Captured Boxed Set: 9 Alpha Bad-Boys Who Will Capture Your Heart
Page 48
"That’s it?" Saywer asks, his arms around me. "I win tonight’s race and you let her go?"
"You will run two races tonight. Win them both and she’s yours."
"Why?" I ask.
Sawyer looks startled I asked.
"I have some friends who find this idea amusing," Helman says. "Betting on this entertaining idea has risen to 50Gs. My associates believe you will do anything to win to save your whore-in-distress."
"She is not a whore. And I would do anything for her."
"So I’ve ensured you have some real competition." Helman gives a slimy grin. "It’s time to go, Sawyer. You want her back, you be at the race tonight. And you win."
The guy with the machine gun motions Sawyer to stand. But Sawyer cups my face and kisses me. A long, deep, melting kiss. He draws back, touches his forehead to mine. "You’re mine and I’ll do anything to protect you."
I’ve never had anyone say anything like that to me. And say it with both hot rage and icy determination behind the words. It makes my heart race.
* * *
Helman has his hand at my low back. A 9mm handgun is stuck in the waistband of the trousers of his silk suit. Surrounding me are his muscle—the three stooges in black—all armed and all instructed to take me down if I try to get away.
He pushes me to walk through the crowd gathered in the parking lot of a restaurant called Babe’s. It’s ten o’clock at night. The lights of the restaurant are the only lights for at least half a mile in each direction—this stretch of highway is pretty empty. We drove about an hour north of the warehouse where Helman was keeping me. No one in Babe’s seems to care about the large number of bikes, trucks and trailers, and people who gather in the shadowy end of the parking lot. There a lot of women showing cleavage. Guys wear leather jackets or vests and T-shirts with pictures of rappers on them. On the vests are insignias that I guess belong to biker gangs. One group of tall, scary looking guys wear a logo that reads: The Riding Dead.
Ahead, I see Saywer. He’s so tall he towers over most of the crowd. I want to run to him, but I don’t dare move away from Helman.
As we get closer to Sawyer, we have to fight through people who suddenly start to back up. In the middle of the crowd, someone starts shouting and cursing.
The crowd is drifting away from two men, leaving an open circle around them. The one who is yelling has spiky dyed white-blond hair, caramel-colored skin, and wears a black leather jacket with an insignia that reads Zombie Bikers. The other is heavy-set, pale white, with a red bandana covering black curls and a long mustache that hangs off his face.
"You don’t deserve that bike," the blond man goads. "You gonna lose it tonight. You a fuckin’ coward, you know that?"
The heavy-set man snarls. "Shut up or I’m gonna pop you."
My heart pounds. I’m sure I’m about to watch two men kill each other. But instead, Zombie Bikers guy takes a swaggering step toward the other man. "Yeah, you fuckin’ chicken? Gonna race me? Put that fuck-ass bike of yours on the line." He points to a gorgeous bike with a sapphire-blue paint job. The bike is lit underneath with LED lamps, and the eerie blue glow makes the bike look futuristic, like it’s floating on air.
I sense someone right beside me. I breathe in scents I recognize and my heart races. Even when I’m surrounded by so much danger, I suddenly feel safer, and I feel…intense, excited, aware. I can’t describe it. It’s like I’ve never felt more alive now that Sawyer is close to me. I turn and look up at him.
God, he looks scared. I’ve never seen him look like this. His jaw is held rigidly, but I see it flinch and twitch.
He’s angry as well as scared. I remember how he launched at Helman’s men, so filled with fury he actually tried to fight men armed with guns. He levels a look of pure, cold rage at Helman. Who looks at Sawyer’s glowering hatred and gives his hideous, high-pitched laugh.
I’m scared Sawyer is going to do something rash. I want to distract him, so I point surreptitiously at the two men who are pacing around each other in the cleared circle. "Are they going to kill each other?"
"Smack talk," Sawyer says quietly. "Guys want to force other guys to race by getting them angry. Guys will throw down to race when they’re emotional and not thinking straight. You want to race a dude when he’s off his game. Sometimes the insults get too close to home. Shots get fired. That’s why I didn’t want you near a place like this—" He breaks off. We both know I’m in a lot more danger than just being in the way of stray shots.
