That had been my intention, anyway. Then that asshole laid his meaty hand on her, right in front of me, and those China-blue eyes I had been losing myself in for the past half hour, those eyes that drowned me surer than what passed for top shelf whiskey in a joint like this, locked on me and wouldn't let go.
She's gotten herself into something. Maybe it's something she never even asked for. She's desperate for help, but too stubborn to plead for it from a relative stranger she has just met at the bar. I shouldn't get involved. But now, I'm seeing red rather than blue; I'm seeing a hand that has no business being there sullying the thin arm of a woman whose been skirting trouble ever since she walked through the door.
I drain my whiskey in a single swallow, knock the empty bottom of my glass against the bar for good luck; then I turn, and smash it over the man's skull.
His head isn't as steel-plated as it looks. He stumbles forward, and Ana darts out of the way of his falling body. He lists heavily and goes down, reaching out to take the nearest table with him. The two men sitting at it lunge backward out of their chairs as it collapses on top of the suited man, raining a shower of liquor and shattering glasses.
I raise myself up out of the stool as I watch the fiasco unfold; I'm sure my expression doesn't betray anything in the way of surprise at my actions. I lost my cool, but only I seem aware of it. My immediate jump to violence is having more of an effect on the people around me. Ana stares at me, her blue eyes now horror-stricken, but somehow I don't think she minds seeing my monstrous side rear its ugly face in her defense. The expression vanishes, and the muscles in her thin face set in determination as she bends to retrieve her bag from where she dropped it. I can see that she is shaking, but not as much as she had been before, when she first spotted the men and manufactured a weak excuse to leave the bar and go her own way.
The other men swarm us. I expected it, but I'm out of drinks. I reach behind me for Ana's abandoned stein, only to find that the bartender, who is losing glassware left and right, has snatched it back and crouched back behind the bar with it. I shoot him a very black, very unhappy glare, but there's no time to force him into manufacturing another weapon for me.
I grab my stool and wheel it around, putting all of my weight behind a second assault and utilizing all of my momentum. At the last second, right when it looks like my aggressors are about to dodge back and out of the way, I release it and let it fly; it sails through the air like a missile and throttles the man in the lead. It hits him in the chest and he staggers back, dragging down another table with him.
The patrons of the bar are clearly regulars from town; evidently, they have had enough of seeing their favorite dive shattered and splintered to pieces by out-of-towners. In this instance, these strangers' apparent penchant for dressing expensively has worked in their disfavor.
I back quietly from the scene in an effort not to make myself a target as the locals grab up chairs and start throwing punches—sometimes aimed at the person sitting across from them, mostly aimed at the two men on the floor and the two that remain hovering upright in clear indecision as to how to act next.
Ana backs toward me. I reach for her arm before I can direct myself not to, but she doesn't shy or cringe away from me as she did with the man in the black suit. In fact, she allows herself to be directed easily. With my hand clutching her forearm, I steer us toward the back of the establishment. We walk right into the kitchen; the cook glances up, but he appears dull-eyed and disinterested by our entrance. A portable radio blares mariachi music at an almost intolerable level, covering the sounds of glass and furniture breaking as the fight continues. I push Ana out the back door and into the alley beside the dumpsters.
Dusk is falling. Wan light from the setting sun infuses the gray sky above us. There are clouds gathering in the distance down the road in my intended direction that don't bode well for my night's ride. As always, I'll ride anyway.
Ana follows me around the side of the building to my bike, a panther-black Harley-Davidson Sportster. We don't run, but walk quickly; Ana has to take two steps for every one of my longer strides to keep pace. There is a silent understanding between us that I don't care to pause to examine. She needs a ride out, and in a place like this I'm her only viable option. I don't know who is hunting her.
What I do know? She's going to need a man who has done his own hunting to protect her.
"I'm heading west."
My hands come up, and I toss my helmet to her. I don't have a spare. She catches it against her chest, never breaking eye contact with me; she looks puzzled by the unspoken invitation, but not ungrateful. She nods minutely, in understanding and submission, as I turn away.
