Out for the Count

by Michele Mannon

  Betrayal weighed her down like an anchor to the heart. Sinking the small, vulnerable ship she’d spent years patching together, pulling it down into a dank almighty undertow. She couldn’t seem catch her breath.

  A cop? She thought back to the break-in, how he’d taken charge of things. Her brother’s so-called scholarship to a rehab center—a place that would be well-known to an undercover narcotics detective. Yeah, the truth had been there all along, just below the surface.

  What about last night? Had that meant nothing to him? Did she mean nothing to him?

  It meant something to me.

  A guy next to her shouted at the cage, and the reality of the situation was forced back into her face. Liar, biker, cop, none of it mattered right now. She cared about him, and he was in danger. She had to warn him.

  She pushed her way forward, hearing the sound of flesh on flesh, the crowd’s cheers, Sergei’s angry screams. The fight has begun in earnest.

  A hand gripped her forearm. She tried unsuccessfully to shake it off. This was no time for horny, testosterone-driven come-ons. The grip tightened, and painfully so.

  That should have been her first warning.

  “Huntley.”

  She stiffened in surprise. The Southern lilt of his voice was far too familiar. Far too creepy for words. A voice she’d hoped to never hear again.

  His fingers squeezed tighter, and he yanked her arm, forcing her closer.

  No. No way.

  “Listen, you bitch. If you don’t hand over...”

  She swung, nailing Robert squarely beneath the chin with a solid upper cut. The fingers pressing against her tender skin disappeared. Time was ticking, and she’d wasted far too much time on this jerk. She wasn’t running anymore. Straightening, she glared at him. “You listen, dickhead. I don’t know why you’re in Reno or what you want from me, but if you don’t leave me alone, I’ll contact the police and get a restraining order.”

  Holy hell, Bracken is the police.

  Robert turned a bright shade of red, but not from embarrassment. Dumb jerk. “You better keep your mouth shut about those letters, bitch. If you know what’s good for you.”

  Huntley laughed. It wasn’t a pretty sound, but rather one filled with disappointment. She stepped closer to Robert, intentionally invading his space, which wasn’t hard to do given the limited mobility within this crowd. “What letters? My mama’s? Aren’t you here for the ring? Or did you come for a beating?”

  Robert’s face drained of color, going from crimson one second to pure white the next.

  “Just so you know, I pawned it.”

  “I don’t care about the goddamned ring.”

  She frowned. “You followed me to Reno for my mama’s love letters? Why?” She thought about the shoeboxes, the letters and her mama’s diary. What had she missed? Keep quiet about what exactly? A chill caused goosebumps to prick up on her skin but before she could choke hold the jerk and squeeze the truth out of him, the crowd went berserk. A reminder that something way more important than her issues with Robert was going down.

  Bracken.

  How the heck was she going to get his attention? Warn him without distracting him? Lord knew with that beast, the slightest twist in focus could get him killed.

  “Just know, I’ll be around. Keep your trap closed or I’ll close it for you. Permanently.”

  Enough already. Drawing her arm back, she counted to three, then clocked him in the jaw. He staggered, arms flailing. “How about you take your own damn advice and zip it. You’re going to get your just desserts, you bastard. We’re not done.” But he rushed away before she could make sure her message had been received.

  “A glutton for punishment, aren’t you?” she shouted after his retreating back. “Keep hanging around, and more of this will be coming your way.” She shook a balled fist at him. A few men shot her amused looks before turning their attention back to the cage.

  Whatever Robert was about, she didn’t have time to figure it out.

  “Let me through,” she ordered, elbowing and pushing her way into the thick of the crowd by the cage. She stopped short, and her breath hitched at the sight before her.

  Holy crap. Bracken’s face was as red as Robert’s had been, except instead of colored with embarrassment or rage, it was covered in blood. Oh. My. God. Blood. Blood everywhere. On his chest, his knuckles, the mat. Fear licked at her spine. Her gaze swung to Sergei.

