by Lana Grayson
I couldn’t let her return to Thorne.
She was the only reason I didn’t lose myself to insanity and rush to help Luke.
I smacked her, missing her ass and striking her hip. “It’s not safe! Out the back!”
Rose took the hint. We half-crawled, half-sprinted through the main floor and into my halls. She hopped to her feet first, helping me as Lash’s punch still scattered my head. I struck the wall. Rose steadied me.
“Lyn, you okay?” Her voice screamed and whispered in my head. Suddenly there were two of her, and that sucked. More to protect. “Let me help you.”
I needed either a tumbler or gun for a shot. It wouldn’t have helped. My car keys were in my purse, trapped inside the club. We were stuck.
The last time we got caught in a shootout at Sorceress, Exorcist shot Brew, stole Rose, and my club nearly burned down. Thorne blitzed through an entire line of Coup assholes to grab a bike and chase them down.
Today wouldn’t have such a happy ending. We had nowhere to hide. We escaped outside, but morning broke through the desert like another punch to the head. I dressed in fucking electric purple, and Rose still wore red from her show. The Coup would have a perfect shot a two neon figures sprinting across the desert.
I stared at the parking lot. “Don’t know how to hotwire a car, do you?”
Rose had the decency to look shamed. “Would you think less of me?”
“Christ, sweetheart, I know why Thorne loves you now.”
“I really hope it’s not just for this.”
She bolted towards the vehicle of her choice. I shouted after her, my feet moving slower than my head. I wasn’t used to being uncoordinated or falling to my knees when it wasn’t my choice.
“That’s not my car!”
Rose jerked open the door to Keep’s truck. “Yours is too new. This one is easier.”
“How do you know?”
She bit her lip. “I’ve…stolen his truck before.”
Of course she had.
I said nothing, leaping into the passenger side as she ripped panels out and ducked under the steering column. My vision blurred. This wasn’t good. Never got a concussion from a blow to the head before. I was glad he hadn’t hit harder. Might have been a different outcome.
Rose swore, but the engine rumbled to life. She jammed the truck into gear, mastering the stick as easily as she rode a bike. The tires spun over loose gravel, but she didn’t slow, accelerating around the building as the fight spilled into the parking lot. She braced for the road.
We both screamed as a thud shuddered the truck. The driver’s door ripped open, and Keep shoved her over the console. We nearly wrecked into Sorceress’s fence.
“Ask for the fucking key next time!” He yelled. The truck stalled as Rose crawled over the seat. Keep took over, starting the engine and aiming for the idiot Coup prospect diving in front of us. “You two okay?”
Rose peeked out the window. Keep and I ducked over her as a rage of gunfire aimed for the truck.
Keep swore. “God damn it, I just fixed this motherfucker!”
“Where’s Thorne?” Rose clutched the seat.
“We didn’t stop to chat.”
I knew better than to ask about Luke. That dread didn’t blend well with the concussion. My head throbbed, my stomach twisted, and Luke had pushed me out of the club with his hands still bound and Thorne aiming to kill.
We were lucky we got out alive.
If Luke lived, it’d be a damned miracle.
Keep led the truck towards the city without regard to speed limits or where he jerked the wheels between the lines. He aimed for the double yellow. Missed. Swerved. Rose shouted again.
“Are you high?” She gripped his arm as the truck shuddered over the rumble strip. “Goddamn it, Tristan. You’re out of control!”
Not the time I’d bring the addiction up. Keep didn’t think so either.
“I got it. I’m fine,” he said.
“You’re not fine! You just told everyone about Dad!”
“Shut up, Bud. I can’t concentrate with you screamin’ all the damn time—”
“You told them Brew was my real father!”
His words sharpened. “No, I didn’t!”
Well, everyone figured it out, and no ten year old pick-up truck would outrun both clubs once they realized Blade Darnell died because he molested the girl he raised as a favor to his eldest son. Anathema was down a VP and The Coup lost an ally to buy off Temple. All we gained was revenge for Brew and a chance for Rose to sleep better at night. She deserved to be safe, but it risked everyone else’s lives.