Sawyer leans to me and kisses me. His lips move from mine and brush my ear. It’s like fireworks explode in my heart. "I’m going to win this," he murmurs.
"Just be careful." That’s all I want. For him to get through this alive. Though I’d like to come out of it alive too, I have to admit.
I don’t want to admit the dark truth that’s eating at my heart: I’m scared we won’t.
* * *
Helman leaves me under the watchful eye of his henchman with the tight black T-shirt while he converses with other men. Wads of bills are flashed. I guess they are making bets. Then Helman waves his hand and I’m pushed back to his limousine by the tall, shaved-head guy.
I sit in there and put my hand on the handle of the car door. Could I push it open and run? My legs tighten in pain as I imagine trying to escape and taking a bullet in my back. Or twenty bullets in my back. I look up and the driver is watching me anyway in the rear view mirror. Fuck.
Helman slides onto the leather seat beside me and leers. "Now you are going to find out if Sawyer can win you, sweetheart. If he loses, you and I are going to have some fun."
I want to vomit. I shake my head. I hate being so damn scared I can’t do anything. I hated being bullied but this fear is a thousand times worse.
Helman keeps grinning, as if he’s very proud of himself. Every time he looks at me, he smirks. Is he really going to just let me go?
We drive down a stretch of highway and pull off again. Trucks are there. I see Sawyer, unloading his bike by the light of another truck’s headlights. I want to go to him, but Helman says, "Now don’t you go running off, sweetheart." He breathes his smoke and alcohol laced foul breath in my face. His hand cups my butt. I jump away.
I don’t think my heart can beat any faster. But I’m scared it’s going to try to speed up and stop completely.
Sawyer’s race is the first one. He coasts his gorgeous crimson bike to the start line. In his black and scarlet leather, he looks dangerous. His long legs stretch out to balance the bike. His visor is down so I can’t see his expression. All I see of him, to know that it is Sawyer, is a bit of his sun-streaked blond hair peeking out of the back of the helmet.
Another bike moves into position; this one is purple and black.
I hear a man beside me mutter, "Fuck, that’s Squid."
Squid? It doesn’t take me long, from overhearing the sudden swell of talk, to realize Squid is a legend in the east coast bike racing circuit. He is a guy who ‘made good’, and races in big, organized, televised races. The guys around me are convinced Squid will win. The odds against Sawyer are high.
Which means Helman will make a lot of money if Sawyer wins.
This is drag racing, I realize. The bike race is a straight distance of about one quarter mile. The goal is maximum acceleration, obviously. From what I overhear, it appears guys invest tens of thousands of dollars to improve their bikes.
Helman drags me along while his henchmen inspect Squid’s bike. In an ice-cold tone, he says to Squid, "If you spray in the race, your body will turn up in the woods about a week from now. All your skin melted off with acid. Or the cops might discover your head, feet, and hands have been removed. Just to make their job a little more interesting."
Squid postures, hands on his back waistband as though he is just itching to draw a weapon. "I don’t spray." He’s only five-nine at the most and he has a wiry build. His hair has been dyed a bright red.
"Spray what?" I mutter, after we move back to our vantag
e point to watch the race.
"It means using nitrous oxide," Helman explains.
"Oh." My brain computes that. "To do what? Burn the fuel faster? How much faster?"
Helman looks startled by my questions. "It increases power by as much as a third. Sawyer always runs a clean race. If I want my boy to win, I have to ensure the other guy isn’t cheating."
His boy. The way he says that makes me want to barf. Does he expect me to be grateful? He’s looking at me as if he expects some kind of reaction.
"Well, you checked his bike and you removed the tank," I say.
"Some riders have a tank in an obvious place, so they’ll say, ‘You got me. It’s off.’ But they’ll have another one hidden. Say in the fuel tank. If Squid uses it, I’ll know. Then he’ll pay to make up for…my losses."
I pray to God Squid doesn’t cheat. I want Sawyer to have a clean race—and win.