  The pseudo-sumo fighter stood over in the corner closest to her, clutching his broken nose and trying to stem the gushing liquid from spilling from his nostrils. His cheek was busted open, too, and his lower lip was battered.

  Sergei’s blood.

  The referee swayed from side to side on his feet, probably too nervous to call the fight despite it being obvious who had won. He didn’t know the Russian’s goal was to beat Bracken within an inch of his life.

  A lull in fighting meant she could safely get Bracken’s attention—if she were closer to his side of the cage. “Passing by,” she warned, squeezing her way through the crowd, on occasion elbowing a guy who ignored her. Finally, she made it to the other side of the cage. Just in time for the horn to sound.

  Bracken strode back to center.

  Sergei charged at full speed, then jumped in the air, his leg stretched out in a mighty cross kick aimed at Bracken’s kidneys. The very move Huntley’d pulled on him days...months...years ago now. And look how that had turned out, with her back on her coffee table and his mouth all over her.

  Bracken shifted sideways, grabbed hold of Sergei’s leg and tugged him forward. With his free fist, he nailed the giant in the side. One. Two. Three times before releasing him.

  The crowd let out tangible gasp of surprise.

  Sergei bellowed in rage.

  Bracken jogged in place, ready for him.

  Her eyes widened. Instead of retreating, Bracken let Sergei get close, within striking distance.

  Sergei’s fist shot forward, and missed.

  Swinging his body, Bracken sent a cross punch into his side.

  Breathing heavily, the monster stood, swung and, in a classic illegal maneuver, poked Bracken in the eye.

  Huntley hollered at the referee, “Illegal move. Call the fight.” The little weasel of a man ignored her. Her gaze shifted to Bracken, who was blinking rapidly, trying to recover his sight.

  Taking full advantage of the situation, Sergei ran forward for the kill.

  Bracken held his ground.

  A full-blown brawl followed, fists connecting with flesh. Over and over, each fighter getting in their punches.

  Bracken was relentless. His accuracy rate flawless. Lethal. Awe-inspiring. He nailed Sergei with a clean punch to the gut.

  Huntley caught Sergei’s bellow, his voice full of pain. “You’re a dead man.”

  Ducking his head, he surged forward, arms lowered. A round of body punches primed and ready. Or was he preparing for a ground and pound, to take things to the mat?

  Bracken clasped his fists together, bringing them down hard onto the back of the Russian’s head.

  Huntley’s heart accelerated. A biker. A cop. She couldn’t fully wrap her head around it. But a badass fighter? Oh, yeah.

  Sergei was about to kiss the mat. Huntley gave him fifty seconds, max.

  A low hum buzzed through the audience. Did they know what was coming? Did they think Bracken was about to lose?

  The monster rose back up, resuming the same hunched-over position.

  Bracken punched, a perfect uppercut, except instead of the chin, he hit Sergei square in the balls.

  If Huntley wasn’t so concerned about the motivation behind this fight—to seriously hurt the bastard presently grinning like a madman in the cage—she’d have grinned herself. Boy oh boy, did Bracken have a mean punch. Tha
t had to have hurt.

  The referee was a joke, turning a blind eye to the dirty street fight that’d taken over the cage.

  Sergei straightened, not done yet. He sprinted forward, the brunt of his rage behind him.

  Bracken dodged a series of punches, took a few more, then shifted his weight onto one leg.

  Her jaw dropped. No. Why not finish him off with an uppercut or haymaker?

  He swung his free foot, sweeping it behind Sergei’s ankle, and ignoring the punches raining down on him, hooked it around Sergei’s ankle. With his full weight behind him, Bracken forced Sergei to the mat in a classic take down, pinning his opponent to the mat.

  A Hail Mary of brutal punches followed.

  Huntley swallowed hard.

  The beating was savage, and for a moment, Huntley wondered if Bracken meant to kill him. All she thought she knew about him had turned to dust, after all.

  But, at the last second, Bracken reined himself in. He climbed off Sergei and stood, glaring down at the prone monster.

  The crowd went wild, the volume of shouting and cursing and screaming loud enough to raise the roof off the Warehouse.