“You just caused a war!” She beat on his arm. “What if they learn Brew’s not dead?”
“They won’t!”
“How could you do this?”
“Fucking hell, Rose, they threatened you!”
“Everyone threatens me! You should be used to it!”
The truck jerked into the correct lane before it clipped an opposing vehicle. “I won’t let any asshole threaten to rape my sister…niece…whatever the fuck you are. It doesn’t matter. Brew got to kill Dad. This is how I’ll help you!”
It would have sounded magnanimous if the bruises on his arm hadn’t spoken for him. Keep’s bravery existed in one hundred dollar bursts. He slammed a frustrated hand against the wheel. The truck slipped from his control. It wavered over the road.
We shouldn’t have let him drive.
Adrenaline pumped the junk faster through his veins. Whatever he popped didn’t steady his hands or feet. He stared at the road with dilated pupils and jammed the wheel too roughly to pass a car.
Rose gripped my hand. We were in just as much danger with Keep driving as we were in the club.
I checked the mirrors. Groaned. A lone bike chased us, gaining too quick on the truck. Desert surrounded us, trapped us in desperate isolation for another two miles before we hit the city limits. The highway ran straight.
No turns. No places to hide.
Just flat, dusty, pounded dirt—perfect to bleach our chopped up bones in the scorching sun.
“Gun in the glove box.” Keep pointed. The truck edged off the road with his motion. “Grab it, Lyn.”
And this was what it came down to.
More bullets.
More war.
The same violent massacres over and over.
The Coup heard everything they needed to hear, and Luke had no control over the assholes who drew blood when they should have formed an alliance.
The bike roared closer. I kicked open the glove box for the handgun. Keep shouted.
“Rose—get your fucking head down!”
He grabbed for her, striking too hard on her neck. She shouted. He lurched.
The truck veered sharply to the right, careening out of control. He twisted the wheel too fast and hard to recover.
I clung to the door, pressing against the dash.
It did nothing to steady me.
The truck jerked, crunched, and launched off the road. It smacked against a ditch running parallel to the pavement. The wheel stuck. I crashed against the window, the door, Rose.
I lost my breath before I could even scream.
We flipped, tossed against the interior and crunching glass. The screeching, clashing of metal and whine of sizzling engines muffled their shouts. Burnt rubber and exhaust fumes suffocated us within the cabin.
The truck careened over the rocky desert, scattering dust and debris and chunks of the frame. A wheel bounced to the road.
Then stillness.
Quiet.
Rose’s coughing.
Keep wasn’t in the truck. He got thrown clear.
Lucky him.
The seats tore and shredded, and the sharpened springs cut my ankles. I landed right-side up, but we rested on the ceiling. The truck had teetered from its side and crashed upside down. Anything else was too blurry to make sense.
Either Rose’s foot or the dome light cracked against my head. Lash’s punc
h had battered me enough. Goddamn it. I wasn’t made for injuries. My body was my life. I lived by my legs, earned tips with my tits, and reinvented every bump of my hips with some newer, sexier dance.
Now, bruised, bleeding, and swollen, I wasn’t in any shape to fight, let alone make my living and earn my favor from the men.
I hoped it wasn’t just my body they respected.
The thought wasn’t comforting.
I wiggled my fingers, toes. Everything worked. I wasn’t too hurt.
Someone shouted. It didn’t sound like Keep, but my ears echoed only the squealing crunch of metal. I pushed myself up. Rose groaned. She was alive. One less casualty from this fucking war.
One less reason for Thorne to kill her junkie brother.
The door yanked open. I wasn’t prepared for the spotlight.
No—sunlight.
How hard did I hit my head?
Strong hands pulled me from the wreckage. I fought, but Rose moved too, stolen from the driver’s side by Keep.
Who had me?
I kicked, punched, hissed, and the motions dragged me from the soupy chaos. Arms held me. Carried me away. I twisted.
Luke’s voice was the only rumble I needed to hear.
“You okay? Lyn? Damn it, look at me!”
