Huntley’s gaze raked over him.
His lips lifted slightly. Yeah, the attraction between them was undeniable.
“Think he’ll be okay?”
“Yeah, but he’s got an uphill battle. Slamming meth is highly addictive and coming off of it is brutal.”
“Is that what he was doing, injecting methamphetamines? They say the rush from injecting is incomparable. I won’t get into the science of it all...” She frowned and glanced down at her brother. “Jesus, Aiden. What were you thinking?”
Bracken rubbed his beard. The damn thing needed to go, the sooner the better. He was tired of this shit, the drugs. The way it affected people. The drug peddlers out for profit by creating an epidemic. “Addictive shit. Big business, too.”
“You talk like you know. Have you taken meth, or other drugs for the matter?”
She scowled at him. Absurd, when her big dickhead of an older brother who should be looking out for her was lying comatose in a hospital bed. Did Bracken himself take drugs? Not now and only the mild stuff when he was on a buy. Had to, it came with the job. But growing up surrounded by dealers, after too many busts to count, too many perps strung out and violent as hell, he detested the shit. “Do I look like a user?”
Her gaze flashed over him, pausing on his arms, maybe even remembering the way he’d been carrying her, fucking her with his tongue while he climbed a flight of stairs. The pale skin around her mouth was chafed raw. Whisker burn. Damn it all. He was tempted to grab a surgeon’s scalpel and shave the fucking thing right off then and there.
“You look like someone who’d do just about anything.”
Yeah, she had him pegged, all right.
Her expression changed, from a woman well aware of the kind of guy she’d gotten involved with, to one riddled with doubts. He was a secretive fuck, had to be. It didn’t pay letting anyone in close. They’d only get hurt. Emotionally. And literally, given his recent associates.
“But I really don’t know much about you.” Her frown deepened as she considered her words. I know you’ve thrown a block up between us that’s keeping me at bay. Jesus. The unspoken words were written all over her face.
I plan on keeping it that way, Creampuff. For your own good.
“I’ll help you find a rehab program for him,” he told her, quickly changing the subject. “He’s going to need it. You, however, are going to have to convince him. The hospital needs to keep him admitted for a few days to make sure he gets properly hydrated. Time enough for him to come down off the shit. It’s not going to be pretty.”
Her eyes lit up briefly before a shadow moved across them. “Maybe I can pick up more shifts at the Warehouse? Or go home. Find a center in Savannah that’ll take him.”
Hell, no. “What about your other brothers? Your father? Do you want them to see him like this? Or do they already know he’s an addict?”
She grimaced. Answer enough. Good.
“I know a program that provides scholarships.”
“Scholarships?” She laughed, not buying his pack of lies at all. “To a rehab clinic?”
He kept up his poker face. “Do you have a better idea? There’s a clinic outside of Las Vegas, a couple hours’ drive away but close enough to visit. If you want, I’ll set it up for you. Your brother would be in good hands. You can keep training, fight in the Brawl—”
“—win, and pay back a biker-funded scholarship.” She arched an eyebrow, calling his bluff. Yet, she was thinking about it, that scientific mind of hers weighing the options. What he loved most about Huntley was her commitment to winning. The idea that she could go on with her life, and take care of this new situation without too much interruption in training, was goddamn appealing.
“You’d do this for me?” she questioned, softly.
His breath drained right out of his lungs. In that moment, in that one fraction of a second, he’d do just about anything for her.
Abruptly, he stood up and stalked across the room, the devil in the shapely form of a doe-eyed woman nipping at his heels. Keep it professional. Use her.
He grabbed the door handle, and yanked it open.
“Bracken?”
Go, man. Before it’s too late. He stopped, and turned his head.
She gifted him with a small smile. “Thank you.”
“You can thank me tomorrow, when you’re too sore to move. Eight a.m. sharp. From now on, it’s all business, Creampuff.”
