Out for the Count

by Michele Mannon

  Her eyes brightened. Briefly. Before flashing full of a pain so deep, it felt like a kick in the head. “She was murdered. They never caught the guy.”

  Jesus Christ. “Shit. I’m—”

  “It’s something you never get over, you just learn how to deal with it. She was my world for so long. I’ve tried to be strong. To be like her, and watch over the boys. But it seems each time we all come out from behind the sadness, disaster happens. Round and round we go.”

  He wound his free hand around her waist and tugged her in close.

  “You trying to break the cycle? That’s why you’re running?”

  She stiffened, then let out a long sigh. “Yeah, part of it.”

  “There’s a part two?” Goddamn it. A guy. “Someone break your heart? A fool back home.”

  He heard her snort. “Not exactly.”

  Patience wasn’t his strong suit but he did his best to curb his curiosity. A thousand different scenarios ran through his head. He settled on one. “The wholesome, all-American sort, right? Button-down shirts, preppy belts and leather loafers.”

  She wiggled out of his arms.

  “A tea-sipping, biscuit-eating gentleman. A Walter the Third, just the type of prephead you would go for, huh? A Southern gentleman who wouldn’t know the first thing about handling a Creampuff like you.” Jesus. Turning, he wanted nothing better to do than jump on the bike and end the flood of unidentifiable emotion churning up inside of him. Jealousy—no fucking way.

  “You’re a hundred times the man he could ever be.”

  He stiffened.

  She clutched his arm and gave it a tug. A hard one, no gentle Southern miss here. “He’s part of the reason I need to win in Vegas. My family business has had some trouble. The bastard plans on riding in and bailing us out. Not from the goodness of his heart, mind you. He and his family have been trying to take over our business for generations.”

  He turned to find the anger in her tone matched that of her entire being. She practically shook from it.

  “I was duped. When he first came back from college, he seemed like a changed man. Still, my brother Aiden nearly killed him when he found out we’d been dating. A good thing I never told him about...” She pressed her lips together, her gaze falling on the Harley.

  “About what?” he demanded.

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re a shitty liar, Creampuff. It’s something. What?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I took care of things, then left him and Savannah behind.”

  “Did that fucker hurt you?” he asked, careful to keep rage that’d blazed up inside him at the idea in check.

  Her gaze lifted to meet his own. She surprised him with a laugh. Not exactly a genuine one, but a laugh nevertheless. “More like I hurt him,” she muttered.

  “Good. Remind me to put a beating on him myself if I ever visit Savannah.”

  If I ever fucking visit Savannah? Jesus. Another half promise he’d never keep. Damn, his conscience was barking up a storm.

  “I’d love to see that,” she replied.

  He nodded toward the Harley. Might as well give her something within his power. “You think you can handle her?”

  She laughed, and this time it was sweet and genuine. Delighted. A pleasurable sound he could quickly grow used to. “Well, if I can handle you, she should be easy.”

  His cock twitched at the truth to her words. Before she could guess his intentions, he grabbed hold of her waist, pulled her in close, and planted a kiss on her.

  Her mouth opened to him and his tongue probed deeply, as if he was trying to kiss away the past, the disappointment, the hurt. Hers. And his own.

  He pulled away, not wanting to break the lightness between them but with the thought of her mother’s death weighing heavily on him. “You could have someone look into her murder, even if the Savannah police have shelved the case,” he told her softly.

  “My brothers, particularly Aiden, tried for a few years. But the pain of it all is unbearable. They can’t handle it. We’ll see how Vegas goes. Maybe I’ll hire someone, quietly, with part of my winnings.”

  He stood there, looking at her, wanting to help and knowing if he didn’t get his head on straight, he’d lose it completely. Guilt washed over him. So he did the only thing he could. Taking her by the waist, he swung her up in his arms and positioned her on the front end of the leather seat.

