Flame (Ruin Outlaws MC #4)

by Amy Isan

  "I didn't think it was that bad," she says. I grip her palm and she winces a little. It doesn't look extremely deep, not enough to cause devastating damage. At least, not any worse than... my hand. I take my eyes off her palm for a moment and stare at mine. I look at her again.

  "How'd this happen?"

  "I was tied up at the end of the range. I used a piece of glass to free myself, I guess I wasn't careful enough." She sounds resigned, and it makes my chest ache in a way I can't describe. I throw open one of the saddlebags and dig for my first aid stuff. Hopefully I left some over from the initiation with the crew. No bandages, but there is medical tape. I stare into the bag and push aside some of the money to dig deeper, but there's nothing else.

  "It's cotton... kind of. At least it'll help stop the bleeding," I tell her. I free a crisp stack of money from its paper band and apply it to her hand. She sucks in air as I wrap the medical tape around her palm and her knuckles, making sure it's tight enough to stop bleeding. Even through the wad of cash and tape, I can feel her wound pulsing with her heart.

  With her hand bandaged, I stroke her arm and give her hand back to her. She surveys my work, making sure the "bandage" is snug.

  "Better?" I ask.

  "Better than nothing."

  I close the saddlebag and climb back onto the bike and nudge it into gear again. The grumbling vibrates through my body and she crushes her hips against my back. She leans in close and nuzzles her head on my neck. "Thanks, Logan."

  I grunt and pull off the shoulder back onto the highway. It won't be long now until we're at the border, and I'm not sure what we'll do just yet. How long until Gustavo realizes what's happened? How much time do we really have?

  I push the ill thoughts away. I can't have this negative air surrounding me. I need to stay optimistic. Cynicism never got me anywhere but into the pits of Arizona. It got me into trouble with the Los Devils. And led me to kill again in Mexico. Fuck, it led her to kill for her first time.

  That fire she had when she was practicing on the shooting range. She wasn't just trying to impress me. I glance over my shoulder and catch a glitter in her eye as the sun reflects off the side of her face. She smiles at me and makes my heart swell. She was serious about feeling like a burden.

  She never felt like a burden to me.

  . . .

  As we near the border, I scan the Mexican side of the fence for any agents that might be patrolling, but I'm not sure why. The Mexican government isn't as concerned about immigrants crossing as the American government is, and I have no idea how I could get in contact with someone on the other side right now. It was easier when I was down here with Surge so many years ago, because we weren't hauling around tons of cash and illegal guns. We just borrowed the equipment.

  Fuck.

  I race my engine a little before kicking it into a lower gear to quiet it and slow down. I strain against the smothering darkness to see. "Cassie," I whisper. My bike is coasting to a stop, and the crossing is only a couple hundred yards away, give or take.

  "Logan?" she replies.

  "What should we do?"

  "Why are you asking me?" She seems surprised, but somewhat touched, too. "I've never done this before. I thought you knew. You're the one who got us into Mexico."

  "It's a little more urgent because of what happened at the range. That'll catch up to us pretty quickly."

  "Can't we use the paperwork from the guy that let us in last time? He said it'd let us back into the country."

  I shrug and pull out my wallet. The paper is still folded up, and the pressure and creases have worn the ink and stamp down. I unfold it and scan for a date or anything that might not let us use it. Cassie's voice is over my shoulder and I'm sure she's reading it too. "What do we have to lose?"

  Our freedom, I want to say, but hold my tongue. She knows that. She isn't dumb. But she is positive. "I guess we have no choice."

  The queue is pretty much empty, and we're able to quickly reach a window for the border crossing. The elderly woman behind the glass looks us over and gives me a strained smile. I greet her and pull out my passport and shove it into the receptacle. She points at Cassie and tilts her head.

  "Of course," I say. Fishing into my pocket again, I retrieve the folded up paper that let us pass into the country and slip it into the metal bin along with my passport. The woman behind the glass retracts the container and pulls out the contents and thumbs through them. Her expression is like worn, unreadable stone. I clench my hand on the throttle and feel my scar rub against the rubber. My knuckles whiten.

