by S. E. Jakes
“Let’s just say I’m keeping it for insurance purposes.”
Motherfucker. “I want the tape after this job. Noah and I are done.”
“You’re done when I say you’re done, Rush. You’ve got a sweet deal—what’s the problem?”
I hung up before I answered that. Mainly because I couldn’t—beyond the fact that he was threatening Noah (and I wasn’t even fully convinced of that), it was a sweet deal, something I would’ve jumped at in the old days. And it wasn’t just the risk of jail time leading to the sick pit in my stomach. It was being held hostage. It was the lack of freedom.
Stealing was freedom. Being forced to steal, not so much. I resented the fuck out of Edmund for it. And I thought about all the ways I’d fuck him over when this was done, including making a plan to steal every car in his garage and send them off the pier to watch his insurance premium bury him and his high-class clients destroy him.
“Goddammit, Noah,” I muttered. “You’d think you’d be able to see through complete assholes in suits by now.” But Noah was always looking to legitimize stealing. For him, doing it for a guy in a suit was better than doing it for fun, for himself.
I never needed that validation.
I called Noah’s phone and, unsurprisingly, got no answer except a voice mail full message.
So I texted.
Nothing.
I was hoping to at least confirm that one of Edmund’s goons had him, because this shit was something Edmund could easily make up. But I couldn’t risk Noah—even though my gut told me that he was fine, that this was some kind of goddamned ruse. A lesson. A power play. And I never reacted well to that shit. But I couldn’t be sure Noah was actually safe, and stealing a car to save him shouldn’t be a hardship.
No, it was a justification. Because even though I’d been resisting the lure, the other night’s boost had heightened that familiar, low-level buzz, the one that kept me on alert for any muscle car within a thirty-mile radius that I could borrow, just for the hell of it.
I called Linc. After five rings, he picked up, his voice full of sleep. “Hey Rush—what’s going on? Looking to break any more windows? I’m in.”
Of course he was. Linc loved a good bar fight, more than I did, but I wasn’t in the mood for his laid-back shit. “Fuck off, Linc. This is all your fault.”
Of course, Linc knew what I was talking about. “You guys always need someone to blame. Go ahead, I’ll shoulder it.”
Linc would too, even when it wasn’t his fault. Granted, ninety percent of the time it was, but even so, there wasn’t a malicious bone in his body. Linc was all about good times—although he’d be there for you in the bad. He didn’t abandon people going through tough times, but if he had any himself, he didn’t show it.
“You really think he’s been kidnapped?” Linc asked. “Because this is just like Noah.”
“Actually, this is just like you,” I pointed out.
“Oh. Yeah. That’s true,” Linc said thoughtfully. “You’re doing it, right?”
“No question. But keep calling him.”
“I’ll do you one better. I’ll drive in.”
That wasn’t a bad idea. “Why don’t you hang at the docks? That’s where I’ll drop the car. Maybe they’re holding him there. If they’re holding him at all.”
“I’ll be there.” Linc lived an hour from Shades—and he’d been there five months. He said that was the longest he’d ever stayed anywhere, and I figured it was for me and Noah. As irresponsible as Linc could be, from our first day of boot camp, he’d somehow become responsible for us. For me, especially.
Talk about the blind leading the blind.
In the end, I approached it the way I would any job. If I thought too much about what was possibly at stake—like Noah’s life, my freedom—I’d get all fucked up. I had some kind of uneasy feeling overriding everything—Linc would call it hinky—which meant it’d be that much tougher anyway. If Noah’s life didn’t possibly hang in the balance, I’d walk away. Because the uneasiness was replacing the adrenaline high with something I’d never felt before. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t put my finger on it. What mattered, Al would have told me, was that something felt wrong, and that I should always walk away when that happened.
Al was always goddamned right, but this time, I couldn’t let it matter.
I cabbed it to the wedding hall. I’d dressed like one of the valets, so I blended in easily. I parked a few cars, slipped the keys for the Chevelle into my pocket, and when the wedding was in full swing and over half our crew went to grab dinner—and the others, smokes—I left.