My own safety isn't a primary concern of mine, and it needn't be one of hers. She's in enough trouble already, by the looks of things—the helmet will lend her some anonymity that appears desperately needed. I can only assume the men pursuing her aren't half as dumb as they look if they managed to track her all the way out here. Odds are they'll be looking for a rider like me. My plan is to drop her in the next town and be done with the whole affair. I have my own mission to fulfill, and I can't have a woman as distractingly beautiful as this one riding behind me if I'm going to keep a clear head.
I throw my leg over the seat and settle in. Ana quickly follows suit. I feel the blunt carapace of the helmet come to rest between my shoulders, and I try and concentrate on that point of contact—and that one only—as the Sportster roars to life.
We peel out of the parking lot, gravel popping and flying beneath the teeth of my wheels. The bike lurches out onto the road, and I feel Ana's arms tighten around my already tensed midsection.
I expected the Sportster to ride differently with her additional weight on the back, but it handles better than expected. It's possible that with the rider weight more evenly distributed now it won't be as front heavy. I'm curious if there will be a noticeable difference in my ability to speed up. I wrench the accelerator as we fly through the dwindling daylight, straight into the night. The needle on the speedometer tracks our mileage normally, seamlessly, as I hit ninety and keep going up.
For once helmetless, I relish the stinging bite of the wind on my face. Like Ana, I can appreciate the freedom of anonymity, and the helmet is an unfortunate accessory to this. Not only that, but helmet laws vary by state as does the level of enforcement. I'm confident that I can outrun the boys in blue, but sometimes it's better to err on the side of caution. Once my mission is complete, I can ride as recklessly as I want to. I doubt I'll survive that long, but it's a nice thought. Dying by fire on the road gives me something to look forward to.
I keep my eyes trained forward now, even as my attention continues to want to be dragged elsewhere. The heat of another body pressed against mine is proving more distracting than I had first imagined. It's not as if I've never ridden with anyone before; plenty of women have hopped on and off again, and I've left them in the dust of the road. It's how they prefer it, and it's how I prefer it—a perfect arrangement.
Ana's arms, by contrast, are arranged imperfectly. My stomach muscles coil beneath the tight band of her arms in tense, silent revolt against the woman's inexperience. I take one of my hands away from the handlebars only long enough to reach down and grab hold of her left arm, readjusting it to rest atop the other. A firm press from my gloved hand reinforces the idea that she needs to hold on to me tightly if she doesn't want to chance falling off the back and spilling herself and her belongings out on the empty stretch of road behind me.
The speedometer registers in the triple digits now. This sort of speed is nothing new to me, although I usually toe the line in new territories. Again, chancing a run-in with the cops is more of an inconvenience at this point than borne of any real fear of the law. Let them come after me, and see what that gets them. The law has failed me and will continue to fail me, so long as I don't wrest it into my own hands.
Speaking of my own hands, I'm still driving with only one at my disposal; the other presses
against the slender arms wrapped around me. I allow myself a moment, if only a fleeting one, to relish the pressure of another's embrace. The touch of this woman inspires a heat to flare up in my belly as hot as the forge housed within the engine we ride astride.
I feel her shift behind me in response. And those legs… God, those long legs that had been the object of my fixation back at the bar are around me now, tensing and sliding, unaccustomed to the exact positioning required. I drag my hand away to settle it atop her left thigh, and feel her arms constrict around me even tighter in response. It's possible she's signaling me that she is uncomfortable with the touch—that, or she just noticed I'm driving one-handed, and doesn't like flying down the road with what she perceives to be so little control. I'm behind the wheel, though, and I call the shots.
I grip the lean meat of her thigh, just above her knee, and shift her leg up once, hard, to let her know I mean business. She needs to stop moving around like this is a carnival ride and respect the bike; not only that, I need her to trust me, in whatever capacity she can manage in whatever amount of time it takes to get us to get to our destination.
