Deathtrap

He rolled his shoulders then stretched, easing a few kinks from his lower back. Desert riding could be a bitch and the suspension on his Harley was not the most forgiving piece of motorcycle design. Not that he would trade the bike for another model. Not in this existence. Maybe in the afterlife bikes would have cushion-soft suspension as standard. He mused on that idea as he strolled toward the kitchen. Of course, as he was likely heading for the down escalator to somewhere steamy rather than up to a fluffy cloud, he’d probably end up spending eternity on a flaming saddle or something equally uncomfortable.

The kitchen door was similar to one that might be found in a diner. It swung both ways on its hinges to allow easy passage with plates and trays, an absolute necessity for hungry, impatient men carrying food and beer. Rogue gave it a careful push and there was no resistance.

That’s a good sign. No dead bodies blocking the doorway.

He drew a deep breath and stepped through into the room where The Wyverns ate most of their meals. A scrubbed wooden table surrounded by eight chairs occupied the center of the room and appeared intact. No debris littered the tiled floor.

“Thank fuck. What took you so long?” Hatchet emerged from the narrow gap to the side of the massive refrigerator and glared at him.

Rogue quirked an eyebrow and gave his bald, tattooed friend a quizzical look.

“What’s the big emergency? You only came in here to make coffee. I was beginning to think you’d headed to South America to get fresh beans, you were taking so long.”

“Sarcastic fucker.” Hatchet ran a hand over his smooth skull. “The problem is that hell-spawn you call a sub…boyfriend…whatever the fuck he is. He won’t let me into the storeroom to get new filters or coffee.”

“He won’t let you…” Rogue shook his head. “Hatch, he’s half your size. You can intimidate gun runners, drug smugglers and ninety percent of local law enforcement, but you can’t get past Orlando?” He sighed. “Where is the brat?”

“Where do you think?”

Hatchet gestured in the direction of the storeroom door on the opposite side of the kitchen. The door was open, but Rogue couldn’t see Orlando. He edged to the far side of the table and was met with the sight of a perfect ass, snugly wrapped in leather, sticking into the air. Orlando was on his knees, scrubbing the storeroom floor more vigorously than Rogue thought necessary, though the action did make the young man’s rear jiggle in quite an entertaining way. Orlando was also singing. Badly. Wires trailed from beneath tousled black hair.

Letting him use my iPod was a big mistake—even I don’t massacre Green Day that much.

Rogue glanced around the kitchen. He grinned then grabbed a spatula from the draining board. He got into a good position and planted a firm smack across Orlando’s butt. The spatula made a great snapping sound as plastic hit leather.

“What the hell! I warned you, Hatchet.” Orlando swiveled on his knees. In one hand he held a scrubbing brush, in the other a meat cleaver. “One more muddy, ape-sized boot print on my clean floor from you, you corn dog with eyebrows, and I’ll…”

The scrubbing brush flew through the air. Rogue didn’t manage to duck quickly enough and the missile caught his shoulder.

“Throw that cleaver and I’ll tie you to a chair and let Hatchet do whatever the hell he wants with you,” Rogue growled as he rubbed the sore spot.