King Cobra (Hot Rods) - By Jayne Rylon

Chapter One

Eli London stared at the drop of sweat gathering on the shoulder of one of his mechanics, Alanso. He flexed his fingers around the torque wrench he’d retrieved for the man, refusing to let go and trace the path perspiration took over deceptively wiry muscles.

Inked artwork brightened as the bead dampened several tattoos. First a tribal scribble, then a portrait of Al’s long-lost mom, and finally the top of an intricate cross that disappeared beneath the bunched fabric clinging around his waist. Torn and oil-stained coveralls hugged a high, tight ass.

All Eli could think of these days was that goddamned ass, which Alanso now shoved out in his direction while the bastard tuned some rich kid’s engine. With hardly any effort at all, Eli could smack it. Or bite it. Or fuck it.

Son of a bitch.

Nothing good could come of this obsession. Damn his cousin Joe for putting crazy thoughts in his brain. The guy was a member of a construction crew that liked to work hard and play harder together. Their polyamorous bedroom gymnastics had become obvious when Eli and Alanso had walked in on a scene he couldn’t forget. But just because that bastard had been lucky enough to find a whole team of fuck buddies his wife adored—no, loved—didn’t mean such a wild arrangement could work for everybody in the world.

Eli had no right to wish for the same. Yet lately, each time he looked at the half dozen guys and girl he considered his grease monkey family, he found himself sporting a hard-on stiff enough to jack up a tank with. Thankfully, the oblivious gang hadn’t identified the source of his recent frustration. Though they certainly had borne the brunt of his bad temper, adding guilt to the unslakable arousal stripping his gears, leaving him spinning his wheels.

Stuck and stranded. Alone with his dirty little secret.

Except for Alanso.

Why had that mechanic been the one to witness Joe and his crew’s alternative loving along with Eli? Probably because they went most everywhere together. Eli shoved the memory of his right-hand man’s right hand from his mind. Or at least he tried. The guy had tortured Eli’s cock with greedy pumps of his trembling fist while the crew’s foreman, Mike, demonstrated just how hot it could be to take on one of his own. By fucking Joe while the mechanics had stared, in awe of the power exchange.

Grunts had spilled from Joe’s mouth, which knocked against his wife’s breast as he took everything Mike gave him then begged for more. The audible decadence echoed through Eli’s mind day in and day out. In perfect harmony with the memory of Alanso’s answering cries as he witnessed the undeniable claiming.

Eli knew that if he slammed Alanso against the 426 inch engine block of that 1970 Dodge Challenger R/T coupe, the man would spread and welcome him.

Boss, friend…brother.

And that’s where the fantasy turned to battery acid, burning Eli’s insides with the bitter taste of responsibility and logic.

How could he want a guy he considered family? How could he violate that trust?

He couldn’t afford to lose Alanso.

Not from his business, definitely not from his life.

So he could never seize what he craved. Frustration bubbled over.

“What’s taking so long, Diaz?” Eli knocked thick, bunched biceps with the tool he carried. “We’re trying to make a profit here, you know?”

Alanso couldn’t seem to wipe his glare away as easily as he rid his brow of the moisture dotting it. He snatched the wrench from Eli and returned to his task without taking the bait. If Eli couldn’t fuck, the least the guy could do was give him the courtesy of engaging in a decent fight. His teeth ground together.

“You hear me, huevón? This isn’t some charity case. Hot Rods is a business. Don’t spend all day on a five-hundred-dollar job.” Eli thumped the hood, knowing how the impact would reverberate.

Alanso’s shoulders tensed. The clench of muscles along his spine altered the shape of his tattoos. Still, he said nothing about the low blow—or how he’d repaid the Londons a million times over for their hand-up through a solid decade of friendship and loyalty—and continued about his job. One he was damn fine at performing. No one could make an engine purr like Alanso.

“You want half-assed, go hire a motorman from the chain in town.” He didn’t bother to acknowledge Eli with a look.

Still, as Alanso’s boss and best friend, Eli knew that tone well enough. It’d be accompanied by Al’s tattooed middle finger sticking