GUNNER: Lords of Carnage MC

by Daphne Loveling

  “Come on,” the biker says. “Let’s get you out of here. Did you come with anyone?”

  “No,” I gasp, and turn on the water in the sink. I cup my hands under the faucet, take a mouthful to rinse, and then another cup to drink. The third one, I splash on my face. “I came here alone.”

  I turn around to see him frowning disapprovingly. “You came to a biker bar by yourself?”

  In spite of myself, I jut out my chin. “It’s a free country.”

  He snorts. “Yeah. Free to be an idiot.”

  I resist the urge to tell him to fuck off, because after all, he did just save me from… something. Something definitely not good.

  I shudder involuntarily.

  Whatever he did just save me from, I can only imagine. Shit, has Gonzalo done this sort of thing before? People don’t just happen to have roofies on them, after all. Not unless they plan to use them. Has Gonzalo done this to my sister?

  Up until now, I’ve always assumed Eden went with Gonzalo of her own free will. The thought that maybe I was wrong is horrifying. I swallow a sob, my face crumpling into the beginnings of panic.

  “Hey, Jesus, I’m sorry,” the biker says, mistaking my look for hurt at his remark. “Look, though. Seriously, you shouldn’t be in a place like this. You look like a nice girl. You gotta be more careful.”

  “I have my reasons,” I insist stubbornly. “I didn’t come here for fun.”

  “Yeah? What are they?” One brow goes up as he stares at me pointedly.

  For the first time, I take a moment to really look at his face as I try to think what to respond. He’s actually incredibly handsome. His hair is close-cropped. His dark beard only serves to accentuate the strong, square jaw beneath. Piercing blue eyes bore into me from under thick brows. Intricate tattoos cover the muscles on his arms. Even here in this gross bathroom, the guy pretty much radiates raw sexual power. I’m suddenly very aware that we’re in this tiny room all alone.

  And that if we were anywhere else but a filthy dive bar restroom, I’d be hoping maybe he’d do something about it.

  “It’s none of your business why I’m here,” I say uncertainly, my voice quavering. “Thank you very much for helping me. But I think I should leave now.”

  “Yeah. You should,” he agrees, and reaches to open the bathroom door. I walk through it, trying to keep my head high and not look like someone who just barfed her guts out into a toilet. Back out in the bar, my hand instinctively goes to the small crossbody purse that has my keys and ID in it. The hot biker follows me. Glancing around half-fearfully, I notice that Gonzalo and his friend are nowhere to be seen.

  “Where did they go?” I ask, half to myself.

  The biker chuckles. “I imagine Thorn and Beast gave them an incentive to get the fuck out of here if they knew what was good for them.”

  I should be relieved that I escaped Gonzalo’s bad intentions. But a spike of dismay shoots through me all the same. It was a stroke of luck that I even managed to find him here at this bar. Now that he knows I was looking for him, I’ve lost the element of surprise. I’m no closer to finding my sister than I was before I got here. Maybe even further away.

  “Thanks again,” I murmur lamely to the biker, choking back tears that are threatening to surface.

  If he notices I’m close to crying again, he doesn’t say anything. “Don’t mention it.” The ghost of a smile plays across his sensual lips. “It’s been a while since I got to punch an asshole. Felt good.”

  “Well, bye,” I nod distractedly, and turn toward the front door of the bar. The biker’s hand shoots out and grips my bicep, stopping me in my tracks.

  “Where you going?” he asks.

  I frown in confusion. “Home.” I sway just a little bit in place, feeling kind of foggy. “My car’s out front.”

  “Oh, no you don’t. You’re not driving anywhere.”

  “Why not?” I blink a few times, his face suddenly out of focus.

  “Because you may still have some drug in your system. You’re gonna need to wait around here until we can tell for sure.”

  “I’ll be okay,” I scoff, waving my hand in his face and almost stumbling. He catches me, a worried look in his eyes.

