by Lana Grayson
Martini’s nails dug into my jacket.
Just what I needed. Not only did they see me, they saw Martini—the feisty little blonde who ruled the world with the mischief of her smile. She talked big about bruises and fists, but getting beat on by a drunken boyfriend was nothing compared to getting buried up to her neck in the desert for the scorpions to sting and the elements to scorch.
If she even made it to the desert.
Temple trafficked more than drugs, and the men transporting kidnapped women wouldn’t stop to buy them a milkshake because they got bored on the trip across the state lines.
For five miles my mirrors reflected only the flicker of lightning bearing down over our escape. Our luck didn’t last long. I swore as three pinpricks of light crested a hill behind us.
They chased, but I’d be damned if my end came with a hammer imbedded in my skull. Not before I had my revenge. Not before I got Martini to safety.
The fuckers could do whatever got them off as long as they did it to me. Capture me. Threaten me. Beat my miserable hide until they wore the ink off my skin. But I’d break their necks with my bare hands if they even looked at Martini again.
Rose was enough. I wasn’t about to damn another woman in my own cowardice and abandonment.
I didn’t take my eyes from the road. “Hang on!”
Martini shrieked as the bike tore through the asphalt and burst onto the highway. The late-night truckers disguised my presence. I wove between the trailers, ducking into and out of streaks of red brake lights as I turned my headlight off. Martini ducked against my back.
“What are you doing?” She cried.
The few streetlights dimmed a yellowish haze over the road, and the approaching storm lit the rest. It was enough to see, and I’d traveled through worse. Speeding border to border in the middle of the night—no lights, no stops. I raced the darkness, the police, the DEA, and whatever half-cocked meth-head MCs might have followed. Except then, I had night vision glasses. Kevlar. No sweet-tart passenger grinding against my back whenever my bike bounced on the pavement.
I didn’t trust the roads here. I usually studied the maps and researched the best routes. I had to learn the dangerous areas where the police and feds lurked, baiting the runners. Riding blind at my speed tempted fate, and I wore out my welcome at death’s door when I escaped Anathema’s retribution.
Martini behaved herself, but Christ only knew if she’d freak and topple us both. I wasn’t about to dump the bike or let the cocksuckers get anywhere close to me, and she wasn’t about to let go. The squeeze of her arms was the first honest reaction I got out of her, but she didn’t show her fear. What the hell was she worried about with Kingdom? Unless they were looking to become the first eunuch MC, they’d leave her the fuck alone.
I saw an exit. It was safer off the highway. More places to hide, more streets to cross, more places to stash the girl before something terrible happened. She predicted it, and she was right. I’d never handle another rape on my conscience.
I slowed as much as I dared, ran the red-light at the base of the onramp, and pushed the bike through a half mile of darkened wilderness so close to the road I ducked to avoid the overhanging branches.
My profanity roared louder than the engines, harsher than the thunder. Headlights appeared behind me, matching the cast of white I was forced to flick on. The splash of brightness before my bike would prevent us from ramming into a tree, but it led Temple right to us.
I wanted them to come. The only skill needed to escape a highway was the instinct to not fall off and splatter my brains on the pavement. I ruled the streets beyond the interstate, speeding through enough small towns to earn my position as Anathema’s Road Captain before my promotion to Sergeant-At-Arms.
I had two options. A green sign flashed by. We were seven miles from a town. I debated tracking through the backwoods and wasting a prayer that the assholes didn’t ride the roads better and the rain would hold off.
I swore. It was time to take control of the fucking situation and protect the girl before she switched from collateral into casualty.
I should have turned left from the exit instead of right.
I’d fix that.
“Hold on!” I shouted as the bike screeched to a halt and spun to face Temple’s pursuit.
Martini hadn’t fallen off the back, but she screamed as I pulled my gun from the holster.
“Might want to close your eyes, Darling.”
My tires spun in loose gravel cast over the road, but the bike responded as beautifully as it always had, even when I did something so fucking stupid I mistook myself for my junkie brother.