Mythological blue eyes stared at me, framed by golden hair and a body sculpted in leather like armor. He held me, helped me to my feet. I gripped his cut.
Blinked away tears.
I didn’t weep in pain or fear, but utter relief.
He was alive.
But the fairy-tale ended too quickly. The roar of another bike careened from the highway to the oil-drenched wreckage of our crash.
Lash hopped from his bike, his smile sluggish and half-assed. I was surprised he even held his own gun—a man like Lash was too damn lazy to jerk himself off. He had one of my dancers do it for him. Shannon lusted after the psychopath, but she liked the bruises as much as Lash liked to give them.
“Car trouble?” Lash pushed Rose from Keep’s arms and aimed his gun at his temple.
At least Keep wouldn’t feel the bullet. I rushed to help, but Luke held me firm. He called to Lash. His man ignored him in favor of the prey before him.
“Last fucking Darnell,” Lash said. “It’s a shame to put you down.”
“Then don’t.” Keep watched Rose. So did I, and I didn’t trust a goddamned thing she did. “I’m sure we could make this fight more fun, man-to-man.”
Luke cracked his hand over my mouth before I called to her.
“But this is my kind of fun.” Lash ignored Rose as she scurried backwards to the truck. I saw what she was after, but so could Lash if he looked. “I’ll kill you and I’ll kill Rose. No sense taking her to Temple now. I had no fucking idea she got ruined by your father.”
Wrong thing to say to both Darnells. She found the gun in the dirt. The weapon gleamed in her hand. Christ, I hoped Keep and Brew taught her how to shoot.
She hopped to her feet, gun raised. Luke swore and pushed me away, casting me into the dirt. He lifted his hands in brief surrender.
Rose didn’t aim for Lash. She pointed the gun at Luke.
“Don’t fucking move,” she whispered.
Lash turned, eying the trajectory and taking his chances. “You’d never hurt Lancelot, little girl.”
I wouldn’t take that bet. Rose scowled.
“That asshole kidnapped me. You think I give a damn about him?” She trembled. The gun didn’t. “But you care about your president. Drop the gun and get the hell away from my brother.”
“Is he really your brother?”
“None of your business. Get on the ground. Hands over your head.”
Lash didn’t move. “Think I’m gonna listen to a little slut like you?”
The gun fired. The bullet cracked the dirt at Luke’s feet. Either she was a bad shot or she bluffed, but the straining heartbeats between Lash’s resistant profanity and the moment his arms finally raised in surrender ached my chest.
Lash sunk to his knees. Luke waited for Rose’s instructions.
But Keep wavered on his feet and crashed then too.
“Goddamn it, Tristan.” Rose jabbed at his knee, refusing to take her eyes from Lash.
Keep jarred awake, but the blood on his nose and slur in his voice only got worse. It wasn’t an OD, but Keep was too fucking gone to be of any use to us.
Rose glanced at me for permission. At least one of us could get out of here. I nodded.
“Lash, give me the keys to your bike,” Rose ordered. He swore at her. “Now.”
The gun glimmered. Her finger tucked against the trigger. Luke growled, low and rough.
“Let her have the bike. We’ll get it back.”
Unlikely, but I wasn’t arguing. Lash tossed her the keys. She trained the gun on Luke and hauled Keep to his feet. No way he was riding her out of the ditch.
And he’d never live this rescue down.
Rose forced him onto the bike and snuggled in front of him, threading the engine and lowering the gun only once they rode to the asphalt. She removed the clip from the gun and handed it to Keep. He dropped it before she rode him out of the crash.
My heart ached a little less now that she was safe.
Lash swore in the dirt. He punched the ground and probably broke a finger. It didn’t faze him.
Luke pulled me from the ground. “Call the guys. Get a ride to the safe house and stay out of sight.”
“You fucking kidding me?” Lash spat blood.
Luke forced me to his bike. I might have argued if I hadn’t nearly tripped over my own feet.
“ATF was following Lyn. Once they hear of the fight, every fucking Fed who ever vacationed on the West Coast will set up camp in the Valley. Get a ride and tell the guys to find somewhere safe for the night.”