  Bracken ignored it. Walking over to his corner, he snatched a white towel from where he’d stuffed it between the wires, then stalked toward the stairs. Toward her.

  She knew exactly the second he spotted her, because the straight line of his lips seemed to tighten further. A cop. Not a criminal. Not a badass biker. Not a fighter vicious enough to kill a man—even if the man had been hell-bent on brutalizing him. Bracken was on the right side of the law.

  It didn’t excuse him from lying to her. Using her. Knowing exactly what he was doing and manipulating her just so to gain her cooperation. Her trust.

  She’d fallen for him, wholeheartedly, with a quickness that was breathtaking, an irrational emotion given how little she actually knew about him. Just the way he’d wanted it.

  He’d misled her. Deceived her.

  And now?

  “Huntley. Jesus.” His tone was harsh, his voice raw, thrusting her back into the present. She touched his arm. So strong. So formidable, like the man himself. He could crush her in one blow and he’d captured her heart. For better or for worse.

  His hand shook as he tossed his towel onto a step. He stood there, staring at the bloodied spots left behind on the discarded material.

  His blood. But mostly Sergei’s.

  “Bracken,” she tugged his arm, drawing his attention, “they’re going to kill you. I overheard Stefan telling the Russian named Vladimir.”

  Bracken froze, his expression difficult to read as his eyes swept over her, as if he was taking a mental inventory of her well-being. Had he heard her?

  “They’re criminals...”

  “Head toward the emergency exit,” he ordered her. “I’ll be a few steps behind you.”

  Without argument, she did as bid, only to have Hank step in her path.

  “Where the hell did you go? You left the entire bar unattended. Cost me good money.”

  If she wasn’t so panicked, she’d have rolled her eyes. “Wake up and open your damned eyes, Hank. Don’t you get what’s been going on here? Or was your dick too caught up in Hillary to think straight?”

  Before Hank could respond, Bracken interrupted. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll close up early tonight.” He pushed her forward.

  “Keep moving, Huntley. Quickly,” Bracken hissed in her ear. “Once you’re outside, run toward the highway and head south along the shoulder. I’ll pick you up.”

  He pushed the emergency door open and shoved her out into the warm July night.

  Despite the heat, a chill grabbed hold of her, from her toes to her scalp. She shivered, hearing the familiar sound of flesh pounding on flesh.

  She turned but he was no longer behind her.

  The door slammed shut with a resounding bang.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Bracken’s heart burst, a cymbal crash to the blind panic that had overtaken him. His eyes fixed on the figure up ahead, jogging in the shadows alongside the roadway. He thought he’d lost her.

  A quick glance in the mirror confirmed no one was behind him, no one had picked up the switch he’d pulled or the direction he’d taken. Yet. He dimmed the lights on the Harley and sped up, then pulled off to the shoulder ahead of her. He kept the throttle cranked, praying she’d know enough to sprint the rest of the way and climb onto the seat behind him.

  A few seconds seemed like eternity before she practically threw herself onto the bike, her arms snaking around his waist as she pulled herself tight against his back.

  Headlights on full high-beam glimmered off the bike’s mirror. Shit, had they managed to follow him? He watched as the light faded, and whoever had been behind them turned off the road. Relief was for fools who didn’t know better though. Underestimating a perp, an opponent, your goddamned partner, might get you killed. He wouldn’t calm the fuck down until they arrived in Tahoe.

  His body was wound up so tight his temples pulsed. Get Huntley, get moving and get the fuck out of Reno, those three thoughts consumed him. Nothing else, not until they were safe would he figure out the best way to handle Stefan.

  Numbnuts wanted him dead and Bracken hadn’t seen it coming.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you’re a cop?” Huntley’s question interrupted his thoughts.

  Jesus. All kinds of shit had hit the fan tonight. And judging by her tone, his lies had cut deep. Man alive, hadn’t he warned her he had nothing to offer her?

  “Hang on,” he hollered, letting the Harley’s engine do the answering.