  “Ready to roll?” he asked, as he plucked her helmet off the ground, climbed on behind her and set it over her head.

  “Ready to roll, then ready to rumble,” he heard her say, before she hit the throttle and off they sped.

  * * *

  Her coffee table didn’t stand a chance in hell.

  The touch of Bracken’s hands on her waist as she drove the bike through the high desert, the morning rays hot on their backs, her spirits lifting with each passing mile, had her body positively humming with excitement. Add on the fact that Bracken seemed to be feeling it as well, given the way he was growling in her ear. Add on the greater fact that they had unfinished business after he’d ended that toe-curling kiss—quite the surprise back there. Why not sex up that old table? Let it serve a higher, pleasurable purpose? Besides, she’d quit drinking coffee while she trained.

  She took off her helmet shook out her hair and scratched driving a Harley off her mental checklist. One fantasy down. Now, about revisiting fantasy number two.

  He’d turned off the ignition, pocketed the keys and without a word, followed her to the stairwell. She shook her derriere in encouragement, expecting him to grab hold of her and claim a taste of her before the first step. To her disappointment, he did no such thing.

  Jeez, Bracken—she couldn’t think of him as McBadass tonight, no biker in their right mind would turn over control of his bike like that—was unpredictable. The man was a complete mystery. Someone she didn’t know a hill of beans about. Except, he seemed to get her without her having to explain too much.

  Her protectiveness over her family. Her love of fighting. Her complex need to win the Brawl. Her desires.

  She’d confided in him, of all people. Unbelievable, really—didn’t bikers usually partake in all kinds of deviant activities? A moody guy, with a bite that had surely scared off weaker women. But deep down, her gut instinct was that he was someone to trust.

  With Robert, she’d ignored her instincts—and look how that turned out.

  “Damn. If you keep looking at me like that, I’m not going to do the right thing and walk away.”

  Darn. She’d stopped on the second step to glance over her shoulder at the quiet man. Now, she turned fully, her hands on her hips, her head slightly tilted. “Since when do you start following the laws of the land?”

  “Looks can be deceiving, Creampuff.” He shot her a funny look, a cross between amused and something else she couldn’t identify, before bounding up the steps. In one scoop, he lifted her and pinned her back against the yellow aluminum siding of her apartment building. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his shoulders.

  His eyes filled with hunger and a shudder sped down her spine. Seconds, minutes, years passed, with him just looking at her, like a big cat deciding the best place to sink his teeth. Dangerous, on the brink of losing control. She arched against him, and he made a noise low in his throat.

  “Fuck, you drive me nuts. Make me forget.” His lips claimed her own in a kiss that made her entire body shake.

  He softened his lips as he moved, carrying her up one flight of stairs, stopping on the first landing to push her back against the building, and deepen it once more. Harsh. Abrasive. Demanding.

  Pulling back, he sucked on her lower lip before slowly releasing her. “Tell me to stop.”

  “Stop,” she murmured, angling her head to reclaim his lips. His tongue
twirled and licked and tangled with her own, leaving her breathless with desire. Giddy and lightheaded. Feeling like she never wanted someone as much as she wanted Bracken.

  He flexed against her then bounced her in his arms. “Okay. We’re going to do this for real. In your bed, with me so deep inside you, you’re gonna see stars.”

  Stars? Yeah, probably thousands of them. All shooting stars, all accompanied by orgasms. Bracken’s gruff demeanor, powerfully muscled body and serious no-bullshit approach might be threatening, but his words and kisses were full of the promise. She licked her tender bottom lip, remembering the feel of him wrapped around her on the bike. The feel of him pulsing into her. McBadass was right, both in and out of the bedroom. The man was sex on legs.

  With a hand on her buttocks and the other hooked around her back, he carried her up the two remaining landings and headed down the exterior hallway leading to her apartment. Huntley was hard pressed to remember the details of the last time he’d taken her drunkenness home. Bracken’s memory, however, was flawless, as he navigated them around the corner and toward her apartment without guidance.