“Where the fuck are you going?”
Lash stepped too close. Luke didn’t hit him. His voice deepened—a challenge of authority that’d slay the bastard where he stood.
“I’m getting Lyn out of here before ATF hauls her in. She talks, and we’re all fucked.”
“Better kill her.”
I flipped him off. “Then I’ll see you in hell.”
Luke had more patience than me. He helped me to the bike—borrowed from one of his men. I gripped him as it burst to life and blitzed onto the road.
I waited until Lash couldn’t see before resting my head against Luke’s back.
Maybe it was weakness. Maybe it was dangerous. But the only thing I needed was to hold onto him, feel his warmth, and know that we survived for another round of bloodshed and horror.
I clung to his strength and savored this spicy, cedar scent as we rode. No idea where we’d find any safety, but, for the first time, I let a man take me home.
And on the brink of war, it was the first, last, and only time I’d let him stay.
My head throbbed. My body bruised. Only my heart ached more.
Broken. Terrified.
Offered—to the only man who would both protect it and destroy it.
He didn’t break into my home this time. I welcomed him.
But I passed out before he carried me over the threshold.
Lyn wasn’t badly hurt, but I suffered her every scratch, bruise, and swelling.
It was my fault.
Lyn was too beautiful for scars, and she knew it. She’d remember every strike, every reason for the pain.
So would I.
I never met a woman like her before. She wasn’t as unbreakable as she believed, didn’t have to be as independent as she thought, and never should have faced two biker clubs with a shotgun to defend her territory.
She fought because she didn’t dare ask for help, and she leapt into the fight so no would accuse her of being afraid. But there was no shame in fear. Recognizing fear kept people alive when guns pointed and trucks rolled. It also pumped my heart through my own pain while I rescued the only woman I couldn’t live without.
&n
bsp; Lyn either slept or the world got fed up with her bullshit. I carried her to the bed, and she nestled almost peacefully in the white sheets. I didn’t envy her headache. She’d probably castrate me, but I hunted through her bathroom for aspirin and stole a bottle of water from her fridge. She didn’t wake when I place it on her nightstand.
Now what?
I was finally at her side, the only place I wanted to be and exactly where I didn’t belong. It wasn’t safe for either of us here, but I wasn’t leaving until she woke—until I knew she could take care of herself if my mistake turned into a massacre. Unfortunately, I didn’t have my cell, and, judging by her friends at ATF, calling from her home phone was too risky.
Then again, what did I have to return to? War. Bloodshed.
Lyn tucked in the bed. It was a vision of heaven, and she patrolled those sheets like the devil. I’d suffer the crack of her whip just for having such thoughts, but Christ, I’d take any punishment if it ended with us tangled, wrapped in each other.
We might have enjoyed that sin and made our own paradise.
I settled beside her. My weight shifted the bed. Lyn rolled, and I braced for her to wake with a profanity and slap. Instead, she cradled against me, rested a hand on my chest, and slept.
If only Anathema knew a head injury was the easiest way to tame Lyn. Thorne might have smacked her with a 2x4 years ago.
A year had passed since she first let me touch her, kiss her, sheath inside her. Those tiny moments fueled a thousand thoughts, stirring my blood for an entire goddamned year. I remembered her scent. Felt her touch. Savored the memories of her body.
We wasted time.
She was right. I was a martyr. Idealistic. A fool. I spent my life chasing ideals that had never been as real as the feelings I had for her.
Lyn slept next to me, black and blue but unbroken. Even struck with a bruise on her cheek, she was still the most beautiful woman I ever saw—or paid money to see.
She knew it too, but that was no secret. Her beauty, her strength made her untouchable. Confidence was sexy in a woman until she used it to collar the man who wanted to love her. I’d never trust her with that leash, but she’d never trust herself unless she held it.
Her hair covered her face. I brushed the blonde locks away. My finger grazed her skin. The softness of her cheek was rivaled only in the swell of her chest or the bump of her hips. Every part of her perfect, dangerous, and honed to drive a man like me to my knees.