  Hell, what could he tell her that he hadn’t warned her about already? He lied. He manipulated her. He used her to work a case.

  He wanted her more than anyone. Anything. Yeah, better fucking warn her about that too. She had to know what she was in for.

  Her arms tightened around him. A no-nonsense type of girl, his kind of girl—even if she was pissed off and likely ready for a fight. Hell, he’d given her plenty of reason to be furious with him. Though no way in hell could her anger rival the rage knotted up inside him. Fuck. He’d almost gotten them both killed.

  He pulled out onto the main roadway and flogged it. The pull of the bike under normal circumstances would have been a head rush. Instead, the pitch black asphalt loomed ominously ahead, a long, dark stretch of straight-ass roadway without the brightness from the bike’s full headlight. Driving on pure instinct, relying on adrenaline and a rage so fierce, it’d set the somber night sky ablaze.

  His fingers tightened around the handlebar grip.

  Goddamnit. What the fuck had just gone down back there?

  Without a doubt, Stefan was rotten, down to his spineless core. He’d come running up to Bracken but instead of jumping in and interceding, he freakin’ watched while Bracken smashed two Russian heads against the wall. Did Numbnuts realize his game was up? Nope. The little fucker was too arrogant, too confident he’d succeed in screwing Bracken over again. It’d taken all of Bracken’s willpower to not smash his smug face in. Instead, he lied, telling him he was sick of the Russians, that he was taking a road trip and that he’d call Stefan from Vegas. Let Numbnuts chew on that for the time being. In Tahoe, he’d make a few calls. The first to Veronica, giving her the heads-up in case Sin City was suddenly swarming with Russians.The bike broke free of the city limits and wound them out into the high desert plains. Once certain they hadn’t been followed, he flicked the headlight on full force. Despite the barren roadway, it was impossible to relax. Despite Huntley’s arms squeezing more tightly around his waist, as if to remind him she was there behind him.

  As if he could forget.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. He was thinking crazy, wanting too much from her. And what was he?

  A na
rc with a death wish.

  The trainer who’d by all accounts had done her wrong.

  The man who at long last had found something worth losing. Someone more precious than his own life.

  Yeah, they’d survived Reno. But these crazy feelings for Huntley were going to be the death of him.

  * * *

  Better the devil you know, right?

  Silently, they’d ridden through the barren plain, headed toward the vast unknown. Well, unknown to her—Bracken, as usual, was in the literal driver’s seat. Once again, she followed blindly, had placed herself in the care of his big, brutal hands. Once again, she had to count on him.

  The devil she knew was hands-down the most complicated brute alive. A flat-out badass. And, go figure, he was a cop. It would have been equally shocking to have discovered he was a ballerina. Or a monk. But as the mountains up ahead closed in on them, she’d had time to think. To reflect. Hard as it was to believe, all the signs had been there. His interest in the Russian fighters, certain cop-like phrases he’d used, him scoping out her apartment after the break in.

  His taut stomach flexed beneath her fingers. Yeah, Bracken was the full, sexy, rough-and-tumble package.

  She’d trusted the biker. But trust the cop? She struggled with it.

  Had everything been a lie? The question was like a third person wedged between them on the bike. Her body might be betraying her, for with every bump, every dip in the road, her chest rubbed against his back causing her nipples to pebble and tiny jolts of pleasure to shoot down between her legs. Traitorous tits, that’s what they were. Yet it was her mind, her heart, her goddamned pride that’d been hurt by his deception.

  She tried to piece together what she knew. Bracken was on assignment—what else would he be doing at the Warehouse? Working undercover. Working me under the covers, numerous times. The ugly thought crept into her head.

  Was she just part of his plan? Someone who’d validate why a lone biker was hanging around the Warehouse? Someone you’d screw to gain their trust then easily manipulate into doing whatever you wanted them to do?

  Fisting her fingers, she hit him high up on the shoulder. “That’s why you wouldn’t take my money. You were using me and didn’t feel like charging me for the privilege,” she shouted into the wind, breaking the long silence. Damn. His lies struck deep.