  Her excitement mingled with something else. A comfort and security found within his strong embrace, the feeling of being protected by a powerhouse of a man. Not that she needed his protection. But with Kaleigh gone, she was alone in Reno. Years of being stifled by overprotective males had her searching for the inevitable boogeyman, lurking out there, somewhere, just waiting to harm her. Irrational thinking—just because her mother’s killer had never been apprehended didn’t mean he’d come after her. Besides, she’d remained in Savannah for years afterward, without a single uncomfortable incident.

  If the boogeyman did exist, he was going to pay for what he’d done and Huntley was going to be the one to do it.

  Still, being wrapped up within his embrace made her aware of how she wasn’t alone.

  Bracken was in her life, however temporarily.

  She felt him tense, her first warning. Abruptly, Bracken stopped and set her on her feet, shoving her away from him and back toward the direction they’d come from. “Go,” he snapped.

  A chill swept up her spine, more from what she saw sprawled out in front of her door than from his suddenly harsh tone. A man was lying face down in a puddle of vomit, his blond hair covering his face, his shirt ripped, jeans dirty and his form immobile.

  She took two steps backward, fighting the urge to shrink into the wall and disappear. It couldn’t be. How had he found her?

  Bracken slowly approached the prone figure and quietly removed something from his fanny pack.

  A gun.

  Oh my god. He’d stuffed a gun in his hip holster... his gun holster?

  “Get. Out. Of. Here. Now,” he snapped, without casting a single glance in her direction. Alarm bells sounded in her head, which had her hurrying toward the fallen figure instead of away. Something about him, the ripped Rolling Stones T-shirt he was wearing, was way too familiar. Way too close to home.

  “No,” she cried out, falling to the cement floor besides the lifeless man. Leaning over, she smoothed a shaky hand across his hair, wiping it off his face. With a gasp, she fell back at the sight of his swollen mouth, bloodied cheek and grimy, dirty skin. The bells in her head consolidated into a sharp, piercing noise, so much so she covered her ears, trying to stop the pain. The hurt. The fear.

  Bracken crouched down next to her, and pressed two fingers to his wrist. “Found a pulse, and freakin’ track marks.” He flattened out the man’s arm, showing her the reddened marks, like pinpricks but deeper, and specifically targeting the veins.

  She glanced up at Bracken as he pulled out his cell phone and called the police. Track marks, she thought, half listening to Bracken’s curt conversation, his tone clipped and authoritative, no doubt pissing off whoever was on the receiving end. She turned and focused on the man’s ruined arms. Now he’s into injecting drugs?

  Her entire life, he’d been the most adamant about protecting her. Yet who’d been around to protect him? Not her father. Or her other brothers. Or more recently...her.

  She bit her lip hard, the pain mild compared to the ache in her heart.

  I’ve let them down.

  With blurry eyes, she watched as Bracken turned him onto his side. Vomit slid from his mouth. “An overdose?” she whispered, already knowing the answer.

  “Yeah. They’ll pump his stomach at the hospital.”

  “Will he make it?”

  Bracken looked up and studied her face, like he was trying to figure something out before he answered her. Finally, he said, “I don’t know.”

  She flinched.

  “Is blondie here your ex?”

  “No. You’ve seen people overdose before?”

  Bracken’s lips tightened as he nodded. “More times than I can count. Listen, he seems to mean something to you. I need to know who we’re dealing with here.”

  “Why? Oh my god. If he survives, they’ll press charges, right? Bail will be set.”

  He grimaced. “Not necessarily,” he ground out. “I’ll figure it out. Tell me, who is this guy?”

  “Aiden.”

  Bracken didn’t say a word but she could tell he made the connection. Still, she felt compelled to clarify her relationship to the man holding onto life by the tread.