She was big and mean and beautiful, sitting on her haunches, pure American muscle with her nose-to-tail white stripes and gleaming blue paint, taking my breath away.
“You’ll like this,” I assured her as I ran my hand along the bumper, introducing myself. It was the one superstition I wouldn’t give up. It had also been Al’s and he’d tried to get me to stop, convinced that wasting those few seconds would be what got him caught.
In the end, it hadn’t been a matter of a few seconds at all. Even if it had been, I wasn’t about to stop.
Sometimes, jobs were so easy they were almost disappointing. I’d opened the back gates earlier, and now an hour later, no one had noticed or closed them. All I had to do was get her down the short block and onto the highway—such easy access for a car thief.
I sat behind the wheel for longer than I should’ve, tempting fate and everything else.
“We’re moving to Florida,” I said out loud, practicing my speech to Noah. “New names. New jobs. We start over.”
I gripped the wheel.
And Ryker?
Why did the thought of leaving him behind make my head hurt? There was plenty of good sex in Florida. Bikers too. I could fuck my way through Bike Week to get this kink out of my system.
Damn Ryker for taking over my mind again.
The Chevelle growled at me during start-up like a lion disturbed from its sleep. I was convinced they’d be able to hear that roar over the DJ’s music. That shook me enough to slide her into gear, pedal through the floorboards, and let all that goddamned angry muscle take me away.
This was as close as it got to riding Ryker. The g-forces kept me glued to the seat, the vibrations jarring me out of my comfort zone.
Ryker.
I eased onto the brakes.
And realized that there were none.
At the same time, my phone dinged. A text. From Noah.
Lost my phone. Dude, what’s going on?
I closed my eyes as the Chevelle hurtled through the darkness, wondered if she was aware of her fate, wondering if this big, mean, beautiful baby was looking to me to save her.
How the hell could I be expected to save her, when I’d never been able to save anything.
Anyone.
Definitely not myself.
Dude, what’s going on . . .
I passed the exit for the docks, because there was no way to make that without a total crash and burn. There might be no way to avoid that, but I was going to ride this as long as I could.
I turned on the radio because fuck it, I wasn’t going to die without music.
“Casey Jones” came on, like a beacon to me, a message, and maybe it was a coincidence.
It didn’t matter. It was enough. I was convinced I needed to do whatever I could to save myself.
stripped out of the scrubs the hospital had given me to go home in, since my clothes had basically been destroyed, and took a hot shower even though in places it felt like needles dancing on my skin. I cursed at the sting, but I didn’t move, not until I didn’t smell like antiseptic and blood.
I’d also been cursing myself left, right, and sideways ever since I stumbled away from the wreck. I should’ve known better than to trust Edmund.
Feeling semihuman, mainly because the two pain pills I popped when I got home had started to work, I avoided the bathroom mirror and instead grabbed a towel and patte
d dry, careful around the bruises that would be there a long time. I also took the tape off the stitches—Gretchen had put it there for me before I’d left so I could shower. Then I wrapped the towel around my waist and stilled.
Ryker was here. Broad daylight. And he’d seen everything I’d avoided looking at in the mirror.
I blinked and wondered if maybe I’d hit my head harder than I’d thought. Or maybe the pills were making me hallucinate.
“If you hit your head that hard, you should still be in the goddamned hospital.”
So I’d spoken out loud. And the mirage was speaking back, which didn’t help me to know if this was real. “Nah. Can’t be.”
He grabbed my biceps to steady me as I tried to push by him out of the bathroom, and I stopped and stared. Fuck yeah, he was real. And bigger than I’d remembered. I wasn’t small, but the guy was at least six foot four, muscled as hell, and covered in tattoos. And scars under the tattoos. I could feel them when I held him.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d held him. Hours? Days? My cock had zero problems with memory, though. Like a heat-seeking missile . . .
“Sean, how fucking hard did you hit your head?” he demanded.