  “No you won’t.” He puts an arm around my shoulders, holding me up. Peering into my eyes, he seems to see something he doesn’t like. “Shit. Yeah, you’re in no shape to drive.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but close it again as it dawns on me he might be right. It feels like I’m starting to get really, really drunk, even though I’ve only had one beer. I can’t quite get my eyes to focus, or my muscles to work right. As much as I hate to admit it, I know I’d be crazy to try to drive in this condition. In a confused haze, I wonder how long it will last, and what I’m going to do until then.

  The biker frowns, like he’s considering options. “Look, we better get you home so you can lie down,” he says finally. “Beast, Thorn,” he calls out to his two friends, who are back at their bar stools with drinks in front of them. “I’m taking off. See you later.”

  “Later, brother,” the larger one calls back, lifting a finger at us.

  The biker takes my hand and leads me outside into the cool evening air. I try to focus on walking and staying upright, but I’m distracted by how huge his hand is as it envelops mine. And how rough the skin is. I start to giggle to myself. I’m holding hands with a biker. It seems so absurd. Actually, everything’s starting to seem kind of absurd.

  He stops us at a huge, low-slung, powerful looking motorcycle. “You gonna be okay to ride on the back of my Harley?” he asks in a worried tone, letting go of my hand. “All you gotta do is hold onto me and not fall off.”

  I think about it, and flex my fingers open and closed to make sure my arms still work. They seem to.

  “Sure,” I mumble. “I can do that.”

  Watching me carefully, as though he’s afraid I might fall over, he slings a leg over the seat and straddles the machine. “Okay, get on,” he orders, nodding behind him.

  My balance is off, so I have to put one hand on his shoulder to get my foot over the bike. Under the fabric of his T-shirt, his muscles tense. Belatedly, I realize this is probably not a man most people just touch without asking. “Sorry,” I mumble. The dress I’m wearing rides up a little as I raise my leg and climb over. Quickly, I yank it down under my butt, wishing I’d had the foresight to wear pants here instead.

  Once I’m settled on the soft leather seat, the biker wordlessly leans down and grasps my leg just above the ankle. He places one of my feet, then the other, on some small foot pegs I didn’t notice before. “Keep your feet on those pegs,” he warns. “You don’t want to lose your balance or burn your foot on an exhaust pipe.”

  “Okay,” I agree. By now, I’m struggling to focus on what he’s saying. Part of it’s the drugs. But part of it is the distracting closeness of this stranger, who’s already touched me more than any person has touched me in months.

  “Put your arms around my waist,” he commands.

  I’ve never been on a motorcycle before, and he’s basically the only thing keeping me from flying off of this one, so I do as he says. One weird silver lining about being roofied is that I’m not as scared about doing this as I would be if I was sober. Though, I probably should be. I’ve heard these things are death traps. Obediently, I lean forward and press myself against the back of his leather motorcycle vest, wrapping my arms around his waist like he told me to do.

  It’s strange to be this close to a total stranger. The soft, worn leather of his jacket contrasts with the roughness of the Lords of Carnage skull and wings image sewn onto the back of it. His body is strong and powerful-feeling. Solid, like warm steel. The vest is open at the front, so the palms of my hands end up bracing against his hard abs through his shirt. Even through the fabric, his skin is radiating heat. As he reaches forward to turn on the bike’s engine, his stomach muscles ripple under my hands.

  Between my legs, the hint of an ache beg
ins, teased by the sudden vibrations of the bike.

  “Where do you live?” he calls over the noise of the Harley.

  “Oh. Uh, I don’t live here.” My brain’s getting fuzzier every minute. “I’m staying at the Parkside Motel. Off of Highway Five.”

  “I know where it is,” he nods. “Okay. Hang on.”

  And I do, trying as hard as I can to ignore the confused buzzing in my head and the low throb between my legs.

  3

  Gunner

  “I shouldn’t have left my car at the bar,” the girl mumbles as she stumbles off the back of my bike in front of the motel.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I reassure her, and catch her arm so she doesn’t fall. “I know Rosie, the owner. She’s not the type to have it towed overnight. You can pick it up in the morning.”