The night opened for me, leading me to the three lone headlights speeding to intercept us. It was modern day joust for men who lacked all chivalry. I pulled my gun and aimed, but I regretted taking the shot. Three men in the darkness, and only one had to die. Only one saw me. Only one might have recognized me.
Martini flinched, ducking her head behind my protective shoulder. Three months ago, I took a gunshot to save another innocent girl. I’d do it again. No one was going to harm Martini, not when she needed my help.
I pushed the bike forward. Thirty miles an hour.
Forty.
Fifty.
My gun fired.
The shattering roar of the shots muffled even the baying of our engines. My second bullet struck on target, and the bike dumped onto the road, spinning in flashing orange sparks against the berm. A lane opened, and I gambled with both our lives.
I sped into the split formation, emptying the clip as I wove through the chaos. The return fire came too late, striking only the uneven road and swirling shadows that bound behind us.
I raced until the bike wobbled over corners and through the untamed woods. Martini shifted, but her hold never loosened.
“They aren’t following!” She shouted
Good. Life wasn’t about saving my own ass anymore. The only thing safer than a loaded gun was miles separating us from the danger.
Her nails dug into my coat. It wasn’t where I preferred women to sink their nails if I let them claw at me. Most times, they sunk into the mattress and kept their arms over their head. Tied back. Gripping the headboard. They liked it. I liked it.
The thought sickened me now.
Especially as Martini clung to me on the verge of poorly-concealed tears. Fading adrenaline hardened a cock, but something far more sinister clouded my lust.
Bad blood created bad blood. I’d be damned if I acted out any more of my father’s perversions.
I didn’t slow. The reflected light in my mirrors might have been the moon, the two remaining bikes, or Anathema’s scarred demon breaking through my memories and aiming for my jugular. I wasn’t taking chances.
A twenty-four hour mini-mart was the first sign of civilized society. I didn’t pause at the stop. We blew past the intersection without an echo of Temple’s bikes. For the moment, we were alone.
Martini relaxed her hold, but her body pressed hard against me. Her relieved sigh didn’t chase away her trembling. She patted my back.
“Not enough alcohol in my flasks for this,” she said. “You should buy me a real drink if you plan any more shootouts.”
She thought she was cute.
She was right.
I turned at an intersection between a darkened shoe-store and Goodwill, but red and blue flashes of pure aggravation lit the street. I swallowed my curse. Unless they were slipped enough money to plug their ears, the cops probably heard the gunshots outside town. Now they watched the lone biker blasting through the one stoplight town.
Discriminatory bastards.
Martini twisted behind me. “Uh-oh.”
I gunned the bike before the cop realized he was in pursuit of a man who couldn’t afford a reckless driving charge. Not when I was supposed to be dead. Last thing I needed was Anathema, Temple, or the motherfucking Coup—the bastards who split from Anathema in a bloody war—realizing I still breathed.
&n
bsp; I cut through a side street and waited. The cruiser missed the turn and pressed forward, racing the wrong way. Martini swore. Two bikers chased the police, one splitting at the intersection to the right, the other chasing my invisible specter to the left. The first patters of rain struck the pavement.
“Son of a bitch.” I shoved Martini’s grip away from my throbbing shoulder and cast the bike down a second street. The roads narrowed away from the artificial glare of the used car lot and beer distributor. Thin houses with metal awnings and busted gutters lined the streets. I snuck into an alley and third road without stopping, searching only for the threat of headlights or the shrill warning of a siren.
The headlight came first.
My bike rumbled as I pushed through shadow and streetlight. I cut around an untrimmed yard and blitzed behind an elementary school. The first shots ricocheted off the road and through the siding of a decrepit split-entry. Martini’s scream laced the air, crying my name as a third and fourth echoed far too close.
I broke out onto a two-lane highway dissecting the town. The Temple fucker followed, but his control waned. The road washed with the debris from a clogged storm sewer. The bike spun out, and he dropped hard against the cement.