“Have I been saying everything out loud? Because I meant to keep it in here.” I pointed to my head. Tried to, but got somewhere around my neck. He clenched his jaw and attempted to guide me to the bedroom, and that’s when my memory and sense of reality snapped into place. Because I knew what it meant when Ryker came here.
“You can go.” My voice was hoarse as I backed away. He didn’t argue, but he didn’t move either. “I can’t fuck tonight, so you can go.”
Again, nothing.
I tried one more time. “At least you’ll save money on the flowers.”
This time, Ryker cursed low under his breath and came forward. How the guy moved so quietly in those heavy black boots amazed me. Which annoyed me, because I didn’t want to be amazed by anything he did.
He was staring at the mess of bruises and cuts. I’d been damned lucky.
“Skilled,” he corrected. “Not lucky.”
Shit. I guess this speaking out loud thing was still happening. “Great. Like I said, I’m not up to fucking, so you can head out. I’m sure you’ve got half a dozen other houses you can break into.”
Again with the swearing under his breath. He wasn’t moving to leave, and I was sore and tired, and especially tired of the once-over. I missed the usual heat in his eyes when he looked at me, and I sure as hell didn’t want his goddamned pity.
I’d officially entered ridiculous territory. Especially when he cupped a hand around the back of my neck and took a fresh towel to run along my hair to take it from soaked to merely damp, and my cock tented the towel. Traitor.
Damn him. I pushed past him into the bedroom.
And he followed.
I stood in place, not turning around. “I told you, no.”
“I heard what you said.” Ryker was literally the meaning of on my six, his breath warm, fanning the back of my neck. “Made a mistake.”
“Yeah, made a mistake by coming here when I wasn’t up to fucking. The whole thing was a mistake.” I’d tensed, but only noticed it when his hands skimmed my bare shoulders. “I said—”
“I heard what you said. Now shut the hell up.” His hand cupped the back of my neck, the other, my shoulder. “Get into the bed.”
Did the guy get off on screwing a beaten man? I opened my mouth to reiterate my point for what felt like the hundredth time when he said, “And if you imply one more time that I only come here to fuck you—”
“Why else do you?”
Christ, I sounded bitter. And like a woman. Maybe it was all the roses.
Ryker sighed, murmured, “Yeah, I fucked up good,” and steered me to the bed.
It didn’t matter anymore. With the pain pills working, King Kong could take a walk in my bed and I wouldn’t care. Although Ryker was like King Kong to me . . .
“Thanks for that compliment,” he said with a small grin.
“Shut up,” I muttered, but more to myself than him. Because I really needed to shut up. Which I couldn’t seem to do. “Actual talking during the fucking . . . and now seeing him in the daylight. Gotta be a fucking hallucination.”
“We talk during sex.”
“No, I yell and curse a lot. Mainly in combinations of your name mixed with God’s and some cursing,” I told him. He bit back a laugh. “That is not funny. Dammit.”
Ryker pulled the covers up around me as I told myself to shut up—out loud, no doubt. Then he fixed the pillows.
“You’d make a good nurse,” I told him sleepily, and he just stared at me.
Guess he wasn’t used to anyone talking to him like that.
“If I was a medical professional, I wouldn’t have let you leave the hospital in this condition,” he told me.
But I’d have gone stir-crazy, and I’d left with promises to the nurse that I’d stay home and rest, and not do anything crazy.
Yeah, not crazy like letting some guy fuck you and send you roses without ever introducing himself.
Not formally, anyway.
“Didn’t think you were big on formal, Sean.”
Ryker’s drawl. Fuck, was I still babbling out loud? Hated these drugs. Hated them. “And,” he continued, “I did introduce myself. But you’d had a lot of tequila. I guess I shouldn’t have expected you to remember.”
“I remember,” I protested. “Some of the things.” Like the way he’d always fuck me and leave, and yeah, I wasn’t in the mood for that shit. “Look, can you just go?”
And this time, he did.
Got what I’d asked for, so why did I feel miserable? I pulled the covers up more, curled on my side. And then he walked back in carrying a soda.
“I ordered Chinese,” he said when the doorbell rang seconds later.