  This motel’s only about a mile and a half away from the bar, so the girl can easily walk it tomorrow once she’s sobered up. Keeping my hand clutched around her bicep, I get off the bike and put my other arm around her shoulder to stop her swaying. She weaves on her legs but manages to stay upright. Together, we make it to the door she says is hers: number seven.

  Once we get to her room, I prop her up against the outside wall next to the door and fish in her little purse until I find the key. She’s so out of it that she doesn’t do anything to protest that I’m digging through her bag. The lock’s kind of fussy and I have to jiggle the knob to get the key to work. Eventually, I manage to open the door and help her through it.

  I’ve passed by the Parkside Motel probably hundreds of times on my bike, but I’ve never actually been inside the place. Even for a run-down looking hole like this, the room is dingy. Ugly brown carpet shows the wear of the high-traffic areas in the dim light from the small lamp by the door. Everything smells like stale cigarette smoke and old dirt. It’s not the kind of place a girl like her should be staying. Not by a long shot. There’s gotta be better places around here than this dump, I start to think, but stop myself. None of your business, Gun. Get her inside, make sure she’s safe, and get on your way.

  Inside the room, I notice that apart from a single small backpack sitting unopened on one of the beds, there’s no sign that it’s even occupied. She must have just arrived today. It looks like she checked in, tossed her bag on the bed, and then immediately went straight from here to the bar.

  Which means she’s either an alcoholic, or a girl on a mission. And she sure as hell doesn’t look like an alcoholic.

  The girl’s practically sleeping against my shoulder, so I drag her over to the nearest bed and sit down on it with her. As soon as her ass hits the mattress, she gives an audible sigh of relief and collapses, flopping onto her back and closing her eyes.

  “I’m so tired,” she complains. “My head hurts.”

  “I know. That’s the drug,” I tell her.

  Even lying there like that, legs kind of splayed out off of the bed, she’s fucking beautiful. I can’t help but take a few seconds just to look at her. Her face is pale, almost translucent. I’m guessing that’s partly because she’s exhausted. There’s a faint flush to her high, delicate cheekbones. Her lips are parted slightly. They’re soft-looking, and plump. In another situation, in another, less shitty motel room, I’d fucking love to see them wrapped around my cock. As if in agreement, my dick jumps to attention in my pants. Down, motherfucker. This ain’t the time or the place.

  It sure as hell could be the woman, though. I’d fuck her in a heartbeat.

  My eyes glide down to her breasts, which are rising and falling slowly and evenly. She’s probably about to fall asleep. Shit, she’s fucking lucky I’m the one who came across her tonight and helped her out. Helpless as she is right now, a lot of the fucking pigs in that bar would have taken advantage of this situation. Personally, I don’t get my rocks off fucking a chick who isn’t all there to enjoy it.

  Apparently, the piece of shit who drugged her doesn’t feel the same way.

  As I sit there, watching the girl fall asleep, I wonder again what the hell she was doing in that bar tonight. Now that I know it looks like she came to town specifically to go there, I can’t help but try to imagine the scenario in my head. She probably went there to confront that asshole. If he hadn’t tried to roofie her, I might have assumed she was a jealous ex-girlfriend. She sure as hell doesn’t look like the kind of girl who’d get involved with a dirtbag like that, though. I’ve seen stranger things, for sure. But I can’t imagine why he’d drug her if he could have just fucked her without it. So that doesn’t seem like it’s the story.

  Why the fuck are you here, little girl?

  I don’t even know her name. I would have asked her once we got here, but I didn’t have time before she fell asleep. And she’s looking so peaceful I don’t want to wake her up now. Gingerly, I stand up from the bed, being careful not to jostle her too much, but it looks like she’s down for the count. I slide her body up on the mattress, so her head’s on one of the pillows and her legs aren’t hanging over the side. Pulling off her sandals one by one, I toss them on the floor over by the nightstand. Then I grab her purse and lift her up enough to pull the strap over and off of her. She frowns in her sleep and moans a little in protest, but quiets when I lay her back down on the mattress.

  Inside the little bag, there’s an older model cell phone, a small wad of bills, and a driver’s license. I take the license out and walk over to the dim lamp to hold it under the light.