Ana clenches her legs, and even with the roaring of the wind and bike, I feel a low growl rumble in my sternum. She's so close I'm sure she can feel it, but maybe she won't realize she's the reason for this animalistic uprising.
I want to know what she's thinking. A single conversation at the bar isn't enough.
And I want to know if she feels this unbearable heat between us.
CHAPTER 3
ANA
I really didn't expect this night to end with a man between my legs.
As I fly down the road on the back of the mysterious Flint's bike, I can't help but flush at my phrasing as I describe the situation to myself. It's nothing like that, I reason. He offered me a quick escape from a dangerous situation, and I took it—nothing more. There's nothing at all provocative about our situation, nothing to be musing on as his hands subdue my nervous shifting and yank me closer to him.
I wish I could see his face. Does it always feel this sexy to ride astride a motorcycle, or are our circumstances unusual? Somehow, I feel that it's the latter…but I can't be satisfied that we both feel it. I've been on the road for a while on my own, but even this is a new experience for me—the heat, the pressure, the speed. The danger of so little protection and the absolute control Flint exercises in ensuring our safety. I'm almost not sure I want it to end.
My uncertainty lasts for as long as it takes for the first drop of rain to splash down across my thigh. I turn my head from the alcove provided by Flint's shoulders to stare at it appraisingly; it's cold, but I think that maybe it's a fluke. Then again, as I turn my head up to assess the clouds—roiling black clouds overhead—maybe not.
It's as if my uncertainty summons the rain. The sky opens up and starts pouring in earnest, with nothing in the way of warning except for that first lonely drop. Soon it's driving down so hard that I can scarcely see. I crane my head to look over Flint's shoulder at the road, and it's like trying to see through a gray screen. I don't know if his visibility is as poor as mine is in these conditions, but he shows no signs of slowing the bike, even with this seemingly added danger. My pulse races in fear now, so fast that it seems to echo on the inside of the helmet. At least I have the visor to keep the rain off my face and out of my eyes. How does Flint see anything? I want to tap him on the shoulder to signal to slow down, but I'm afraid to distract his attention from driving. Instead, I settle for tightening my arms around his waist, and musing on thoughts as dark as the clouds that loom overhead. If we survive this kamikaze run through the storm, I vow to undress him. Verbally, of course.
Speaking of clothes, ours aren't faring too well. Even though he's driving without a helmet, Flint is a lot better dressed for this than I am. The rain falls sideways against my bare arms and jean-clad legs like needles, as if I'm at the mercy of some sadistic acupuncturist who likes to dip her needles in ice water before driving them into my skin. Soon my jeans are soaking wet, dark with the accumulation of rainwater, and my shirt is plastered to my chest.
I'm just starting to think I can't take much more of this when Flint wrenches the motorcycle suddenly, like a wrangler taking an aggressive steer by the horns. I bite down on a cry of surprise and clutch onto him with all my might as we lean into a sharp left. The headlights cut a swatch of golden light through the night, but all I can see is rain, rain, and more rain. I'm afraid I'll drown before we reach shelter.
All at once the front face of a motel looms up before us. It looks like something out of a horror movie, but I think it must have to do with the weather, and the fact that it must be well past midnight. Relief washes over me at the sight of a building with a roof over it. I feel it almost as acutely as the rain.
Flint sweeps us up to the curb and slows; he thrusts out one leg to stabilize the bike as I cling to him, trembling. I clench my jaw to keep it from chattering, even though I'm fairly sure he won't be able to hear anything with the helmet muting all conversation.
"Wait here." He glowers at me from beneath his dark, dripping hair, but I think it's more an expression betraying his own discomfort than any remonstration aimed toward me. I nod my head to show that I understand. The minute his back is turned, I wrap my arms around myself and succumb to violent, almost child-like shivering. He passes through the doors to the front desk to consult with the night clerk, leaving me stranded and alone outside.
I wonder what more business we could have together. He got me out of the bar, and away from those thugs—it's not as if I expect anything more from him. I feel a chill that has nothing to do with the rain sweep through me suddenly: what if he expects a repayment of a different kind? My attraction to Flint suddenly seems like the most dangerous thing that could be used against me.