  Cassie squeezes my side, as if she can read my mind. I try and breathe; I'm never this uptight.

  A lot of shit has happened recently.

  The woman behind the glass frowns and I glance at her name tag. "Samantha," I say into the speaker and she perks up. "Is there anything wrong?"

  She sighs a little and smiles at me. "Her paperwork isn't valid. Yours is fine."

  "What can we do to help?" I ask, while thinking back to what Surge trained me to say so many years ago.

  A twinkle in her eyes makes me think I made a mistake. She glances at me and then to Cassie. Her eyes wander across my motorcycle and she stops on the saddlebags. She points at them and leans into her microphone. "What's in there?"

  "Just some clothes and stuff, you know, the usual."

  Cassie speaks up, surprising me. "We're just getting back from our honeymoon. Please, we're so tired." That might help.

  "Ah ha..." Samantha says. She muses a little and stares at our paperwork. "Hold on one moment. I need to check with my supervisor." She stands up and goes into the back of the booth and opens a door, giving us a brief glimpse into another room, before she passes into it.

  I stare at the lowered gate ahead of us, the only thing blocking our passage into the United States. The gap on the end, between the next booth and the curb, is just big enough that I'm sure we could squeeze through it. I look at Cassie and she's staring at the gate too. She wants me to run it.

  "This can't be good, Logan," she says. "No one who checks with their supervisor comes back with good news." I stare at the gate and feel as if I'm frozen. What can I do? What should I do?

  Samantha comes back and smiles at us. "We need to talk to the woman. Alone." She shoots a smile at Cassie, and I shake my head.

  I stare at her, bewildered. "What about?"

  "Just some personal documentation questions."

  "I don't think so," I say, growing defensive. My hair feels electrified and I take a deep breath. I grab Cassie's wrist to keep her from moving. Samantha sighs and waves past the window to someone behind us. I look over my shoulder and an armed guard is coming toward us. He raises his rifle and points it at me. I stiffen, my grip still on Cassie's wrist. "Don't."

  The guard approaches and lets go of his gun to reach out for Cassie. "Don't," I repeat. I stare forward and open the throttle all the way. It makes the engine scream loud enough that it stuns Samantha and the guard. Samantha ducks down behind the desk and an alarm starts to blare overhead. Keeping the throttle open at full speed, I pull Cassie's wrist around my waist and tell her to hold on tight. I don't even know if she can hear me over the screaming of the engine.

  Cassie squeezes me hard and I slam the bike into gear. The front tire lifts into the air and we fly forward, slipping past the gate. The front tire slams back down and shakes me out of my daze. I knock the bike into the next gear and soar off into the desert. Bullets whiz past us, and I clench my jaw so tight I can feel my teeth cracking. The road is covered in a layer of dust, and the speed we're moving the wind feels like razors against my face. The sound of whizzing rounds stops after some time, and the alarm at the border is replaced by the sounds of sirens behind us. US Border Patrol.

  I can't open the throttle anymore than I already have, so I lower a gear and lift the bike off the ground again as it settles into itself. We're moving at well over a hundred and thirty miles an hour, and at this point I'm putting more trust into the b
ike than my own riding skills. That's the nature of the beast.

  Two sets of sirens follow us. The lights from the suburbans flash onto my face from the motorcycle's mirrors and I can only glance at them briefly. They're not gaining on us, but they're also not slowing down. Cassie's grip on me is so tight I can hardly breathe. I duck my head down and she follows me, her chin digging into my spine.

  The motorcycle rattles and feels like it's going to fall apart if I don't slow down on this shitty road. I have no choice. The agents are relentless. I feel the heat of bullets buzz past us again, smoking and embedding themselves in the hills just beyond the bend in front of us. I twist around the corner and duck the bike down, making the saddlebags graze the ground.

  The motorcycle and wind are too loud to make anything out. I can feel Cassie's heart beat against my back though, and it's pounding harder than mine. I spot a small turn out ahead on the road, and realize that the agents haven't rounded the swerving corner just yet. I try and shout above the noise. "Hold on!"