  “Aiden,” she murmured, blinking back tears that finally decided to be shed. “My brother.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Bracken signed off on the last bit of paperwork and handed a copy to the hospital registrar. The dour-faced woman waited until he set the stack on the countertop separating them before snatching it up, keeping a safe distance away from him. He’d all but snarled at her moments earlier, his instinctual reaction to the goddamn pile of hospital—and later, police—paperwork he’d have to contend with.

  His mood was black. He was tired and worried that the main lead into his investigation—Huntley—was going to bail. She’d leave him to return to Savannah, her family. Leave business between them unfinished. Forgotten. Leave...him. Fuck.

  He glowered. The registrar snapped her gaze back off his body, which she’d been scanning from head to toe in disbelief, her lips tightened fearfully. He couldn’t blame her. Hell, an angry wild beast had shown up an hour ago, flashing his teeth and his badge before snapping a series of orders to ambulance workers, doctors, nurses alike, setting in motion what he needed to happen. Minutes ago, a doctor had informed him Aiden would live, though he’d be confined to the hospital for several days.

  Knowing how relieved Huntley was feeling softened his expression. He glanced at the clock on the wall, wanting to go to her, comfort her in his own way now that business was squared away for the time being. Everything except his meeting with Stefan. Eight twenty-three a.m. Where the fuck was that asshole?

  “Tell my friend when he shows to have a seat.” He pointed to the chairs in the empty waiting room.

  She straightened. “Sir, you can’t...”

  “If you don’t like me bending the rules, sweetheart, you’re welcome to call the cops.” He sounded like a mean bastard. It’d serve him right if she did follow through, and Sarge found out that not only did he force his way back into a patient’s room but he’d left out a few important details on the paperwork, twisting the details of a drug overdose enough to avoid police involvement. That is, other police involvement—as far as Bracken was concerned, the investigation was just getting started. “Be right back.”

  Without waiting to see if she picked up the phone and dialed security, he stalked off toward the elevators. Aiden was out of intensive care and according to the chart in the nurse’s station, was in room 427. He spotted Huntley immediately, sitting in a chair outside the room, her elbows on her knees as she studied the swirling patterns in the carpeting.

  “What are you doing out here?”
he demanded.

  Unlike the clerk who’d flinched and fidgeted beneath his gaze, Huntley straightened in her chair. The pain in her eyes stole the breath out of him. Shit. Business first—that was his motto. Except with Huntley, he struggled to adhere to it. You saved her brother from an investigation and possible jail time. Yet knowing that he did it for her sake as much as his own didn’t sit well within him. Jesus. What was it about her that had him acting like a teenager courting his first love?

  He scowled. Yeah, right—his first courtship consisted of fucking a woman twice his age against the wall in the alleyway behind the Grand Ole Opry. That’s the kind of relationship you deserve, his consciousness told him. Rough. Coarse. And anything but sweet.

  Which is why his actions pissed him off to no end. Pushing open the door, he gestured to the nurse standing guard just inside. “Out.”

  “Sir,” she began, shrinking back against the wall, “what do you think you’re doing? No one is allowed...”

  He cupped his badge in his hand, much like he’d done earlier so Huntley didn’t see it, and flashed it at the woman. “We need to speak to him.” He felt Huntley’s presence behind him in the doorway and tucked his little lie securely back in his leather pocket.

  The stubborn woman’s eyes widened. “But he’s not even awake.”

  He shot her a look that sent her scurrying from the room, nearly taking out Huntley in the process.

  “You have such a way with women,” she joked, half-heartedly, then added softly, “Thank you.”

  Ignoring her thanks, he grabbed a chair and placed it closer to the bed. “Sit.”

  “Yes sir.” Still, she obeyed.

  He hesitated, loathing what he had to do next. But opportunity knocked, and he was a fucking detective, so he had to answer. He pulled up a chair next to her and sank back into it, his long legs spread out ahead of him and his elbows on the armrests, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.