Just in time for the flash of police lights to crest the hill behind him.
“Jesus Christ.” I swore and pushed the throttle again. My bike surged forward, dipping into shadows. The cop leapt from his vehicle, gun drawn.
I had no idea which men went down and which one remained. It wouldn’t make a difference. A man didn’t earn a Temple rocker without bloodshed.
The main drag promised another highway entrance. I buzzed past the closed shops and broken street lights without looking behind me. Martini shouted to turn as the last bike lunged out of the darkness of a side alley.
A bullet fired, crossing over my shoulder and shattering the one storefront with enough merchandise sitting in its window to warrant a security system. Flashing lights and shrieking alarms revealed our positions to anyone with half a brain. It didn’t stop the gunfire.
We had no other options. The Temple biker had the jump on me. He fired a shot too close for comfort, too close to the unprotected woman holding my back. I juked the bike.
Martini squealed as the front wheel locked and the brakes skidded over rough roads. The bike tilted and crashed. Hard. My injured shoulder bit the ground first, and the dizzying clutch of pain punished like the bullet sliced through me again. My head cracked next. That didn’t hurt as much. Figured it would, but rolling through the dirt and sliding on the leather into a guardrail shook most of the shock off.
The man’s bike pulled up beside me.
I had too many years in the business, too many close calls in the lifestyle to deal with this bullshit.
My gun, aimed, cocked, and fired before he even raised his weapon. The body fell to the ground, crushed under his motorcycle.
He wasn’t the bastard Sergeant-At-Arms.
“Fuck.” I rose to my feet and spat. No blood on my tongue, though my head and chest scoured with daggers. I guessed that was a good sign.
Martini groaned from across the road. She hobbled onto her hands and knees. Her jacket hadn’t torn, but her jeans were either covered in mud or a bloody mess. The lightning didn’t flash to reveal it, but my stomach twisted.
She was another innocent girl caught in a bike chase, trapped in the middle of a war that hadn’t named her. It was too similar.
It was just like Rose.
I hauled her up. “Come on.”
She gripped my hand and stared with eyes rounded in panic. Her gaze hardened with each passing second. The silver cooled, stilled, and shattered, and I knew, without a doubt, I’d earn that shrapnel as soon as she caught her breath.
“We gotta lay low,” I said. “They’ll call the cops from every municipality from here to Ohio.”
I didn’t know how I talked. I didn’t know how I got on the bike, or why the damage to the frame seemed only cosmetic. I wasn’t that lucky. Had to be Martini.
The rain sheeted against the rode as I drove us to the next town through blurred vision and a ringing in my head that I’d only stop with a sharp knife. Martini was bleeding. I sure as shit couldn’t ride. The police raided the highway, and Temple scoured the town looking for the scrap of clues the cops forgot to pick up.
We needed a place to hide if only until the hornets ceased buzzing and the rain stopped falling.
A neon yellow sign advertised a motel. It paid by the hour, but I wasn’t worth a good room. Martini held on tight as I parked and stashed the bike behind the enclosed dumpster.
Every movement dug that reaper’s scythe deeper into my flesh. I leaned on the door to the lobby and forced my way inside. Martini’s quick steps scampered beside me. I tossed a handful of wet twenties at the acne-scarred college bro staring at us through bloodshot eyes.
“There’s two hundred.” I grunted. “Put down any fucking name. Tell anyone we’re here, and I’ll cut out your tongue.”
The kid reached for the lobby phone and paled. Martini hopped onto the counter, too petite to lean over without kicking her feet off the ground.
“Hi.” Her voice purred like a cat in heat. “We had a little scrap on the road. Lost control of the bike, can you believe it?”
She bit her lip, but the streak of dirt over her cheek, nose, and forehead dampened her charm. Her hair smoothed behind her ear, dripping wet. She appeared little, lost, and frightened, and I wondered how the fuck the clerk didn’t immediately call the police.
“Can you get us a room? We’d like to clean up?”
“I...” He swallowed, glancing from her to me. “I can call an ambulance?”