  I dip the bike into the turn off and the tires break loose. It slides for a couple of feet and I manage to correct it and save it from throwing us both off. I right the machine up and blaze down the trail, slowly lowering my speed and gears until the machine carrying us isn't howling anymore. I swerve it again behind some sage and shut it off. I push Cassie off the bike and knock the bike onto the ground, hopefully hiding it from view. I fall to my knees and elbows and stare down the trail, hoping the smoke and dust dissipates or that the plumes are too hard to spot in the thickening darkness.

  The two white suburbans, with sirens wailing and high-beams stretching across the desert, round the corner and blaze right past our hiding spot. I sigh heavily and taste dirt in the air. I look over at Cassie, and her gaze is frozen and fixed on the curve where the border patrol vehicles just disappeared from view.

  CHAPTER 6 — CASSIE

  "I can't believe that shit just happened," I say to Logan. I look at him after feeling his eyes on me and I reach out for him. He clenches my uninjured hand and pulls me close until our bodies are touching, hot with adrenaline and sweat. He kisses me all over and I embrace his shoulders, his arms sweaty and cool from his cold sweat. I'm sure I'm drenched too, but I can't even feel it with his lips on my skin. I want to tear his clothes off right there, while I still have my nerves and hot blood pumping through my body. I rake my fingers across his arm and try and undo his jacket, but he grunts and resists.

  "Not now," he says. I frown and try to change his mind, digging my leg against his crotch and feeling for his bulge. Without a doubt, it's there, digging right back into my leg. I give him a devilish grin and he smiles back. "You're crazy, getting aroused from this. They'll realize we took a side path soon, we have to get moving again," he says. He clutches my hand and kisses it. "As much as I'd love to fuck you right here in this sage, we have to get to safety first."

  He pulls his kickstand down on his bike, with the bike still laying in the dirt. Logan walks to the side with the seat. He picks it up and lifts it to the stand, letting it settle before moving again. He climbs on board and beckons me to join him, and I stare past him into the desert. "Where are we going?"

  "I don't know, but we can't stay this close to the road."

  I climb behind him and wrap my arms around him. He starts the bike up again and it sounds even more ragged than normal. He curses under his breath and I don't bother asking. It can't be a good sign and I don't know anything about motorcycles. "At least it still runs," I offer.

  He smiles at me and we ride up over the hill and down the other side, pulling us even further away from the main road. I don't know any landmarks out here, even if it was the daytime. Thinking of it now, I'm hoping Logan has some kind of plan for us before daybreak. Without water or food... we won't last very long in the heat. Especially if his bike is breaking down.

  I can't be thinking like this right now. If I grow cynical, I'll only drag Logan down with me.

  "Logan," I say. "What now?"

  He doesn't answer and I don't push. The sirens wail behind us, the border patrol finally catching on that we tricked them. They seem so far away, even though we're not even moving that fast anymore. The road seems more like a trail, and who knows how far it goes before just ending.

  The sirens fade away, leaving nothing but us and the droning of his motorcycle on the dirt path. I guess they gave up. I grip Logan tight and hope he feels my heart. That he knows that I won't let anything happen to him, as much as within my power.

  I still can't stop thinking about the range. About shooting that man in the back. I didn't even know his name. We just left them all there. Even Damian. Everything is so fucked up.

  . . .

  We keep riding down the trail. Logan keeps on pushing forward, even though I just can't stop thinking about sailing off a cliff face in the darkness. I get a vague feeling we're still moving north, still heading toward Phoenix. I don't know what we'll do when we get back. The Skeletons are surely still out for us, and if what was said about Surge is true... who knows what he's planning.

  Logan hasn't spoken since we started riding again. No matter how much prodding or stroking I give him, he won't answer me. I can't pick up what he's thinking. Whenever I try to peer over his shoulder and look at his face, he's stone-faced. His facial hair is getting longer, making him look even more hardened. Dirt is patchy on his face from the sliding turn, and one of the saddlebags is worn down from grinding against the asphalt.