“Make yourself at home,” I said as sarcastically as possible, and he glowered. Left again, and came back with a tray of cartons and bowls.
All my favorites.
Or a good guess.
But I had a strong feeling nothing Ryker did was by chance.
He took his boots off. They fell with a slam to the floor, and fuck me, I tried not to jump at the loud sound, but I must’ve. Always did shit like that when I came back from anything combat-related.
He was next to me in a second, hand on my shoulder, telling me that it was all okay. It wasn’t, and it felt too good to be comforted. I didn’t want to get used to that.
He ran a hand through my hair. Studied my face and reiterated, “I made a mistake.”
“You got the food right,” I offered and yeah, the drugs were working. He must’ve known, because his expression softened. And I figured now was a good time to share that, “I, uh, sometimes have reactions to the pills.”
His eyes narrowed. “What kind of reaction?”
“I stop breathing. Just for a few seconds. When I’m sleeping. I mean, I always start again, but Noah . . .” I trailed off.
Noah. Linc. My phone. There were reasons why they weren’t here, but fuck if I could remember now.
“Sean, I’m staying.”
“Noah—”
“I’ll deal with Noah when he comes.”
Ah hell, those two could fight it out. I ate the noodles and egg rolls and drifted off into a good, drugged, full-stomached sleep in which I dreamed about Ryker’s mouth on my skin, his fingers doing that skilled thing that made me shoot fireworks, and moaning his name.
I woke to shouting and an empty bed. And not a single goddamned rose to be found.
t took me a few minutes to surface from the pain pills and realize that Ryker and Noah were fighting. I dragged myself out of bed but didn’t get much farther as the searing pain in my side jolted me into the postwreck reality.
I hadn’t had much time to let myself think about what happened. If I hadn’t been trained to crash well, I wouldn’t have walked away, leaving the Chevelle hurt but not tota
led. And if I hadn’t had Army training, I wouldn’t have made it out of the car. But as I sat there, dazed, the car half off the road, I’d heard my drill sergeant in my head ordering, “Get the fuck up, Rush.” And I got up and out, and started walking.
I’d had plenty of motor vehicle–related accidents, but this wasn’t an accident. Someone had cut the brakes—all the brakes—in anticipation of the car being boosted. If I didn’t know how to drive the shit out of a fast car and handle it correctly, I’d be dead.
My phone had been crushed in the wreck—I’d taken it with me anyway, kept the SIM card and ditched the rest. When I didn’t show at the docks, Linc and Noah and Edmund and whatever mafia was waiting for the car would do whatever they’d do. I’d stumbled off the closest exit ramp, and maybe Al was looking down on me, because the exit was near a train station. From there, I’d grabbed a cab to take me to the hospital—the driver heard the sirens, saw my condition and said, “My baby brother’s doin’ time for stealing,” which I took as code for, The police won’t hear about you from me.
He dropped me outside the ER. I’d called Linc from a payphone. He’d found the crash site by that point, but I refused to tell him where I was. Mainly because Noah was with him, and fuck that.
Had I told Ryker any of this? It didn’t matter, because, as I manned up, held my breath against the pain, and made it to the opened bedroom door, he was telling Noah to “get the fuck out” in no uncertain terms, and I agreed with the sentiment.
Then he added, “Where the fuck have you been? Because you haven’t been to see your friend.”
“Right,” I said out loud to no one. Because I’d been at a hospital three towns over from where the wreck had happened, where I knew a girl I’d gone to high school with was now an ER nurse. I had insurance, so that wasn’t an issue, except I knew it could be traced—and I needed to lie low. Once Gretchen got me checked out by a doctor, I’d discovered that I had a concussion, sprained wrist, bruised ribs, and lots of other contusions to go along with the aches and pains. And then he’d wanted to know if I had someone to call. Gretchen saved me from his scrutiny, but even so, I’d had the chance to call Noah or Linc again, but I didn’t. Half of it was the pain daze and the other half was uncertainty. I couldn’t pick that all apart, and I hadn’t bothered trying.