Hard Limit

by Sybil Bartel

  River Ranch was to the north and east. I did not know how far the hunters ventured from the compound for deer, but I did not think it would be as far as she was describing. “We can go look at it tomorrow.” I was still going to become an Army Ranger, but until I fully healed, I was in no position to prove my strength or stamina. An isolated cabin had appeal over the garage, where her father could show up or her mother could walk in.

  “Perfect!” She smiled wide. “Be right back, I’m gonna grab us dinner.” She left the garage with a smile.

  I mentally recited the Army recruiter’s address that the brother on the compound had made me memorize.

  Thinking about Tarquin, and how it’d felt lying in his arms last night, I smiled to myself. I wiped the chipped front counter of the convenience store down with a rag, and my cheeks heated as I relived the gentle way he’d taken me after we’d eaten the simple dinner I’d made him.

  Taken.

  I smirked. I was so head over heels, I was even talking like him now. Lost in my thoughts, I missed the distinct sound of a motorcycle pulling up until it was right in front of the store. A jerk on a Harley with modified pipes made the glass windows shake.

  Throwing his kickstand down, he got off his hog, and like every other biker I’d ever seen or had the displeasure of knowing, he was all attitude, leather and swagger.

  His dark hair cropped close, sunglasses, and decent muscles for a thirtysomething-year-old, he walked into the convenience store with his sights set on me.

  I didn’t recognize his cut, but I saw the one percent stitched on it, and I headed him off at the pass. “Whatever you want, I ain’t sellin’.” I hated bikers like him, thinking any and all women wanted to fall at their feet.

  A lethal smile touched the side of his mouth as he pushed his sunglasses up. “Is that right?”

  I’d learned a long time ago, the best way to deal with bikers was the direct way. “One hundred percent.”

  He scanned my face then my chest. If I wasn’t behind a counter, he would’ve kept going. “Maybe I’m not buying.”

  “Good for you. Come of it the honest way.” I’d bet every dollar I’d ever saved that there was nothing honest about him, unlike the man I’d left in my garage this morning.

  The biker laughed. “I knew Hawkins’s daughter would be a spitfire.”

  My back stiffened, and my blood ran cold. “Excuse me?”

  The smirk stayed on his weathered face. “You heard me.”

  “Not sure I did. Because if you were referrin’ to my daddy, then you best be movin’ on before he hears about you hittin’ on his daughter.” It was no secret around here who I was or who my daddy was. And frankly, I used it when I needed it, because nothing scared away a spineless jerk like telling them your daddy was the president of the Lone Coaster Motorcycle Club.

  “Is that what I was doing?” Undeterred, the biker leaned a hip against the counter. “Hitting on you?”

  I didn’t like his face or his scent one bit. Decent-looking or not, he was as sinister as they came, and he smelled like every other biker I’d ever met besides Daddy—oil, leather, sweat and trouble. “Better hope you weren’t.”

  He grinned. “Why’s that, doll?”

  I crossed my arms and leaned away from him. “You buyin’ somethin’, or you just pissin’ away time, botherin’ a girl too young for you?”

  His eyes narrowed. “How old are you?”

  “None-of-your-business old.”

  “You legal?”

  “You care?” I challenged.

  He chuckled. “Fair point.” Reaching to his back pocket, he pulled out a wallet on a chain, took out a twenty, and tossed it on the counter. “I’m grabbing a water. Keep the change.” His heavy boots sounding across the old linoleum floor, he walked at an unhurried pace toward the cooler.

  I took the twenty and rang up a bottle of water. “This ain’t a restaurant. I don’t need a tip.”

  Making his way back toward me, the water bottle dwarfed in his huge hand as he guzzled, he kept his eyes on me. When he reached the counter, he crushed the empty bottle. “I think you need more than a tip.” He expertly tossed the crumpled plastic over my shoulder into the trash bin behind me.

  “Nope. I sure don’t.” I pushed his change toward him.

  Staring at me, his expression unreadable, he made no move for his money. “I think you need a clue.”

  Like a fool, I bit. “Yeah? About what?”

  He paused for effect. Then he winked. “I’m Rush.”

  My stomach bottomed out and bile crawled up my throat. Then I took all of my almost eighteen years of pretending my life wasn’t shit and channeled it into this one single moment. Pasting on a fake smile, I pitched my voice to stupid-girl high. “Is that supposed to mean somethin’ to me, mister?”

  For two whole heartbeats, he searched my face, trying to tell if I was full of shit. Then a smile the size of his hog broke out across his face. “Fuck, woman. I’m gonna love breaking you in.” He slapped the counter. “Keep the change.” Striding toward the door, he pushed it open, but then he paused to look over his shoulder. “Tell Stone it’s a deal. I’m in.” He chuckled, low and menacingly. “I’m so fucking in.” Dropping his shades back over his eyes, he walked out to his Harley.