I didn’t want to shoot my gun again, but Martini laughed. Her sweetness burned away any of the road grime and mud in her hair.
The kid melted.
“No ambulance. We have bad insurance.” She winked. “Don’t worry about us. I’ll take care of him.”
He tossed a key on the counter. “Uh…Room Three. Be out by eleven.”
She grabbed the key and bathed the boy in a smile so sensual he blushed. “Thanks, sweetie. You’re a lifesaver.”
Martini took my arm and forced me to follow. The room wasn’t much, but the instant the door closed every nerve ending in my body exploded in a bombardment of pain. She locked and chained the door. I pointed to the windows and collapsed onto the bed.
“Curtains.” My patient voice was a gift, one not stolen by the scream of profanity hailing my mind. “Turn out the lights.”
Everything burned, ached, and throbbed. The mattress cradled me about as good as the gravel on the highway. But a bed was a bed. I didn’t care if the world spun itself into oblivion as long as I got to rest.
The phone in my pocket vibrated. The new message flashed white on the too-bright screen. I read the message before I realized it was more painful than the burn of the road.
I sang @ a real club 2night! My big brother should watch the video. You’ll be proud!
She meant it when she signed the text—<3 Rose.
It was easier to face the uncertainty of passing out in a shady motel with the cops and a murderous MC prowling the streets for me than it was to reply to the message.
I shoved the phone in my pocket.
Then I welcomed the black.
Run.
The hotel room was too quiet after the roar of the road and the crack of gunshots and thunder.
I had to find somewhere safe to stay, a place where I could wash the blood off and hide from the most terrifying mistake of my life.
The sugar crash caught me first. Then the shock. Then the crippling, nauseating fear.
I spent ten minutes in the bathroom heaving up every scream I swallowed on the road. I used the next ten to scrub Route 19 out of my legs. Cleaning up after a disaster came as easily to me as closing my bar. I wasn’t about to panic yet. Now wasn’t the time to whimper about the crash, surrender to the brutal freaks that chased us,
or worry about the man who saved me by murdering two bikers.
Worse things had happened to me in the past. Hell, worse injuries and crashes too. I lived with Sacrilege long enough to understand what scars were earned and which were self-inflicted.
I loved the club. I loved the bikes. I loved every single thing about the lifestyle and the road and the family built within the ranks. It was Goliath I didn’t love, and, Christ, did he make it hard to leave.
I edged out of the bathroom. My warden-turned-hero passed out on the bed. He hadn’t managed to pull himself onto the mattress. Both of his legs hung over the side. His leather was beat too. Scratched and torn and probably covering a dozen bruises on his muscular form.
He took the brunt of the crash. I heard him strike the guard rail, but the gunshot was all that echoed in my ears now.
I didn’t know who Noir was.
I had never heard of Temple MC.
I doubted Kingdom would care about our accident.
The mysteries tied into a knot bigger than the one tangling my stomach. Everyone was in so far over their heads they’d be lucky to keep it attached to their neck once everything went south.
I had to leave. It was my only option. As always, I had a plan. And maybe I cracked my head on the road, but I saw my opportunity.
I’d run.
I’d get far away from Kingdom and Sacrilege while Red found the money to buy my freedom back.
I’d call Sam. Tell him about the crash. About Noir dumping the bike. Then I’d lie and tell Sam Noir died on the side of the road. I just barely managed to crawl to a hotel where I tended to my wounds and survived the raging concussion blasting at my head.
If Noir resurfaced, I’d claim I didn’t have time to take a pulse, what with the police and multi-mile shootout targeting my back. If he didn’t...then it all worked out. I’d escape, he’d clear his conscience of trafficking a woman club to club, and Kingdom would eventually get their money.
A win was a win, and I was so tired of losing.
I grabbed my bag, but it hurt just to swing it onto my shoulder. The bed looked inviting with the more injuries I discovered. But I raced the ticking clock and the frantic clutch of my heart. Both pounded entirely too fast.