Muttering, Squid pulls on a helmet of dark purple and gold. He sits astride his bike and takes it to the start. The two bikes creep the last few inches to the line. Sawyer gets into position, laying his body tight to the tank, his head low and eyes dipped behind the windshield that’s part of the streamlined fairing. The engines rev and the power of them vibrates through my body.
My heart starts to accelerate like it’s been primed with nitrous oxide.
Helman’s hand cups my ass. I push it away.
"In about eight seconds," he leers, "you’re going to find out if you live or die."
Green lights flash and the engines scream like they want to explode. The bikes sear off the start line, shooting out into the dark like rockets. The roar is deafening. Everything moves so slowly. I can see Sawyer behind Squid, and my heart slaps my chest. Win. Win. Win.
I don’t know how fast he’s going, but I know there’s almost no time for him to catch Squid.
Then Sawyer’s bike starts to accelerate. I realize he’s been increasing his speed exponentially. Squid hammered right off the line, but Sawyer’s technique is smoother. I don’t know the science behind it, but he’s catching Squid.
Then he’s neck and neck with Squid, the scream of the two engines piercing the night in one violent roar, like a blade slicing through black silk. Screams and cheers explode, but I can’t see the finish from where I am—it’s too far and too dark. I see a giant portable scoreboard at the end of the track.
Please God. Please.
It lights up. It doesn’t show the times, but flashes one name as the winner.
Sawyer Tremaine.
My legs almost collapse underneath me. Helman smirks at me. "One down. Made a nice profit on that race. The next one is going to be my best take ever. I expect to pull down almost half-a-mil."
I swallow hard. Sawyer won the first race. And he didn’t crash.
I think of Jaxon, losing control and hitting the ground with that much speed. Oh God.
And the smirking, greedy pig beside me deliberately made Jaxon crash. I am sure of it now—as sure as Sawyer is. This guy is pure evil.
Helman looks so happy I wish I had a gun so I could wipe the sick smirk off his face. I’ve never felt such a yearning to hurt someone in my life. It scares me.
And if I feel like this, how does Sawyer feel?
In the first race, I saw no sign that Sawyer’s emotions hurt his ability to drive. Please, let that be true for the next race—
Suddenly I realize something.
At this point, Sawyer’s odds will go down. It will be more likely he could win the second race. Helman won’t make much on this second race. So why does he look so smug? Why does he think he’s going to win so much?
I don’t think Helman is stupid. Cautiously I try to think this through.
People will bet on Sawyer this time. When Sawyer wins, the odds will mean the payout won’t be huge. Right now, the big money is to be made betting against the guy who beat the famous Squid.
I remember what he said. My associates believe you will do anything to win your lovely whore-in-distress. His associates believed Sawyer would win. And they were right. So why would they now bet against Sawyer?
He knows Sawyer is highly motivated to win. Again, he may be evil, but I’m sure he’s not stupid. He’s so damned confident he’s going to make a fortune…
If Sawyer had a crash, like Jaxon, he would obviously lose the race. That’s why Helman is grinning. He knows Sawyer is going to crash. And he must be independently betting against Sawyer.
He has no intention of letting me go or letting Sawyer get out of racing. It would be easier—and safer for him—if both Sawyer and I are dead. He’s planning to do the same thing to Sawyer that he did to Jaxon. He must have fixed the bike somehow between races.
I’ve got to warn Sawyer. He could get the hell out of here—
Something hard jabs into my side. "You ain’t going anywhere, whore," Helman mutters. In my panic, I started moving away from his side and he saw me.
I don’t have to look down to know he’s drawn his gun and he is pressing the muzzle against me. And he’s going to watch me so I can’t sneak away.
I should warn Sawyer, even if I get shot.
Another race runs, and the screaming of the engines makes me flinch, makes my ears buzz and all my nerve endings hurt.
Then I see Sawyer, sitting astride his bike, bringing it up to the line again.
Desperately, I look at him. His visor is up and he’s watching me. His mouth is a hard, grim line. His eyes look filled with pain. But he nods. Mouths something. I can’t make out what he’s trying to tell me.
What I really need is for the cops to show up right now. Why can’t someone realize there’s an illegal race going on and break it up? Like now! How can nobody have heard all this noise?
