Wild & Free_A Motorcycle Club Romance_Burning Angels MC

by Claire St. Rose

  She shook her head, a new round of sobs emerging. “I can’t.”

  He ran to kneel in front of her, grabbing her by the shoulders. “I’m not leaving you here. You’re not safe here anymore. You have to come with me.”

  Her watery eyes appraised him, and after a moment she nodded, so imperceptibly he thought he’d imagined it. He helped her to her feet. “Pack whatever you can. Fill a bag. But hurry.”

  She shuffled off into the bedroom, hands fisted in her hair. He heard her rummaging around in there while he frantically grabbed the last few things he could think of needing—his new toothbrush, some avocados from the fridge—and then slipped his gun into the waist of his jeans. He winced, pain shooting through him. He looked down at his waist band and saw a tiny bloodstain at the side of his waist.

  “Fuck.” He shrugged a loose t-shirt on, followed by his leather jacket. He poked his head into her bedroom. She’d just tugged a loose shirt on over dark leggings. A backpack lay mostly empty on top of the bed.

  “What can I help you pack?”

  She nodded toward the bathroom. “Go grab my stuff from in there.”

  He raced into the bathroom, grabbing as many toiletries as he could, and came back, stuffing them into the backpack. She had shoved a few more items in there, and after a bit more hunting, she zipped the bag up.

  He grabbed her hand, guiding her into the kitchen. “Any valuables you need to take or hide?”

  She laughed bitterly. “None to speak of.”

  He slung his own backpack over his shoulder and headed for the door, pausing to look over at Tony. He grimaced, pulling Dakota close.

  “I can’t believe he’s dead,” she whispered, tears clogging her voice.

  Bo kissed the top of her head. “Come on. Let’s keep moving.” They headed out of the apartment, locking the door behind them, and then thudded through the hall toward the parking lot. Bo beelined for the motorcycle, which he’d hid in a thicket of tall bushes near the building. He wheeled it out slowly, his breath growing more labored the more he exerted himself.

  Once the bike faced the parking lot, he slung a leg over, making the Harley roar to life. He helped Dakota stow their bags into the back bag of the bike, and then she hopped on, cinching her arms tight around his waist. Pain zipped through him, stealing his breath. Something was seriously wrong—but now was not the time to look into it.

  “Not so tight, darlin’,” he gasped, patting her hands. She loosened her grip and he took a shaky breath, focusing on a dull patch of the asphalt parking lot. Had to get his bearings before they zoomed off. Make the pounding in his head lessen even just a little bit.

  “Come on,” she said after a minute.

  “I’m going.” He popped the kick-stand and revved the bike. They lurched into motion, the whoosh of air helping to clear his mind. After a minute the pain dulled to distant throb. He’d been hit, no doubt, by one of those bullets. Maybe just a glaze, or maybe something way deeper. There was no way to tell without really examining the wound, and seeing down into your own hip was hard. He’d been shot enough to know that most bullet wounds felt the same.

  He eased onto the side street leading to Dakota’s apartment, then stopped to wait for a right turn onto the main thoroughfare. NO bikes around, no tail…they were in the clear, for now at least. No doubt those guys had tailed Tony, quietly and secretly, and gunned the place down just to make a point. If they’d really known Bo was inside, they would have stormed the place and taken him for dead. But this attack seemed more like dick-swinging; a statement that would make its way back to Bo, one way or the other.

  They weren’t done hunting him.

  ***

  Dakota pressed the side of her face against Bo’s back, tears brushed away as soon as they touched the wind whipping around them. Anger roiled alongside confusion, and the roar of the motorcycle only stoked her further.

  Where the fuck are you even going? What is happening?

  The thoughts rolled like a marquee through her head. The boulevards and traffic around her were a distant blur as she fought to process what she’d just witnessed. A drive-by shooting. The words alone made shivers run through her, despite the dry heat.

  Bo slowed to a stop at a red light, dropping his feet to the road. He turned to look at her. “You doin’ okay?”

  “No, I’m not doin’ okay,” she spat, the venom and mocking in her tone surprising even her. Leave her to stew on the back of a bike for ten minutes after a murder and things got ugly. “What the fuck kind of life do you lead, anyway?”

  He deflated a little, but otherwise didn’t react. “This shit isn’t normal. I told you, they’re hunting me.”

  “Yeah, and at what cost? Innocent people like Tony?” She scoffed, unwrapping her arms from him, not wanting to even touch him. “Why don’t you just turn yourself in?”

  He didn’t turn to face her but the air grew tense around him, like the air before a thunderstorm. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “No, I know perfectly well.” She crossed her arms defiantly. “You’re a fugitive, and my life has turned to shit since you showed up.”

  The Harley roared forward and she grabbed onto him instinctively, tightening her arms around his waist. He’d taken off extra fast, maybe because he was pissed. He shifted beneath her, but she remembered a moment too late that he’d asked her not to hang on so tight.

  Bo swerved a little in the upcoming traffic, a maneuver that made her breath draw tight into her throat. He straightened but then drifted to the right, heading for the curb. She furrowed a brow, wondering what this new style of navigation was, until she realized he wasn’t in control.

