This is supposed to look like a pick-up."

  Automatically, Chloe flashed him a flirtatious smile, and finally noticed Nick had at least a three-day growth of beard on his rugged face. She wondered what color his eyes were, as she couldn't tell in the dark bar.

  But, he still looked at Chloe with a hard expression. "Is that the best you can do?" he said under his breath to Ellen. Then he mumbled, "I've spent eighteen months working to get in, and you bring me this?"

  Chloe's anger grew with his insults, and her smile faded. "Asshole!" she said, before she could stop herself. She had a temper, and now she allowed it out briefly.

  A different, but inscrutable look flickered briefly across his face, and he raised his eyebrows. His stare was piercing her now, and she felt uncomfortable. Dark, glittering eyes...probing, searching.

  "Walk over to the jukebox," he said under his breath, as he reached into his pocket and threw her a quarter.

  "What am I, your servant?" she said softly, not really wanting to do his bidding, but knowing she'd have no choice if he was in charge of the operation.

  "Not yet, babe," he said softly.

  Rising slowly, straightening her rayon dress, she heard him groan then swear under his breath. Up yours, buddy, she thought, as she moved stiffly to the ancient jukebox, and tried to concentrate on picking a song. She knew they were discussing her, but it didn't matter. This was one assignment she wouldn't care if she lost.

  "Let me out of here!" she heard her supervisor say loudly. And, as the woman flew past her, Ellen said nastily, "He's all yours, bitch!"

  Play along, thought Chloe. Okay, so he's all mine. What the holy hell do I do with him? Smiling, as the other patrons glanced at her, she slowly returned to the booth, and sat across from him.

  His eyes lazily studied her, as he sipped his beer. She grew uncomfortable again at his close scrutiny, and she looked over at the man from the oil derricks. He looked a bit better to her now, somehow. Anyone would be better than the obnoxious man sitting in front of her.

  "Look at me, you idiot," Nick said under his breath. "Act interested."

  Her eyes returned to the pseudo-biker, and her lips curved into a seductive smile.

  "That's better."

  "If we weren't who we are, I wouldn't give you the time of day," she muttered, still smiling at him.

  "Ask me if I care," he retorted, "and take my hand or something. You're too stiff."

  "You're the guy. You do it."

  He let out an exasperated sigh, and grabbed her hand.

  His hands were rough, with calluses, but the touch, she had to admit, was caressing. He held her hand, and his fingers stroked her palm absently, while he still stared at her.

  Warmth streamed through her, at the sensual stroking, and she thought, ruefully, that it had been too long since she'd been with anyone of the opposite sex. Way too long.

  "Yes," he said softly, "I guess you've got possibilities. I'll have to teach you some things, though, and we've only got tonight."

  Briefly, she wondered what on earth this man could ever teach her. "What things?" she snapped finally.

  "Well," he drawled, still stroking lightly, "you walk like you've got a pole up your ass. We'll have to work on that."

  She glared at him but stopped, as she remembered this was supposed to be a pick-up, and people were watching.

  Snorting softly, he continued, "And those clothes..."

  The frown returned, in spite of her good intentions. "What's wrong with my clothes?"

  He snorted again. "Babe, you look like you're going uptown. We're headed downtown. Way down." Leaning forward then, he said softly, "We're going so far downtown, when we get back, you'll look at that dress and laugh."

  "Let's get out of here," she said, from between clenched teeth, "I need to ask you some questions about——"

  "Not so fast," he muttered, "come over here and sit by me first." He sat back and patted the seat next to him.

  Rolling her eyes, she rose slowly and slid in next to him. He moved close to her, and she felt his hard thigh against her own. His arm wrapped around her shoulders, and she thought, too long. It definitely had been a long time since she'd been with a man. Or slept with a man, for that matter.

  He pulled her even closer. As his lips grazed her ear, an even warmer sensation flooded through her, as he said huskily, "I'd like to see that hair unbraided."

  She felt his hands caressing the soft tendrils of curly hair, at the nape of her neck, which always seemed to escape the braiding process.

  Shivers went down her spine and she wondered exactly what she was supposed to do with this man. Closing her eyes, a small gasp escaped her lips as he continued nuzzling her ear.

