Out for the Count

by Michele Mannon

  Home. Yeah, the sooner he nailed this kingpin the sooner he was outta here.

  Vladimir licked a fleck of dry skin off his parched lips. Dehydrated. Was the Russian a user? Yeah, that seemed about right. Bracken certainly hoped so. Much easier to delude an addict into thinking he’d found the motherfucker of all dealers to unload the meth onto the streets. He waited until Vladimir began to shift on his feet, uneasily, before answering his question. “What do you have in mind?” he replied, adding a false sense of excitement into his question.

  “You got a bike?”

  “Harley.”

  “You good for a few boulevard rides? Good money.”

  “A few road trips? When? Where to?”

  “Yes. Yes. That’s what I mean. Next veek, there’ll be vork. And maybe you take a road trip. Ve see how you do on Friday.”

  “Hey, wherever you need me to go. Whatever you need me to do. I’m in.”

  Vladimir was sweating bullets, moisture dripping down his forehead. Probably the meth kicking in.

  Perfect. Bracken tapped his foot. “Not much of a road trip, though, Vlad. I heard the next run is coming into Reno.”

  Vladimir shook his head. “Vegas.”

  The meth was headed to fucking Vegas, not Reno? I’m going to wring Numbnuts’s incompetent neck like a motherfucking goose. Bracken kept his composure, not giving Vladimir any indication of the fury rising up inside of him. Goddamn it. A fucking repeat of Flagstaff in the making. No way. Not this time around.

  “You want me to head to Vegas and welcome them home?” he said, careful to keep a neutral tone.

  Vladimir snorted. “Ah. Velcome them home. Hello, then bam, bam, goodbye. A shame.” He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead.

  What the fuck did that mean? “Whatever you need me to do, brother. Reno, Vegas, wherever. I want in.”

  Vladimir shook his head and straightened. “First, you fight Sergei. Like I said, good money. He vin, you give him the Harley. He rides to Vegas. You vin, he don’t kill you. Then, ve’ll see.”

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Man, he hadn’t seen this coming. A different location—Vegas. Fucking hell. Once again, he’d missed the boat.

  He’d been too screwed up. Too distracted. And despite his best efforts, too freakin’ focused on Huntley. Outsmarted. Outplayed. The whole situation stank to high hell.

  Man, dead or alive, he had to get a hold of Truman, fast.

  Vladimir polished off the rest of his cheap vodka, put his empty glass on the bar and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. The liquor only seemed to make his lips drier.

  Bracken drummed his fingers on the bar, as if he was considering his options, and Vladimir’s chest swelled up like a blowfish. Arrogant. Confident in his intimidation. Taking the air out of this guy’s sails was going to be sweet.

  He waited until the man was beside himself with power, distracted by it.

  “When do I leave?”

  Vladimir chuckled. “If you alive? Next Thursday.”

  Jesus Christ. More than a week early.

  “Time’s wasting, brother,” he said. “Why fight?”

  Vladimir raised an eyebrow, and his gaze raked over him until it came to rest on his face. “Hmmm. Baby face. Maybe you’re not who you say you are? You should know these things.”

  Yeah. A test. Another initiation. He’d have to prove himself, before breaking into their inner circle. What else was new? “Bring it on, I’ll fight your guy. Afterward, we’ll talk about my ride to Vegas.”

  Vladimir stood and beckoned to his court. A Russian raced over and helped him into a long brown trench coat.

  “The truth comes to top, like cream. You fight Sergei. Then ve see if you a tough guy. Biker, maybe. Fighter, maybe. Liar, maybe. Friday, you fight. Then ve’ll talk.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  A solid black bath towel. No fancy flowers or stitching. Nothing flashy whatsoever. Just black—like the man himself.

  Huntley securely fastened the soft ends around her chest as she padded around the stark, impersonal apartment. She’d thought her place was sparse, but Bracken’s took the prize. The walls were bare of pictures, his entire apartment devoid of any personal mementoes, anything that’d reveal a bit more about his interests. Him.