  The front tire of the bike bumped the curb, grinding metal against cement until the wheel caught the lip and launched over the side of the road. She opened her mouth to scream but it happened too fast for anything to come out—a flash of green, the crunch of metal, the heavy fist of fear in her chest that preceded the sickening crunch into a tree on the side of the road.

  Dakota flew from the bike, sailing onto the slick grass like she’d been ejected from a roller coaster. She landed hard, the breath escaping her, pinching her eyes shut for a long time before she felt brave enough to open them.

  She groaned a little, testing her limbs, finding everything okay. She opened one eye, then another—no bones jutting through skin. No ribs poking out into the late morning air.

  She drew a shaky breath and pushed herself up onto her elbows. The bike leaned against the tree like maybe he’d sat it there intentionally. Bo lay sprawled on the grass not far from her, on his back, looking limp as a rag doll.

  Dakota scrambled to her hands and knees, rushing over to him. She shook his arm. “Bo. Are you okay?”

  His head lolled to the side, dirt streaked along his face. She swallowed hard, tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth, and shook him again. “Bo. Come on. Wake up.”

  She scanned his body for injuries, anything that might have knocked him out from pain or otherwise. He looked whole but scuffed up. His jacket splayed open, revealing the light button-up underneath. A strange stain at the bottom corner tugged at her attention. She leaned forward to inspect it and then gasped.

  Dark blood seeped from somewhere, enough to stain the edge of his shirt and the right pocket of his jeans. Fear streaked through her, mouth hung open with disbelief. She pushed up his shirt a little, peering to find the source of the wound.

  She lifted the waist of his jeans and a gnarly gash greeted her, dark bloody and jagged. It was a bullet wound, though she’d never seen one up close before. It had to be—there nothing else that could have injured him like that on their tumble.

  Panic overtook her, mind swirling with a thousand possibilities. She’d never handled anything like this before—hell, she didn’t even know how to handle a concussed person, which probably he was. Maybe she should call Red. Bo needed this club brothers, and she was the only way to reach them. Otherwise, what? She’d leave him here to blee
d out? Or wake up alone and confused?

  You could leave now, you know. The suggestion was a dark whisper in her head. Just leave him and get away now. Let him deal with it. This is his mess.

  If she left now, she could bolt. Just escape town, find a new job, start over somewhere else altogether.

  Los Angeles wasn’t doing her too many favors so far. She could just cut her losses and get the fuck out of dodge.

  She squeezed his shoulder, scanning his face for some sign of life. The dark stubble on his jaw highlighted its model-grade squareness. His cocky lips were in a thin line, and for a brief second she was desperate to see him smile again, to elicit a laugh from him.

  “Bo.” She swallowed a knot of tears in her throat, dragging her fingers over his shoulder. “Bo, I’m so sorry.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Bo awoke with a start, eyes shooting open like they’d been spring-loaded. Life gushed into him, the vestiges of his strange sleepy dream fading fast. He balled his hands into fists, stretching out, a yawn overtaking him.

  As he stretched, pain niggled at his hip, stealing his breath for a moment. He winced, hands moving to his lower right belly, clutching at the waist of his jeans. The image of Dakota flashed through his mind, the perfectly-painted arc of her smile, the way those green eyes seared through him whenever he looked at her.

  Where are you? Part of him was disappointed she wasn’t beside him in his big bed. Maybe that would have been hoping for too much.

  Memories flooded back: the shoot-out at Dakota’s apartment. Jumping to protect her from the spray of bullets. The tiny shell that had nicked him in the line of defense.

  Bo rubbed his face before he pushed up to sitting. So he’d been brought back to the clubhouse. His gaze drifted over the familiar contours of his bedroom; the creaky dark wood floor, the antique wooden dresser, the locker in the far corner full of his guns. Someone had drawn the curtains, but sunlight peeked through. Maybe he hadn’t been out long. Or maybe it had been days.

  He groaned, pushing off his bed, struggling to remember how he’d gotten here. He and Dakota had been on the way here when—what happened? He squinted at the floorboards, like the answer might be somewhere in there. He’d passed out from blood loss, or something like it. The pain when Dakota clutched at him had been glaring white, and then—

  And then darkness.

  He let his head fall into his hands, more moments flooding his memory. Dakota’s words still rang in his ears: my life has turned to shit since you showed up.

  He had to find her. Find out what happened, exactly, to both of them.

  Bo’s bedroom door creaked open and Turbo poked his head in, his bald head gleaming despite the low lighting of the room. “Hey, brother! You’re awake.”

  Bo forced a small smile, gesturing for him to come in. “Just trying to get up and figure out what the fuck is going on.”

  “You were knocked out pretty good.” Turbo came inside the room, shutting the door behind him. The club had a closed-door policy, something that all the brothers agreed benefited both negotiations and sexual relations.

  Bo nodded, taking stock of his interior environment. His belly growled, but he felt pretty fine otherwise. Gunshot wounds aside. “Did I hit anything?”