He walks back out into the rain, and I curse myself for my indecision. I might have had a chance to run. I hate to think that's not what I wanted. I know I'm a smart woman—I've evaded detection this long—but tonight, I feel like I'm making one dumb mistake after another. And it's all thanks to a dangerous-looking, dark stranger dressed in leather.
He approaches me, and I manage to tame my tremors long enough to hold myself proud and erect. I realize some of the effect is lost, however, once I remember I'm wearing the helmet. I move to flip the visor up, but he captures my hand before I can accomplish this and slips a key card into my hand. I blink down at it stupidly, and hold my breath for his explanation.
"We can't ride any further in this weather," he says eventually. "And I only had enough cash on me for one room. It would have been different if they took cards. Very different."
He says this last part almost to himself, but I ignore it. I don't have the energy to deal with enigmatic statements; I have to tackle the present, and the obvious. I turn the key over and wave it at him.
"I can't accept this." My voice is muffled by the helmet. "Please. I'll get my own room."
Somehow. Suddenly, I remember that I left my credit card back at the bar. I think the odds of the men seizing it are pretty good, once they've regained consciousness. My heart sinks at the thought. It was under a fake name paired with a false ID, but it was stupid of me to use it. I should have carried cash all along, like Flint.
"Can't hear you with the helmet on," he responds. He grabs his bike and starts to walk it around the side of the main building. I watch him stride away, the corners of his coat flapping in the wind. I frown despite myself, but of course that isn't apparent with the helmet on, either. I can't decide if he's being serious or not. Maybe it's curiosity that drives me to follow.
"I want to thank you for all you've done," I say as I reach up and remove the helmet. I regret it almost instantly, because now the rain has full freedom to assault my face and batter my hair around. I hasten to catch up to him. "But you don't have to do anymore. I can figure the rest out."
"You're damn right," he replies. His tone is neutral, but his words surprise me. He leads
us over to a two-story strip of rooms. I take shelter beneath the second floor balcony as he parks his bike. He moves beneath the shelter of the balcony and snatches his helmet out of my hands without even bothering to request its return. A frown draws down my lips. I have a feeling I should be angry, but all I feel is confused. Again, my confusion is what prompts me to follow him into the room as he swipes his own card and pushes open the door.
"Did I do something to piss you off?" It wasn't the question I’d intended, but it's the one we both got. The room is small and seedy, but warm. I pull my hair out from behind my shoulders, twist it into a dark crimson rope, and wrestle to wring the water from it. I watch as the rain drops I manage to milk from my tresses coalesce and drop to the floor, forming a puddle at my feet. I'm only momentarily distracted from our conversation because I'm trying to see whether or not the hair dye is still evident in the aftermath of a "rinse.”
"I'm not angry." He doesn't look at me, and there is a hard edge to Flint's voice as he tosses his helmet down on the bed, but somehow I believe him. If he's angry, it seems self-directed. I realize that I probably shouldn't continue to press him, especially when we're going to be sharing close quarters for what appears to be the night.
Just how close our quarters are suddenly becomes apparent when my eyes flicker to the bed, following the trajectory of the motorcycle helmet—one bed. One.
Is he kidding? Suddenly, I'm afraid that my paranoid thoughts from the parking lot are about to come true. Maybe Flint does expect me to repay him with sexual favors; if not the favors themselves, then maybe he is still going to request that I submit my body to whatever repayment he has in mind.
There is a definite tension increasingly thickening the air between us, but somehow, I don't think it's the prologue to a request. I continue to stand in the doorway, rigid like a rain-soaked rabbit that can't decide which way to turn and run. Flint shakes the water from his hair like a dog; I think I see his eyes track over his shoulder for a moment to pinpoint me, but in the next instant I'm sure I've imagined it. He still doesn't turn around, and instead settles for whipping his coat off his wide shoulders and tossing it into a wet heap in the cushion of the chair.
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