* * *
“Is he dead?” Stefan asked, jumping up from his chair in the waiting room and following Bracken out of the emergency room doors.
Cold bastard. Why was Bracken surprised? Numbnuts was more interested in the turn in events than anyone’s genuine well-being. A strict professional. Working with Bracken this past year had definitely rubbed off on Numbnuts, except Bracken never gloried in someone’s death. By his own indirect hand—like Pres—or otherwise. Life was short, precious, and he damned well knew it.
Yet Numbnuts’s comment was a blatant reminder. Coldhearted bastards solved cases. Not emotional pussies.
Fuck. He didn’t want to like her. Or...care.
If he planned on getting through this assignment in one piece, he’d better put up a freakin’ barrier between him and Huntley, fast. And keep the emotional crap out of it.
“What difference does it make if her brother is dead or alive?” he replied, sounding just as heartless as Stefan and pissed off on top of it.
“What? Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed? By the look of things, you didn’t get any shuteye. Or anything else.”
“Zip it or my fist will.” Bracken glowered at him. “Somebody’s gotta work. What’s up? The Russians settling in?”
Stefan drew up closer and lowered his voice. “Right-o. They’re swarming the place. My guess is they’ll start pushing the regulars out, take over the Warehouse, then bring in the big boss.”
“Any clues as to who this kingpin is? His pockets have got to run deep to afford this buy.” Bracken ran his fingers over his beard.
“Not yet. That’s what you’re supposed to be doing, figuring things out over at the Warehouse, using that pretty piece of tail to talk to these perps. Find out who the man in charge is, then pass the information on to me. Same setup as Flagstaff.”
Flagstaff. “Any idea what the fuck happened there?”
“You know what happened. Mayhem’s Last Stand’s president got away, then got himself killed.” The guy actually sounded pleased as he continued, “Listen, I’m not supposed to say anything, but you got a raw deal. When headquarters interviewed me, I told them you were as fucking shocked by what’d gone down as I was. That no way were you behind it going to shit like that.”
Hell, with friends like Stefan, who needed enemies. “Thanks for having my back,” he said, hoping his sarcasm wouldn’t register.
“Wow, man, a thank you? Coming outta your mouth?”
He rubbed his jaw, then shot Stefan a hard look. “Why weren’t our guys there?”
“What?”
Yeah, he’d caught the little fucker off-guard, as intended. “Flagstaff.”
“Don’t know, man. They were on standby. Remember, you got there a helluva lot earlier than we’d agreed. Hey, if you doubt I called in the team, check the records.”
Yeah, Bracken had looked into it. Quietly, so not to draw I.A.’s attention. Records showed the permission to cross state lines had been granted. The squad hadn’t just been called, they’d been assembled. Numbnuts hadn’t fucked up. Just...the timing was off. It was unspoken policy for the squad to arrive well before the perps. To set up, and prepare, in case the worst happened. Yet that’s not what had gone down. They hadn’t shown until well after Bracken, most of the Mayhem, the Pitbull crewmembers that could still ride, and fucking Pres had disappeared.
“I told you this all before. Why? Did you find out something else?
“Not yet, but I will.”
“Fuck. I’m pissed off about Flagstaff too. But forget what happened. Focus on where things are headed. We’re going to make the history books. Instead of locking your ass in jail, they’ll be issuing you another plaque of honor. Chicks love that shit. Maybe when you’re done being the big shot, I’ll catch up with Huntley and have a go at her.”
Bracken gave his partner a lazy smile and was rewarded with his scowl. “No issues with Mayhem’s Last Stand and the delivery? No screw ups?”
Stefan’s face flushed red. Easy as pie. The man could dish it but couldn’t take it.
“They’re headed to Reno, right on schedule for mid-July,” he answered between clenched teeth.
Man, either Truman had been screwing with him, or Stefan’s information was flat out wrong. Either way, it was another fucking red flag that things weren’t adding up. “That’s all you’ve got? No firm date, and nothing new?” he demanded.