  Earlier, he’d carried her hastily packed duffel bag inside, informed her he’d be back, then took off to God knows where to “take care of business,” whatever that meant.

  She wandered into the small kitchen area.

  A stack of completed crossword puzzles filled in with red pen sat on his small kitchen table. She shifted through them, smiling at the thought of McBadass with a brain.

  Heck, she’d even taken inventory of his bedroom. No surprises there, with the solid black comforter and orderly bureau that had a solitary comb on it. No surprises except for the oversized mattress. A king.

  For the king of sex-driven scoundrels.

  How many women had filled that bed? Based on her experience in Vegas...a lot. The thought made her loosen her hold on the towel, only to grasp it tighter and refasten it in place.

  We wouldn’t get a heck of a lot of sleeping done in that bed.

  That thought didn’t bother her a bit. Sex with Bracken rated right up there with winning the Brawl. But something had changed between them, the spark a bit brighter, more intense. More mental foreplay, now with the promise of what could be between them. When his lips were locked with hers, she thought she’d captured the passionate man within, hidden away from the world.

  Her move to Reno was about self-exploration. Making changes in her life that promoted the woman she genuinely was, not the shell of a person she’d been pigeon-holed into being for far too many years. And Bracken...he accepted her for herself.

  He didn’t try to man her up, and respected her for being a woman who happened to kick ass. Except for a few instances, he gave her room to make up her own mind—so different from the other men in her life, her family, her ex. He was a big brute, dangerous, unpredictable but deep inside his hot muscular body lay a good man. She knew it, even if he tried hard not to show it. Actions speak louder than words, and when it came to how Bracken had treated her, his actions said he was someone she could trust.

  He was someone she could care for.

  He was someone she imagined having a future with, after the Brawl.

  Holy hell. Had tonight’s events addled her head? A future with a man like him?Bracken was like a raincloud caught in a thunderstorm, coming at you hard, his softness just out of reach but there nevertheless. Something you sensed rather than observed. Something that left you breathless after the skies opened up, then cleared. A black knight, with what she suspected was a solid gold heart.

  Jeez, she really was falling for McBadass.

  Which made her decision all the easier. Tugging the towel snugly across her bosom, she headed barefoot into the living room, making sure the locks on his door were securely in place. Then, she made a pit stop in the bathroom and took a few minutes applying the sweet-smelling moisturizer she’d brought back from Vegas. Picking up the comb off the dresser, she ran it through her wet hair.

  Hanging up the damp towel on the bathroom hook, she made her way back into the bedroom and tugged a T-shirt—black, what else?—from its folded spot on the chair in the corner. She brought the hem up to her nose. It smelled like him, warm leather mingled with a hint of spice. With a sigh, she pulled back the heavy dark comforter and slid beneath the crisp white sheets.

  The day had whipped over her like a tumbleweed. Rolling from one end of Nevada to the other, only to be interrupted by in a series of dramatic twists and turns. A few swift kicks and she’d sent them sailing away. Fighting off the tumbleweeds like the problems that seemed to plague her life. She tried to sleep, except her mind danced around, drifting throug
h her drama-packed day then rolling around the possibilities of what the night might bring. What the future might bring. A life with him.

  Bracken, with his big hands and hard body. Steady and resolute. Yep. McBadass was the antithesis of a tumbleweed. A hell of a hardcore rock of a man. Or like his namesake, bracken—a massive fern with roots firmly embedded underground, complicated and deep.

  She felt her lips twitch. Not exactly the kind of guy who’d write you love letters.

  Her eyelids flashed opened. Jeez, the shoeboxes. Climbing out of bed, she stalked over to the duffel bag. Unzipped it and reached inside. Her hand fell on the clothing she’d brought to Vegas with her. She dug deeper. Nothing. Frowning, she poured the contents onto the floor. Sweatpants and tops, undies, a few toiletries. No shoeboxes.

  She swallowed hard. The duffel hadn’t been opened since their return. Where could they have gotten to?

