Reckless: Backsteel Bandits MC

by Olivia Stephens

  He was in complete control.

  Or, he would have been, if his hormones didn't take him by the nose.

  Heat and pressure built up between them, drowned them, pressed down on them until the only thing that took shape in their heads was pleasure and delight.

  Her pussy massaged along his length, harder than he had ever felt before. He couldn't keep his thoughts straight. Stars burst at the corners of his vision. Miranda gasped and started to tremble against him before rougher convulsions snapped along her body. She whined and whimpered and tossed her head back. Heat and pleasure ate up her thoughts and every sensation, leaving behind prickling pleasure.

  It wasn't long until Tyler followed suit. His balls tightened and jerked against his body. His cock throbbed and bounced wildly inside her, feeling every corner of her. He let out a satisfactory groan as liquid heat streamed into her, coating her sensitive nerves and teasing her insides. She whimpered, another wave coaxed from the recesses of her nerves as his cock unloaded more and more heat.

  She writhed and wriggled against him, breathless and red-faced, unable to form neither a sentence nor a thought. Tyler pumped his cock in and out of her as the last streams evacuated. He gasped, breathing heavily as he pressed Miranda further into the wall.

  “Well,” she gasped as her breathing evened itself out, “what had we been talking about?”

  A rasp of a laugh left Tyler's throat. Discussions were for later. They had an afterglow to enjoy.

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  The highways of San Marta rolled around their car as they drove down the road. Miranda couldn't shake the thought that continuously clung to her thoughts that morning. “Do you really think Lloyd would go for it?”

  “I think so, if you're sure.” After a long night of sweat and sex, topped off with a morning of packing, this was the last topic Tyler wanted to get his head to form around. A straight shot down the highway and they already pulled off an exit. At the top of the ramp, a small diner squatted with a shiny exterior and a few cars in its lot. A semi-truck stuck out from behind the diner, as if it were a child trying to hide behind a skinny tree trunk. “Can we talk about this after we eat?”

  “Sure,” Miranda replied softly, as they pulled into the parking lot of the diner. She glanced around the lot, keeping an eye out for any recognizable vehicle or motorcycle. Nothing pinged across her inner alarm system. Tyler didn't seem worried at all as he climbed out of their car and headed for the diner. Miranda scurried after him, her muscles protesting to movement after a night of 'exercise.'

  Sleep gnawed at Miranda's thoughts as she slumped into the diner booth. Tyler took up a position across from her, looking as tired as she felt. He yawned, covering his mouth with a hand as he stretched his arms over his head.

  Coy thoughts flared to life in her thoughts. Miranda grinned as she inclined her head to him, “Tired?”

  “You should know,” he replied, the corners of his lips lifted into a smirk.

  Heat kissed across her cheeks and she averted her gaze. Images of last night danced across her thoughts, teasing her with tingling sensations. Why couldn't every day be like this? Waking up in the same bed, sharing a breakfast, letting the aches of last night constantly remind them of their time together. Satisfaction steamed through Miranda's thoughts. Heat licked hotly across her cheeks, though. Her gaze flicked to Tyler, wondering how he'd react to hearing the thoughts that echoed through her head.

  Her personal embarrassment interrupted as a wizened waitress whisked up to the table. She slapped down a couple laminated menus, coughed out the specials, and took their drink orders. Then, the waitress spun away, her apron strings slapping against her rotund backside. The two gleaned over the menus, though neither was hungry.

  Both harbored worries concerning their situation. No clear-cut leads, other than Francesca, left them in a grey limbo zone.

  Anxiety raked over Tyler's nerves. He needed to release some nervous energy. As he scooted out of the booth, he answered Miranda's unspoken question, “I'm going to go take a whiz.”

  “I told you, you should've gone before we left,” she teased, though the tone didn't carry into her words. Somehow, the thought of waking every day in Tyler's arms sifted into her thoughts and taunted her. A small part of knew it'd never happen. Not with him.