Stefan glared at him without answering.
“I should have ridden with them, worked things from the inside. There’s still time...” Bracken lied, giving as good as he got. Leaving Reno, the case, leaving Huntley with Stefan, wasn’t an option.
His partner’s face turned purple. Man, how he hated his authority being tested. “The rumor’s out. Juan’s dead. Heart failure. What’re you gonna do, reappear out of the grave?”
Damn. You have to work with this guy, remember. He changed the subject, letting Stefan off the hook. “The delivery’s got a street value of a cool million.”
His partner’s eyes lit up. Talk of money seemed to do that to him.
Bracken ran his fingers across his beard. “Whoever this guy is, he’s going to make a fortune.”
“Sure is.” Stefan nodded thoughtfully, then changed the subject. “Hey, you can shave that thing now. You look like shit.”
“Fuck you.” Still, Bracken contemplated his choices. With his alias six feet under, the beard could go.
“You’re probably leaving beard burn all over that sweet body of hers. Plus, you’d be more appealing without it.”
His hand fell to his side like the damn whiskers had burned him. Appealing to Huntley was the last item on his checklist, right underneath dying a slow death.
“So, what happened? Her brother shows up and overdoses on her doorstep?”
“Pretty much sums it up.” He paused, forcing Numbnuts to wait for it. “On meth.”
“No shit. Coincidence?”
Bracken kicked at a stone with his boot and watched it as it ping-ponged off the curved curb. “Yeah, I think so. Not sure how long he’s been in town. Long enough to hook himself up. I’m going to stick around until he wakes up, then question him.”
That pissed Stefan off. “No way. I woke up early on my off day, drove all the way over here...”
“To take Huntley home.”
Bracken didn’t like the grin that crossed Numbnuts’s lips. “That woman doesn’t like me. Doesn’t trust me. Not like she trusts you.”
With a solid kick, Bracken sent another pebble sailing through the air. Not for long, he thought. Not. For. Fucking. Long.
* * *
If Huntley thought she’d get another sympathetic shoulder to cry on, she was delusional. McBadass was back to his normal bossy self with a vengeance. He wasn’t kidding when he’d warned her that it would be all business going forward.
“Crank out ten more push-ups and we’ll call it a day,” he snapped.
Her muscles ached but she refused to stop, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing she’d failed. Assturd. Asshat. Asswipe, her mind chanted with every push, her arms shaking beneath her. It didn’t help that the asshole had done double the amount of push-ups and was beside her, pumping out a few more, like a Sunday stroll in a biker park. If her blood wasn’t boiling with irritation at his rough manner, she’d be eyeballing the fine display of muscles as they rippled with each up. Instead, all she could see was red.
“Nine.” Asshat.
“Ten.” Asswipe.
“Eleven, asshole.” She rolled onto her knees, grabbed her water bottle and rehydrated. Perspiration dripped off of her by the buckets. Her cheeks were flushed, her arms shaky, and if he snarled at her one more time, she was going to Take. Him. Out.
They’d been going at it since eight a.m. A mind-boggling ten-mile jog that’d been more like a sprint, ending at the bottom of the hill with the tires. This time around, she’d managed to roll two of them uphill. Two to Bracken’s four.
Gone was the playful competition of their last session. Gone was the exhilarating reward earned up on top. Reward that seemed more like stupidity, now that she was getting a good taste of McBadass doing what he did best, bossing, snarling and pushing her to the limit. Not to mention pissing her off.
Building stamina. Endurance. Character—god only knew how she kept her emotions from cracking under the onslaught. Miles back, she’d bitten her lip, refraining from flinging out the magic words that would end this misery. “You’re fired.”
But, no pain, no gain, right?
Just, she didn’t expect her heart to feel it so much.
Sure, exercise helped keep her mind off of Aiden. Kept her heart rate, systolic blood pressure and cardiac output high. Simply said, it cleared her head. What did it matter if the kindhearted fighter who’d singlehandedly taken care of Aiden, the lover who’d promised to destroy her coffee table, had turned back into straight-up McBadass?