  Bracken, she instinctively thought. He’d been alone in her apartment after he’d rounded her up.

  Hell, she’d escaped her nosy, oppressive pack of brothers only to trade up for what now seemed to be the king of overbearing brutes, all up in her personal, private business.

  But it was the how and whys that caused her to crawl back into bed and with furious hands, pull the comforter up over her. Knowing she’d have to wait on his return before giving him a what for.

  A dismal thought crept into her mind. Shit. Holy shit. How would that sneaky, thieving brute react if he ever caught an eyeful of those fucked-up photographs? She laid her head back onto the pillow, thankful for the smallest graces. One less issue to have to confront the man about. Lucky for her that the envelope was still safely hidden beneath her mattress.

  * * *

  She dreamed about riding on the back of a bike, the wind in her hair and Bracken between her legs, when a noise jolted her awake. Sitting up in the empty bed, she glanced around, worried about the cause. Hastily, she scrambled out of bed and shook out her limbs, warming up in case she needed to fight.

  Cautiously, she walked into the living room, and paused.

  Bracken lay sprawled out on the couch, his arms beneath the back of his head watching her as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. “You’re home,” was all she managed to muster.

  His boots lay next to the couch, one turned on its side where he’d dropped it. “What time is it?” she asked.

  He didn’t respond, just lay there watching her.

  “Did you take care of business?”

  “Some,” he replied. McBadass was in a mood, it seemed.

  She sighed and stalked over to the door to make sure the locks had been turned, before moving closer to him. What was he doing out here on the couch? Surely, given their history, he wasn’t shy about crawling into bed with her?

  Better to take the bull by the horns. “We need to chat.”

  In the dim light, it was hard to make out his expression. But his quietness caused her pulse to race in alarm. She bit back her worry and took a seat on the couch by his feet. “What’s wrong?”

  For the longest time, he lay there, studying her intently. Nothing outward in his demeanor yet she sensed not all was well with Bracken. Though if she had to put her finger on it, she’d say it was rage—a seething kind that boiled beneath the skin and waited to surface at the right moment. There’d been two times back in Savannah she’d felt that way. Instead of fully giving in to it, though, she’d left town. Best decision yet, because even Bracken in an ugly mood was far more appealing than what she’d had to deal with back home.

  “Tell me about your ex. Robert.”

  Holy hell. “You know most of it already.”

  “Tell me again.”

  She straightened on the couch and shot him a glare. Bossy biker. Two could play at this game.

  A moment passed before she heard him quietly exhale. “You can trust me with this.”

  Her heart cartwheeled inside her chest. Because she wanted to believe him. To believe that somehow, somewhere embedded deep down inside the gruff, no-nonsense core of him was a stand-up guy. A guy with morals and integrity, who was looking out for her. A guy who cared. “Just a few days ago, you warned me off. Told me you were a big liar.”

  “I am.”

  “What are you asking me to do, then, Bracken? To trust a liar? There’s a word for that, a trustworthy liar. It’s called an oxymoron.”

  He relaxed back onto the couch, his head on a pillow on the armrest and his feet tucked behind her. His eyes closed, dismissing her. She felt like reaching over and giving his leg a sharp pinch.

  “Okay. Another question,” he murmured. “Are you certain the guy who broke in wasn’t someone local? A fighter from the Warehouse? Maybe one of the new guys you’ve served drinks to?”

  “You think it was someone from the Warehouse? Most of the fighters like me, with the exception of Happy Hands. And why would he do this?”

  He slowly sat up, as if the weight of the world was bearing down on him. He hunched forward with his elbows on his legs. His thigh brushing up against her own. Even in the dim light, his eyes pierced straight into her soul. “Huntley, there’s an entire underbelly to society, one full of pimps and perps and fuck all murderers. What motivates them? Money. Power...Jesus Christ. Intimidation—trying to find a man’s weakness and exploit it.”

  She bit her lip, wondering what he’d done to survive within a motorcycle gang. Wondering, too, if he was worried about her.

  “It wasn’t someone I know locally.”