Sawyer’s opponent is at the line, and both men are in position, their bodies folded tight to their bikes.
No! I try to run toward Sawyer, not caring what happens to me. He sees me and starts to straighten up on his bike, just as the green lights flash. There’s a burst of engine sound, a fog of exhaust fumes and the crowd blocks my view.
No!
People move enough that I get a glimpse of the road. One bike is hurtling down it, toward the finish.
My heart thuds and I whip around to look at the start.
Sawyer’s bike is there, lying on its side. He didn’t leave the starting line. And he’s not there!
"Bastard," snarls Helman. "What he gets to do first is watch you die."
This can’t be happening. Through high school I got mocked for being too smart. Doesn’t seem to be a problem right now. I can’t think of a way out of this. I’m not big enough to overpower Helman and break free. I can’t see anything I can use as a weapon against him. Unless I were to lift a gun from one of the guys around me, but I don’t know who is armed, and I don’t even know how to fire a gun.
Helman grabs me and drags me away from the crowd. "We need to go somewhere private to do this, sweetheart."
"Let her go, Helman." It’s Sawyer. He keeps shouting at Helman to release me. He’s fighting through the crowd. Then Helman lifts his gun and fires into the air. Pandemonium ensues. People run away from him, crashing into each other. Sawyer struggles to get through the sea of panicked people.
Helman’s attention is on Sawyer, and I lift my leg and drive my knee into Helman’s crotch.
He squeals, sputters, grabs his privates through his expensive pants. Then he points the gun at me—
"Don’t move! Put your weapon down!"
Blankly I look around. Cops are everywhere—wearing flak jackets, with guns trained on Helman. It really is like I’ve walked onto a TV show. But this is real.
"Fuck," Helman spits.
The cops are coming closer. I realize Helman is not going to do the usual stunt you see on TV. He’s not going to grab me. I can—I can walk away.
I can’t quite believe it. I take a step toward one of the officers. My legs are shaking. I try another step. Then I run, blindly, toward the cops, and I lose
my balance because my legs are so weak.
I’m falling forward—
"Claire!" Sawyer’s powerful arms grab me. He drags me to his chest and holds me tight.
"The cops came to me this morning," Sawyer says quickly. "They told me you went to see them. I told them you were a hostage, but I didn’t know where he was holding you. I tried ripping all of damn Westingham apart to find you. After I saw you in that warehouse, I went back to the cops. I realized I needed them to help me—it was the only way to save you. I couldn’t get you out of the warehouse. I was blindfolded and taken there in the trunk of a car, so I had no idea how to get there again. The cops figured the best plan was to rescue you here."
I’m sucking in deep breaths, cuddling tight to Sawyer’s chest. Thank god he went to the police.
"If you hadn’t gone to the cops—" Sawyer breaks off. He tenderly presses his lips to the top of my head. "You were right. Right all along, Claire. I was a damned effing idiot. Again."
"No, you weren’t," I whisper. "You were trying to protect the people you love. And I am so damn happy you brought the police here." I took a huge gamble going to the police. That was the decision I made. I had to protect Sawyer.
I laugh then, with relief, but it fractures halfway through and turns into a sob. I press tight to Sawyer. He’s so big and we’re surrounded by the police but I start shaking with fear.
On TV, Helman would break free and make one last attempt to hurt us.
But that’s not real. He can’t do anything. "I’d like to get out of here."
"You’re shaking." Sawyer’s arms tighten around me. "Claire, you’re terrified."
"I just keep thinking…I just can’t stop being afraid that it’s not over."
"It is over," Sawyer insists. "Helman’s going to be arrested for Jaxon’s murder, for kidnapping you, for a hell of a lot more crimes. The cops think at least one of his bodyguards will talk in return for a deal."
One of the police officers comes and leads me to an ambulance. Sawyer follows. As I sit there while an EMT checks me over, I realize Sawyer is being questioned. I shoot to my feet. "Don’t arrest him. You can’t do that. He didn’t race—his bike didn’t leave the start line. He was trying to protect me. He saved my life. Doesn’t that count for anything?"