By late afternoon, they’d headed over to the Warehouse. Now, with an hour until the fights began, a few men had trickled in to warm up, leaving the Hall otherwise empty and the perfect place to train.
“Vy don’t you ease up on the voman? You’ve been like a madman vidt her,” one of the newer fighters, one of several with Russian accents, interrupted them.
Bracken flat-out ignored him, continuing with his own grueling set of push-ups.
Huntley’s eyebrows shot up at the expression on the man’s face. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being brushed off.
The guy stepped onto the mat so when Bracken came down from his push-up, his nose would touch bare feet.
Huntley sucked in a breath, anticipating how this was going to play out. She bit her lip, contemplating warning the new guy, then firmly stated, “I’m fine. He’s my trainer and doing exactly what I’m paying him to do.”
Or would be paying him to do. Her three attempts at discussing his salary had gone nowhere. Of course he’d want to get paid, right? With his keeping it all about business blow-off, like the out-for-the-count kind of sex they’d had hadn’t changed anything. Why spend so much time with her if he didn’t want her body and wasn’t looking to earn decent compensation? “I’m a fighter,” she continued, defending him anyway. “He’s pushing me just like he’d train any other fighter in this place.”
Bracken slowly lowered his body so that his nose touched the Russian’s big toe, so blatantly ignoring the man that for a second, Huntley prepared herself to jump in the middle of one soon-to-be horrific fight. Sweet Savannah, had Bracken even heard what she’d said?
The fighter glowered down at him.
Bracken pushed back up, his spine slightly more rigid than before.
Huntley jumped to her feet. “How about we get in the ring. Spar a bit?”
That did the trick. “Vat? You vanna spar vit me? You vill get hurt.”
Just one more arrogant male to content with today, it seemed. “No. You vill get hurt,” she snapped. Tired or not, she was ready to take on the entire male species if she had to.
Bracken stopped mid-push-up, stood and wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. Nonchalant. Yet, the tightening of the fine lines around his eyes said otherwise. Which
is why his words surprised her. “Tomorrow. You can spar after she’s rested.”
The Russian looked at her doubtfully. She balled her fist. What had Bracken said about haymakers? You sent them sailing only if the most opportune time came around. How she’d love to give this guy a wake-up call about underestimating her talent.
“Tomorrow, ten p.m.” she added, cocking her head at him. “Unless a little thing like me is too much for a big man like you to take on?”
The man looked from her to Bracken. “After I’m done vit her, I’ll fight you?”
“Let’s see if you can handle her first. If you want my advice, rest up.”
Still too annoyed to bask in the warmth of Bracken’s words, she watched tomorrow’s opponent shake his head, then stalk off through the nearly empty Hall and into the more crowded Warehouse.
“I can handle my own battles without you jumping in.”
“I didn’t think that you couldn’t.”
She lowered herself onto her knees, then reassumed a plank position.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Slowly, she sank into a push-up, grounding out between her teeth. “What the fuck does it look like. Ten. More.”
“Jesus,” he muttered. “Message received.”
She ignored him. A taste of his own medicine. On her sixth push-up, as her arms wobbled beneath her, he stole the breath out of her. On the up-rise, she kept going, his arms wrapping around her waist as he lifted her clear off the mat and pulled her back up against his chest. “We’re done,” he told her, his warm breath in her ear and his chest burning a trail along her spine.
All the stress that had been building up inside her—her family’s financial crisis, her brother’s drug abuse, her struggle to achieve the one thing she’d been trying to succeed at her entire life, to be independent, strong and free—crested like a huge tidal wave of unfulfilled dreams and frustration.
A few women she’d known in the social circles back in Savannah would be curled up in a ball, broken and defeated. Crying their eyes out at what might have been. Fearful. Weak.
Out for the Count Page 18