  He let out a stream of vicious curses, and she cringed.

  “The fuckhead from Savannah.”

  Jeez. She was reminded again how perceptive he was.

  “Yes.”

  He pinched the bridge of his beautifully bent nose with his fingers. “Come on, Huntley. You’ve got to trust me. Breaking and entering. Assault. Evading a...” He closed his mouth, sentence unfinished.

  “Biker,” she offered, her lips quirking. The fine lines around his eyes seemed to tighten.

  “Kick-ass featherweight of a woman,” he finished softly. He continued, in a voice full of an emotion she couldn’t quite put a finger on, “I need to hear the truth.”

  “Fine. But I need to hear the truth from your lips first. Did you take the shoeboxes from my duffel bag?”

  He answered swiftly. “Borrowed. They’re locked away inside my bike.”

  “Why?”

  “Jesus, I’m not out to hurt you. I’m trying to help you.”

  Huntley used to dream about falling. Not the actual physical fall but being out on the ledge, her adrenaline pumping, the uncertainty of what was about to happen, if she’d survive. How hard she’d struggle to endure the cold-hearted truth once she hit rock bottom. Should she trust him?

  She was oh-so aware of the man sitting next to her. Acting like he was too tired, too troubled to really care but deep down, he did. Like it was his turn to be out on that precipice, ready to fall.

  Trust was something you earned, especially with a guy like Bracken. And what she was about to do, confiding in him, giving him a glimpse into not only the lightness in her life, but the jaded darkness—that was a huge leap of faith.

  With a sigh, she patted her knees. “Lie down and put your legs on my lap.” Best if he were comfortable, more relaxed, given what she was about to share with him. He let her manipulate their position on the couch, readjusted them so his legs were across her lap. What she was about to tell him was darker than the black hole that she’d escaped. And without his boots, it’d take him a hell of a lot longer to pull away from her.

  “He’ll do anything to get his hands on Wittaker Fine Smokes,” she began, her voice trembling. “Propose marriage. Blackmail.”

  She paused, turning to look at Bracken. He’d closed his eyes. No surprised gasp. No outraged burst. No questi
ons about who she was referring to. Nothing. So much for the bombshell effect.

  She pinched his toe, and his eyes snapped open. Surprised.

  Jeez. He was a hard nut to crack. Unpredictable was barely scratching the surface. Get to the point, show him he can trust you. Then, deal with the fall.

  “Boas.”

  Oh hell no. Pushing his legs free, she tried to scramble up from the couch. Blood rushed to her face, a combination of humiliation mixed with the knowledge that Bracken had found the envelope. Shit. Oh shit. He’d seen the photos. Seen her at her weakest, most exploited state. Raw and helpless.

  He was too fast for her. Grabbing her by the waist, he hoisted her up onto his lap and secured her in place by wrapping his arms around her in a bear hug. She wiggled, trying to break free, her mind playing over the repercussions of that one word.

  He knew.

  The warmth of his breath caressed her ear. “Shhh. It’s okay. A few answers is all I’m after.”

  She tried to break free, but failed miserably.

  “Is he extorting money from you?”

  She felt the heat rise in her cheeks. Oh my god. What did he think of her after seeing those pictures?

  “Is that why you left Savannah?” Bracken’s voice had softened, which should have been a heads-up for what he did next. Cupping her chin, he gently turned her head, forcing her to look at him. Instead of releasing his hold, he ran a finger along her cheekbone and down across her jawline to her mouth. A whisper of a touch. Gentle. Comforting. It’d been so long since she’d let someone cradle her, touch her, protect her.

  “He drugged my drink. I wouldn’t...”

  “Shhh. I know you, Creampuff. Trust me, I’m going to take care of that prick.”

  His T-shirt had risen up during her struggle. Her bare side was pressed snugly into the crook of his body. His arm secured her to him and offered her security, protection from the demons in her past. And her present, it seemed. She was straddling his leg, much as she had the Harley in Club Klimax’s parking lot so many weeks ago.