  Gripping the counter for support, my chest heaved as I sucked in the air I’d been involuntarily withholding.

  I didn’t know how life in the Glades with Tarquin was going to pan out, but I knew one thing for certain.

  My time here was up.

  “Rooney!” I yelled to the back. “Get your ass out here, break’s over!” I grabbed my purse from under the counter.

  Watching me as he straddled his bike, Rush kicked the engine over.

  Goddamn it. “Rooney!”

  Rooney stumbled out of the back in a pot-induced stupor. “What? I was on break.”

  “Yeah, well, now you ain’t.” I shouldered my purse and hit a button on the cash register. The drawer popped open and I grabbed the stack of twenties.

  “Whoa.” Rooney gaped. “I’m all for sticking it to the man, but shit, Shaila. That’ll get you fired and arrested. I’m not covering for you for that.”

  “No need to cover for me.” I shoved the money in my purse. “I quit.”

  “Wait, wait.” Rooney held up both hands. “You can’t just up and quit. You need to tell boss man.”

  I wasn’t telling anyone shit. “Bye, Rooney. It’s been real.”

  Without a second glance, I pushed through the back door, walked down the hall and out the exit. The sun and humidity hit me like a shockwave, and I broke into a sprint, heading straight for the swamp.

  She burst into the garage in a flurry of movement with bags on her arms.

  I sat up, immediately on alert. “What is wrong?”

  Words flew out of her mouth. “Time’s up. I’m up. Game’s over. Checkmate. Whatever you wanna call it, it’s time to go.”

  I pushed to my feet, taking in the curves of her body and the mud on her shoes. “What are you talking about?” My cock stirred to life.

  “Rush is what I’m talkin’ about. He’s here. Or he was here. At the gas station. And if he’s here, then there are others, and that’s not good, not good at all.” She dumped the bags on the floor and dragged two backpacks out from under the workbench. “Daddy won’t be far behind, and if they come here together, then that’s it for me.”

  Her rapid-fire speech, the words she used, I could not follow it. “Explain what that means,” I demanded, stepping into my boots.

  “I just did! We’re screwed seven ways from Sunday. With a cherry on top. Well, I’m screwed. You’re just….” Her hand waved through the air. “You’re just beaten and stabbed. Which they’ll only see as a starter for what they’ll have planned for you once they find you with me.” She yanked the zipper open on one of the backpacks then looked up at me with a frown. “You sure you don’t got a car? A motorcycle? Anything?”

  I shook my head once and p
ulled one of the shirts she gave me over my head.

  “Whelp.” She slapped her hands on her thighs as she kneeled on her haunches by the backpacks and bags. “Then we got no choice.” She looked up at me. “We’re goin’ in the Glades.”

  The sound of a motorcycle approaching filled the garage.

  She got up and ran to the door, lifting a corner of the material over the small window. “Oh shit.”

  I closed in on her and followed her gaze.

  A man on a motorcycle pulled up and parked. He looked from the house to the garage.

  “Double shit,” she hissed, dropping the material and stepping back.

  “Who is that?” I palmed the knife in my front pocket.

  “Rush.” She ran back to the bags and dropped to her knees to frantically look through them. Her hands shaking, she pulled out a handgun. Standing up, she shoved it into the back waistband of her jeans and came back to the window. “Move,” she clipped in a quiet voice. “I need to see what he’s doin’.”

  I put my hand on her shoulder. “Take a breath.”

  Her eyes wild, her gaze cut to me. “Are you crazy?” she whisper hissed. “Get out of my way! I need to see what he’s doin’. That’s Rush. That’s the man my daddy sold me to.”

  I remembered the name. “I will take care of it.” I pulled the gun from her waistband, dropped the magazine, and checked for bullets. It was fully loaded. I slammed the magazine back into place. “Stay here.”

  For one heartbeat, she went perfectly still and stared at me. “You know how to shoot?”

  I nodded.

  “How well?”

  “My aim is true.” I gently moved her out of the way of the door. “Stay here.” I reached for the handle.

  “He’ll kill you,” she warned in a panic. “I don’t know what club he’s from.” She waved her hand toward the door. “He ain’t wearin’ the patch of my daddy’s MC, but he’s got a cut just the same, and he’s a one-percenter.”

  I did not know what that meant, but it did not matter. My accuracy with a handgun was good, and I would protect her. “I will handle it.”

  “Oh God, oh God, oh God.” Her hands on her forehead, she paced. “You don’t understand. Or maybe you do.” She stopped and looked up at me. “This isn’t a game to him. There’s not gonna be any pissin’ in the sand. He thinks I’m his, and that’s all he’s gonna see. You won’t be able to reason with him, and if he feels threatened, he’ll either kill you on the spot or call more bikers from his club to back him up and they’ll kill you. Probably after they beat you.” She sucked in a breath. “And you can’t take any more beatin’.”