  “Didn’t look like it. We think you passed out from the slug. It was in there pretty deep.”

  Bo’s hand went to his side. “Did Marty take it out?”

  Turbo nodded. Marty was the resident club nurse, though he’d only worked as a paramedic in his previous life. Still, it was good enough for the club needs. And anything he didn’t know, he YouTube’d. “It was a pretty clean gash, once we got all the dirt out. Probably hurts like a bitch, though.”

  Bo winced, pushing to standing. He wobbled with the change of pressure, hand still on his side. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Course you will.” Turbo grinned.

  A soft knock sounded on the door, and then it creaked open. Marty poked his head in, followed by Butch and Yeti. Bo waved them in, and they came inside whooping and hollering.

  “The boss is up!” Yeti, a tall brute of a man, named exactly for his resemblance to the mythical hairy creature, came to his side, slapping him so hard on the shoulder it made him cough. Butch tousled his hair, which made Bo reach out to shove him. They’d always had a big-brother-little-brother thing going on, and Butch used Bo’s weakness right now to exploit it.

  Bo laughed, the bed creaking as the brothers sat down beside him.

  “Came to give el presidente some updates,” Yeti said, the bed sagging under his weight. He’d been growing his hair out in recent times, so it looked like a 1970’s mess.

  “Where’s Dakota?” His voice came out weak, but it wasn’t from the bullet wound. He was scared to find out she’d bolted. That their freaky morning at her apartment was the last he’d ever see of her.

  A grin spread over Marty’s face. “You mean the sexy tatted girl?”

  Bo narrowed his eyes. “Yeah.”

  “She’s out with the guys,” Yeti said, squeezing his shoulder. “We’re taking care of her.”

  Territorialism licked through him, alongside relief. So she hadn’t bolted the first chance she got. Maybe she’d stuck around because she cared. He straightened, barely noticing the strain in his low gut. “Don’t fuck around. Keep it cool with her. We’ve got a thing.”

  “A thing?” Butch’s gritty laugh echoed through the bedroom. “Yeah, I figured. Few days holed up with anyone might get a ‘thing’ going.”

  Bo rolled his eyes, easing to standing. “I’m going to find her.”

  “Boss, take it easy. Just rest,” Marty said, face growing serious.

  “Did I have a concussion?” Bo asked, looking down at Marty. Marty shook his head. “Then I’m fine. I’m going to go talk to her.”

  “Hey.” Turbo grabbed Bo’s arm before he left the room. “She told us about Tony.”

  Sadness trickled through him. Tony had been a good guy—it wasn’t fair that he got caught in the crosshairs.

  “He must have been trailed going to Dakota’s apartment,” Bo said, his voice lowering. “He was closer to the window when they shot. He died immediately.”

  His brothers nodded, a respectful silence filling the room. “He came here first before he went to visit you. He must have been tailed by someone from here. Probably Ray,” Turbo said.

  “Ever since he left the club, he’s been itching to come for us.” Yeti shook his head, balling his fists. “I wanna beat that guy so bad.”

  “Which means there’s no doubt about it. Demon Seed has to be behind these attacks,” Turbo said. “They must have linked you to the killing of their president.”

  Bo sighed. Taking out their president had been more of a necessity than a desire—that club was unraveling at the seams, and every day operated more like a guerrilla warfare faction than a socially-responsible MC. But he’d known going in that the blowback might circle back to his club.

  “We’re gonna lay low,” Butch said, clapping Bo’s back as they filed out of the room. Bo winced as he walked down the hallway, the clamor of voices and music growing louder as he neared the main area of the clubhouse.

  As soon as he entered the grand room of the clubhouse, cheers erupted. Smiling faces of the rest of his brothers and a whole slew of club friends and a coupe hired girls greeted him, most in various states of inebriation. He wasn’t dumb enough to think they were all here to celebrate him finally emerging from his bedroom—no, it was simply a Friday night, and this sort of gathering was par for the course at the clubhouse.

  He didn’t need to search the scene to find Dakota. His gaze natural gravitated toward her, without even knowing where she was. Like he had a secret GPS, just for her. A shiver coursed through him as he made his way to her, her back still turned to him as she sat at the long wooden bar.

  Friends and brothers clapped his shoulder as he wove through the crowd. A couple blonde angels—the pet name for the girls who liked to hang around th
e clubhouse and hook up with the brothers, no matter their hair color—petted and stroked him as he passed, purring at him to find them later.

  He shook them off, gaze never wavering from Dakota. She hugged a tumbler between her hands, flanked on both sides by two aspiring members, younger guys who were still in the initiation phase of maybe joining the club.

  The prospect to her right moved his hand to the small of her back, a couple fingers sneaking under the hem of her shirt. His chest tightened and jealousy flared like a dragon. Bo grabbed the prospect by the collar, dragging him away from her.

  “Don’t fucking touch her.” He tightened his grip, bringing his mouth to his ear. “Get the fuck out of here,” he growled, pushing him away. Part of it was mere theatrics—that was the point of being a prospect, finding out if they could handle the rough rigor of being a member—but also he wanted to make a point. Dakota was his.