  “Coulda, shoulda, woulda,” he chuckled as he headed for the restroom.

  She watched him swagger down the row of tables. Something ached in her thoughts. Something that wanted to share every breakfast with him. She shook the thought from her head and dragged her eyes back to the menu. This was not the time. After they took Pete down, they could discuss where they'd both go and what became of their…relationship. Miranda fiddled with peeling corner of her menu and focused on the menu, considering her options.

  “Excuse me,” someone tapped on the end of her table.

  She started and tore her gaze away from the menu. Francesca Munoz stood at the edge of the table. She was draped in a rich purple dress and gold jewelry. Miranda suddenly felt a twinge of self-consciousness attack her as she sat in her large t-shirt and jeans. The woman tugged her purse strap as Miranda eyed her. “Miss Munoz.”

  “I-I think I was a bit rash yesterday,” the woman stuttered. Her gaze, shamefully, went around the patrons of the diner before drifting to her feet. “Would you mind talking?”

  “Sure, take a seat.” Miranda motioned to the opposite side of the booth.

  Francesca eyed the booth with a mixture of disdain and uncertainty. Her gaze swung around the diner before she leaned closer to Miranda. Her voice dropped down low, “I was thinking we could talk in my car, if that's all right. There are a lot of people here.”

  “Sure,” Miranda nodded. She knew Francesca would change her mind. The woman needed help out of her situation. Her gaze caught the flashing sign to the restrooms and she suddenly remembered herself, “Do you mind if we wait for Tyler?”

  Francesca's eyes slid to the restrooms. She pressed her lips together, but seemed on the verge of scowling. Her eyes flickered back to Miranda. An uncertain awkwardness radiated from her words, as if there were something she didn't want to say. “I'd like to talk to you, alone. Just, some things I don't want to say in front of him.”

  “O-okay,” Miranda's mind momentarily warred. Tyler would be out any second. Surely, the woman's talk could wait until then. But she didn't want to talk with him present. Miranda wondered why. Looking at Francesca, and knowing what domains were tied to her name, Miranda could guess. Quietly, she slid out of the booth and padded after Francesca. She glanced over her shoulder, hoping to catch one last glimpse of Tyler. She didn't want him to come out, not knowing where she had gone.

  * * *

  Tyler's gait slowed as he returned to his table. Emptiness hung in the air and chilled his bones. His eyebrows furrowed as he glanced around the diner. Had she gone to the restroom? For a split second, his heart thrummed in his chest. Or was her disappearance more sinister?

  “Just missed her, hon.” The old waitress bustled to the table, arms laden with dirty dishes. She paused by Tyler, words taking on a nasally unpleasant tone, “She left with the town tart.”

  “What?” He spun toward the waitress, his eyebrows furrowed.

  The waitress wove a scowl between her syllables as she intentionally mispronounced the name, “Fransessca Munose.”

  “Shit!”

  The waitress barely had a chance to blink before Tyler shoved his way out the front door. The only thing left in his wake was the chime of the doorbell. She stared at where he last stood, eyebrows raised. She grunted to herself and shrugged her shoulders. Kids these days were an odd bunch. She bustled into the kitchen after letting the hostess know table eighteen free for anyone who needed it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  The morning sun hung low in the sky, its bottom touching the far horizon. A chill nipped at the air. Any other time, Miranda would have relished in such a morning. With Francesca's presence, and looming dis
cussion, she had little time to dwell on enjoyment. Together, the women rounded the diner and headed to the back where extra parking situated beyond the eyes of eating patrons. The lot had exploded with activity in the short amount of time they arrived. Three more semi-trucks took up space in the back, flanked by a dozen sedans and trucks. It was surprising, but Miranda hadn't paid attention to the patrons inside.