  I was standing, I was armed, and I was not dead. I could take plenty. “I will handle it,” I repeated.

  “That’s it?” She threw her arms up. “That’s all you gotta say? You’ll handle it? All calm and collected, like this is a dead rat in a trap you gotta dispose of?”

  Hearing the drop of his footsteps coming toward the garage door, I lowered my voice. “I do not have time to reassure you.” I nodded toward a large cabinet at the back of the garage. “Go. Hide.” I turned toward the door just as it was kicked open.

  My arm was up and my gun was aimed before the warped wood slammed back on its hinges.

  Using my one advantage, I spoke. “Rush.”

  Older than me by at least ten turns, the man’s face contorted with anger as he reached inside his vest. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Go for a weapon, and I will shoot your hand,” I warned.

  “You fucking threatening me, asshole?” His tone was incredulous, but his hand paused.

  “No.” I did not want to bury a body today. “I am making you a promise.”

  “That’s a goddamn threat.” His gaze cut to her. “Get the fuck over here, Shaila, before I blow this motherfucker’s head off.”

  I gave him one final warning. “She is not moving.”

  “Like fuck she isn’t.” He palmed his gun. “Shaila!”

  I fired.

  The bullet grazed his knuckles and pierced his leather vest as my woman let out a shriek.

  His hand jerked, and he looked down. Fury stole his expression at the sight of his own blood, but froze his reflexes.

  My aim was already on his head. “That was a warning shot. If you want to die, keep going. If you want to live, leave.”

  Motorcycles sounded in the near distance as the front door to the house flew open.

  “Like hell, motherfucker!” He drew his gun.

  I pulled the trigger a second time.

  His head exploded a split second before his body dropped to the ground.

  A female rushed across the driveway and fell to her knees in front of the corpse. Wild red-tinted blonde hair everywhere, she collapsed on top of the body and let out a keening cry that was drowned out by the roar of pipes.

  Shaila’s face twisted in panic, she threw one of the two backpacks at me. “Grab it, grab it!”

  I hefted it over my shoulder and reached for the second.

  She scrambled for the two smaller bags, picking one up in each hand. “Go, go, go!”

  Stepping over the hysterical female and the body, we rushed out of the garage just as a dozen motorcycles came roaring around the last bend of the dirt lane.

  My woman’s small hand gripped my arm, and she froze. “Oh my fucking God.”

  ***

  THANK YOU!

  Thank you so much for reading HARD LIMIT, the first book in the Alpha Antihero Series!

  To continue the Alpha Antihero Series, and to find out what happens next, grab your copy of HARD JUSTICE now!

  The complete Alpha Antihero Series!

  HARD LIMIT

  HARD JUSTICE

  HARD SIN

  Have you read the Alpha Bodyguard Series!

  SCANDALOUS

  MERCILESS

  RECKLESS

  RUTHLESS

  FEARLESS

  CALLOUS

  RELENTLESS

  SHAMELESS

  Have you read the sexy Alpha Escort Series?

  THRUST

  ROUGH

  GRIND

  Have you read the Uncompromising Series?

  TALON

  NEIL

  ANDRÉ

  BENNETT

  CALLAN

  Turn the page for a preview of HARD JUSTICE, the next book in the Alpha Antihero Series!

  HARD JUSTICE

  One second.

  That was all I needed.

  My gun in my hand, my finger on the trigger, I waited.

  Yesterday I was driven solely by revenge. Yesterday my life had been measured in a single act. Yesterday I did not have the taste of her on my lips. But today I wanted more than justice. I wanted the life I had been robbed of.

  Except twelve men with guns drawn were standing between me and her. I should have been dead already but they made a crucial mistake. They underestimated my resolve.

  I pulled the trigger.

  *HARD JUSTICE is the second book in the Alpha Antihero Series, and it’s Tarquin “Candle” Scott’s story.

  The Alpha Antihero Series:

  HARD LIMIT

  HARD JUSTICE

  HARD SIN

  Sybil grew up in northern California with her head in a book and her feet in the sand. She used to dream of becoming a painter but the heady scent of libraries with their shelves full of books drew her into the world of storytelling.

  Sybil now resides in southern Florida, and while she doesn’t get to read as much as she likes, she still buries her toes in the sand. If she’s not writing or fighting to contain the banana plantation in her backyard, you can find her spending time with her family, and a mischievous miniature boxer.

  But seriously?

  Here are ten things you really want to know about Sybil.

  She grew up a faculty brat. She can swear like a sailor. She loves men in uniform. She hates being told what to do. She can do your taxes (but don’t ask). The Bird Market in Hong Kong freaked
her out. Her favorite word is desperate, or dirty, or both, she can’t choose. She has a thing for muscle cars. But never rely on her for driving directions, ever. And she has a new book boyfriend every week.

  To find out more about Sybil Bartel or her books, please visit her at:

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