  Alix Andrea Cousins.

  From Virginia.

  Huh. So she definitely isn’t from around here.

  I toss the license back in her bag and put it on the floor next to her sandals. Then I take a deep breath and look around the room.

  My work is done. She’s here, she’s safe. She’ll be hung over but mostly fine tomorrow.

  I should go, and let her get her sleep. Maybe leave a note reminding her what happened, and where her car is. Just in case the drug fucks with her memory.

  But for some reason, my feet don’t seem to be moving me toward the door.

  Fuck.

  I know she’ll probably be all right if I leave her here by herself. I’m pretty sure we got at least some of the Rohypnol or whatever it was out of her system. But I just can’t quite do it. I want to make sure she’s okay when the drug wears off.

  Goddamnit. Looks like I’m spending the night in a shitty motel bed. And for all the wrong reasons.

  I walk over to Alix’s bed and pull a corner of the bedspread up and over her. She stirs and sighs contentedly.

  Then, with an irritated shake of my head that I’m such a fucking dumbass, I grab the room key from the table by the door. It’s still pretty early. Not nearly early enough to go to bed. I know there’s a convenience store half a mile down the road in the opposite direction from the Smiling Skull. I’ll grab myself a couple beers, and come back here to drink them until I’m tired enough to go to sleep.

  4

  Alix

  My head is pounding worse than the worst hangover I ever had when I finally drift up into consciousness.

  At first, I’m so disoriented that I don’t know where I am. Whatever I’m sleeping on is so hard that for a second, I don’t even think it’s a bed. It’s sure as hell not my bed, anyway. Which means I’m not at home. My eyes still closed, I frown and try to remember what happened last night. It comes back to me slowly through the brain fog. I was driving from Virginia, to where I thought Eden was, to try to find her. I remember arriving at the motel, then dumping my stuff and going to the bar…

  Then arguing with Gonzalo. And then there was the biker guy who beat him up. And the biker telling me he saw Gonzalo slip a roofie into my beer. Then things get hazier, but I think I remember starting to feel woozy, and the biker guy taking me out of the bar and putting me on his motorcycle…

  My eyes fly open.

  “Hey. You’re up,” says a voice over by the door. “Let’s go get some breakfast.”

  I sit up and give a little yelp of sur
prise. Wild-eyed, I look half-terrified in the direction of the voice.

  It’s the biker guy from last night. He’s sitting in the single chair next to the table.

  “What are you doing in here?” I gasp.

  “I decided to stick around to make sure you were okay,” he replies evenly. One corner of his mouth goes up in the hint of a smile. “How you feelin’?”

  I start to panic, wondering what he’s done to me while I’ve been asleep. But I’m still wearing the dress I had on yesterday, and my body doesn’t feel any different, except for my pounding head. I risk a quick glance over at the second bed. The bedspread looks rumpled, as though someone spent the night lying on top of it.

  Warily, I look back at him. “I’ve felt better.”

  He laughs, revealing white, even teeth in a vaguely wolfish grin. “I bet. But I’m hungry as hell, and you should be, too. We should get some food in you. It’ll help clear your head.” He stands up from the chair and nods toward the door. “Come on. I’ll take you to breakfast. My treat.”

  I want to refuse. I almost do. But I’m down to my last hundred dollars or so, and the prospect of getting a hot meal without even having to pay for it breaks down any resolve I have.

  “Okay,” I accept softly. “Thanks. I appreciate it. But let me run to the bathroom first.”

  “I’ll be outside,” he says, standing.

  I briefly consider running to the door and locking it from the inside once it closes behind him. But the plain fact of the matter is, this man is at least twice or three times as strong as I am. He could easily break down any door between us. And if he’d wanted to do something to me, he’s had ample opportunity already. So instead, even though I wonder if I’m doing something completely crazy, I go into the tiny, cramped bathroom and carefully close the door behind me. I pee, then splash some cold water on my face and rinse my mouth out. Back out in the main room, I find my sandals, slip them on, and grab my purse. The key to the room is on the little table, and I toss it into my bag and wander out the door behind him.