  Miranda dallied behind Francesca a few steps. She mentally fought over how to approach the situation. Cool and calm? Understanding and warm? Or would Francesca be no-nonsense and curt? Miss Munoz's footfalls gave way to the crunch of gravel. Miranda decided to swallow her nerves and posit her inquiry. “Well, Miss Munoz, what did you want to tal-”

  “Miss Groves,” a deep, masculine voice cut Miranda off. Her heart thudded in her chest. Her brain recognized the voice, immediately, and one word sang through her head 'run.' Her blood ran cold, keeping her feet planted. She didn't have time to register the knowledge, though, as Baldie stepped out from behind a maroon sedan. He leered down at her and her stomach heaved. For a split second, she was glad to have an empty stomach. He sneered down at her, lips twisted into a vicious smile. “Long time no see.”

  Her gaze flicked from Baldie to the woman she previously considered a potential ally. The woman couldn't bear to meet her gaze. Betrayal lit through her thoughts like flaming gasoline. The air locked in her lungs, but she couldn't turn anger toward Francesca just yet. There had to be an explanation! With her mouth going dry, Miranda rasped, “…Francesca?”

  Despite the scene playing out before him, Baldie advanced on Miranda. Two more men stepped out from the sedan. Baldie continued to talk, a smirk twisted across his lips, “How was Maui? Rather short trip, wasn't it?”

  Her mind buzzed and tumbled, trying to make sense of the event playing out before her. Tyler's words ricocheted around her head. Her gaze focused on the other woman, a chill slicing across her gut, followed by the heat of Hell. Had Francesca ratted them out to Pete? The woman refused to meet Miranda's gaze. She stared over Miranda's left shoulder, face masked with a neutral expression. “Sorry, Miss Groves. You know how it is.”

  No, she didn't know how it was. Just as she opened her mouth to correct Francesca's presumption, two pairs of arms locked around her. A hand slapped across her lips. She gasped, marveling at the speed of Baldie's lackeys. Instantly, her muscles tensed and her feet kicked out, her shoulders jerked as she attempted to shake off the men. She sunk her teeth into the palm and one of the men howled. He jerked his hand away and she screamed, “No!”

  The word echoed through the morning air. The slam of the front door joined her frightened declaration. A familiar voice sang through the air, “Mir?!”

  “Tyler!” She shrieked, twisting and jerking against the fingers clamped along her arms. A hand slapped across her face, pain lighting across her cheek. She cried out, a yelp loosing from her lips.

  “Mir!” He shouted, rounding around the corner of the diner. The slam of car doors and the smell of burning rubber and the sputter of flying gravel graced his ears. Briefly, he caught sight of Miranda struggling against two men in a sedan. The driver's bald head caught his eye.

  Red clamped across Tyler's thoughts. Who the fuck did this? His ears perked up at the sound of crunching gravel. He spun, pinning a familiar figure with his heated glare.

  Francesca ducked into her black sports car, revving the engine in a rush. Without thinking, Tyler charged at the car. Just as the vehicle began sliding through the parking lot, he slammed onto the hood. From inside the car, he could hear Francesca scream. She slammed on the brakes. The sudden stop sent him bounding off the car hood and landing just in front of the wheels.

  The pain that arched up his body didn't stop him. Hell, it didn't matter. Nothing mattered if Miranda were kidnapped. Possessed by sheer rage, Tyler climbed to his feet and scrabbled over the hood of the car. He yanked the driver side door open and hauled Francesca from the car. Despite her flailing, he managed to pin her to the side of the car with a metallic thunk. He bent low, his dark brown eyes catching her wild hazel gaze. He could smell her fear as he snarled, “The Hell did you do?”

  She gasped and dropped her bag before he shook her and slammed her back against a black sports car. A yelp barely left her lips before he shook her savagely. Her hands flew to his, her nails digging into his knuckles. He ignored the slight pain that grazed on his hands.

  “The Hell did you do, Munoz?” Tyler demanded, his fingers digging into Francesca's shoulders. He knew marks would be left, dark purple bruises along her shoulders and clavicle. It wasn't anything the woman wasn't used to, though.