  "Now you're getting into it," he rumbled, "we're believable now. Let's go. I'll follow you."

  It was hard to move, as she felt an erotic haziness, but she slid out of the seat anyway. And, she realized she was slightly embarrassed, as she heard the clink of his chains, the thump of his boots, and saw the patrons watching her move towards the door with him.

  It was fully dark outside now, but his motorcycle was unmistakable. It was parked in the very front, gleaming in pale, yellow light from a single feeble light bulb outside the bar. And, it was big. Very big.

  Turning towards him, she commented, "Yours, I presume?"

  He said nothing, just stared down at her, with the same, unreadable expression on his face.

  She circled the thing. It was black, of course. She couldn't imagine this guy riding anything else but a black hog. It was low to the ground, and polished to a high gloss. A monster of gleaming chrome and dark intentions.

  Running a finger along the sissy-bar, she said, "Is it a twelve-hundred?"

  He raised his eyebrows and nodded.

  "Well, I live in Thousand Oaks. See you there."

  "Yuppie central. Why doesn't that surprise me?" he replied dryly.

  Frowning, she said, "I have a double garage. You can park it in there while we're getting acquainted."

  He nodded again, and straddled the chopper. Somehow, she thought, he belongs on that thing.

  Walking up to him, she put a hand on his shoulder, and said, "Nothing like the feel of a Harley between your legs is there?" Then, she turned and walked to her car with a smile on her face.

  She heard him start the thing, and it sounded like thunder. It was so loud, the small parking lot rumbled, like an approaching earthquake.

  The drive to Thousand Oaks was beautiful, as the full moon made sparkles on the calm ocean, and she saw his single headlight behind her all the way.

  As they approached her condo, she wondered what the neighbors would think. Then, Chloe decided she didn't care. She'd be gone for months anyway. A friend, her accountant, would be paying her mortgage and utilities, so things were taken care of there.

  She flipped the garage door open, and he pulled in beside her. The rumbling noise from his bike was so loud in that small, confined space that she covered her ears and walked into the house.

  "God," she muttered, "we need a better muffler."

  Flinging her purse on a chair, she put some coffee on, and waited for him on the sofa. She could hear him tinkering with the bike then he stood in the doorway, leaning on the door-jam.

  "Come in," she said irritably.

  He strolled in the room as if he owned it, his large body moving around, inspecting, and dwarfing everything except her large stereo cabinet. He picked up a photo of Chloe and her husband in happier times. "This your old man?"

  "Was, yes."

  "What happen
ed?" He turned towards her, and she saw his eyes. They were the most beautiful eyes she'd ever seen on a man, a color somewhere between blue and hazel. Probing eyes, searching eyes that seemed to have an urgent need for answers. She was momentarily speechless at the intensity of his look.

  Finally regaining her composure, she snapped, "None of your business. Now, can we discuss the case? I'm in the dark here, you know."

  Shrugging, he sat across from her. Lounging lazily on a chair, his eyes roved over her briefly and he began.

  "I've infiltrated a biker group called The Warriors."

  "Yes, that much is pretty obvious. And, I've heard of them. But, aren't bikers small-time for drugs and that? And what does the one-percent mean?" The number was emblazoned below the group's name on his jacket, and she was curious about it.

  "Ninety-nine percent of bikers are law-abiding citizens. We're...they're the other one-percent. Yes, it's a small group, nothing like Hell's Angels. They would have pegged me in a minute. But we're after something bigger."

  "Go on."

  "The Warriors have a designer-drug factory somewhere in Mexico. You may have heard of the drug called 'Crash.'"

  Chloe nodded. Everyone had heard of Crash. It was a new street drug, contents unknown, that was purported to have a high unlike any other, but sometimes with horrible consequences.

  She said, "How many people have died so far using that stuff?"

  Snorting softly, he replied, "Too many. It's deadly, and these guys are supplying the whole West Coast. They also have a Meth factory down there. They deal in Quaaludes, smack, reds, coke, you name it, they've got it. What we're after is the source. There's someone involved in Mexico who's big. Very big. That's where you come in."

  "Okay. What do I do?"