  He's going easy on our speed though, and I'm starting to get nervous. How far out into the desert are we going to go? What if we don't make it back out? We don't have any phones, and I'm sure we wouldn't have reception in any case. If anyone catches us they'll probably immediately throw us into jail or export us back to Mexico because of the bodies at the shooting range. Three of them. Christ.

  Bodies. Like they weren't people. Logan is probably used to all this, being an outlaw. Just being around him is changing me. Something cold and hard has grown in my heart, and I don't know if I should embrace it or try my best to thaw it before it kills me. I'm still horrified by how emotionless I felt at the range. Sneaking up behind the gun man, I had only one thought. Save Logan. Even when I pushed the barrel into his spine and felt his bones crack when I pulled the trigger, I only thought of one thing: Save Logan.

  What else has he done to me? Have I had any affect on him? I stare at the back of his neck and the breeze catches his hair. The only thing lighting up the desert is the moon, casting grim shadows after the headlights pass over rocks and the gnarled trees.

  Everything feels weird. Surreal.

  . . .

  We pass a sign on the road marking a campground coming up. I point it out and talk over the sound of the engine to tell Logan, but he doesn't answer. He doesn't stop either, so I can only assume he saw it and that's where he's going. He usually has a way to deal with the world when things get turned upside down.

  The trail narrows a bit and the bike jostles on the rough terrain. If I don't squeeze Logan hard enough, I'm going to get thrown from the bike. He slows down just after a wave of dust overcomes us. I can feel the dirt stick to my face, covered in a cold sweat. I can't believe how cold the nights get out here, considering how unbearably hot the days are. I shiver and lean into Logan. His back is warm. I can faintly smell sweat on him.

  I wonder if Sara is okay. Is she still living at the apartment where Rattlesnake died? I'm sure she isn't... as my mind goes to her, I think about how she would always freak out just seeing roadkill. And Rattlesnake was definitely a lot bigger than any squirrel on the side of the road. I really wish I could have saved her from that hell.

  Logan releases the left handlebar of the bike and lowers his hand to the gas tank. Blindly, he grazes his hand and touches my thigh, rubbing me in a way that says everything will be okay. It's nice to be touched again, like he's coming back from whatever dark place he was in.

  "Logan?" I try.

  He grunts. "What's up?
"

  "Are we going to that campsite?"

  "I don't see any other choice," he says. "Hopefully they'll have something we can use. I don't think we can stay though... the agents will be patrolling the area in the morning, especially any campgrounds. We won't be able to stop until we make it back into town."

  I stare up at the sky and catch a glimpse of the Milky Way faintly glowing overhead. How far away are we from town? What time is it? I would probably be asleep right now, snuggled soundly in my bed, if it wasn't for Logan. I don't resent him for that though.

  After some time, I agree, "Okay." He slows the bike as we reach another sign marking the turn off for the campground. Then he pulls the left lever and the engine quiets completely, a smooth drone replacing the cacophony from before. As we near the entrance, he shuts the engine off and coasts us to a stop near the entrance signage and deposit box. My ears ring as we climb off his bike. The moon's slipped under the horizon, and the only light I can see with is from now are the stars above. Like a candle held a thousand feet away, they're barely helpful.

  A couple of tents are set up, like any kind of campground. I'm sure there's a host camper somewhere nearby. All the tents are darkened and silent except for some snoring, I'm surprised there isn't even a campfire smoldering. Logan walks past the sign marking the layout for the campsites. I follow behind him, trying to mimic him and be quiet. Even with his boots on, he's surprisingly silent, barely cracking the gravel beneath his feet.

  Near a tent, that has a small truck parked behind it, there's a cooler. The red color is muted, but still bright against the gray backdrop of dirt and trees. He reaches it and kneels down, before cracking the seal and rummaging inside. He pulls out two water bottles and hands one to me. I snap the cap on one and start to drink.

  I didn't even feel parched until I saw the water. I take big swallows, feeling rejuvenated with every drop. He cracks the seal on his bottle and starts drinking, too. Afterwards, he replaces our empty bottles with fresh ones. "Here," he whispers, handing me four bottles altogether. "Take these and put them in the bike. I might try and get some fuel from that truck."