  Francesca steeled herself, glaring heatedly at Tyler. Her lips curled into a thin sneer. She said the words as if she were reading from an inner script, stunted and curt, “Pete wants to talk.”

  “The fuck you think they'll do with her?” He carried on, barely registering her words. He shook her again, her back thudding against the car. No matter how many times he shook her, no matter how much damage he did, he knew it wouldn't alleviate the mounting fear in his thoughts. If Pete had Miranda, who knew what would befall her. It equally enraged and terrified him.

  “She understand the life,” snarled Francesca between shakes. Her fingernails sunk into his flesh, blood oozing from the crescent marks on his hands.

  Tyler paused, his words becoming icy blocks of disgust, “No, she fucking doesn't.”

  “Yeah, right,” snorted the woman, rolling her eyes.

  “She's my high school sweetheart,” he growled, slamming Francesca against the car harder than the last few times. He tightened his hold until a whimper sifted from her lips. “She doesn't know the grit of this life.”

  Francesca's eyes widened, sudden realization slammed into her thoughts. She hardened her expression a moment later. “Well, that's not my fault!”

  Disgust peppered his thoughts. “And to think she wanted to help your sorry ass.”

  “What?”

  “She told me how that stupid fucking tat had something to do with the Torres family in Mexico or some shit.” He nodded to the rosary across her chest. Francesca's gaze darted to the blood red beads inked into her skin. Her face paled and little, incomprehensible sputters left her lips. Tyler didn't notice. He carried on with a darkening scowl, “It's supposed to belong to a family pretty well known in Mexico. They lost their daughter to an agreement with a cartel and she disappeared.”

  Francesca couldn't bring her gaze to Tyler's face. A simple gasp wafted on her lips, “What?”

  “Yeah, she figured that shit out from your stupid fucking tat,” spat Tyler, resisting the urge to slam Francesca “And she wanted to help you. We were talking about Lloyd, this morning, and getting his guarantee and everything. Fuck!”

  “I didn't–”

  “She wanted to help you, you bitch, and you handed her over to Pete!”

  “I didn't know!” She shrieked, glassiness filling her eyes.

  “Of course not, you shit, 'cause you never talked to us!” Tyler couldn't help himself. His muscles tensed and he rattled her against the car.

  Francesca hung her head, her words coated with a sob. “How was I supposed to know!?”

  “You should've talked to us,” he roared. He was amazed no one from the diner came out to investigate the ruckus. Then again, Francesca didn't seem to have a great reputation in San Marta. That same reason probably deterred her from reacting violently to him. If she kicked him or bit him, who could guarantee her life? And if she died, who'd take care of her 'girls’? Francesca Munoz was stuck in a town that treated her with barely masked disdain and she couldn't do a damn thing about it.

  “I couldn't!” The woman sobbed, her mascara trailing dark lines down her eyes. “I'd be sent back to Mexico and my family would die!”

  “If you talked to us, we would have scored you a deal,” he growled. He knew it wasn't fair to keep repeating himself. Francesca was stuck in a shitty situation, from what he gathered: sold off by her fam
ily to pay for a debt and the cartel used her, and her girls, as drug mules to dealers. If she didn't do what she was told, the cartel would carve her family up. She was stuck between a razor edge and a hard place.

  How was she supposed to truly know what they could have done for her? The woman bowed her head farther, tears dribbling down her cheeks. She sniffled loudly, her grip on Tyler's knuckles slackened.

  An upbeat pop song cleaved through the air, interrupting Tyler and Francesca. He paused, his mind shifting gears. The ringing, the incessant music, was a cellphone. Not his prepaid, though. It screamed from somewhere. Where? His eyes drifted down Francesca's body, until he noticed the squareish shape pressed into the pocket on her hip.

  “Get that,” he snarled, nodding to her phone.