Out for the Count

by Michele Mannon

  There, like bad wallpaper, were his plaques. Every damned one of them hung floor to ceiling, wall to wall. His entire life broadcast for the world to see.

  Shit. He was going to strangle Caden, then his smart-ass fiancée, Sophie Morelle.

  Huntley snuggled up against his side, her arm around his waist.

  “Together,” she said.

  He inhaled sharply, then exhaled a lifetime of distrust, secrecy, of going it alone.

  “Together, Creampuff,” he replied.

  * * *

  Huntley ran so hard her lungs ached. Yet a heavy weight had been lifted off her shoulders, knowing her mother’s murder would not go unpunished. Justice. After years of wondering who’d do such a thing. And why. The answers had been stashed away neatly in her mother’s things.

  From Bracken’s cabin far up in the mountain overlooking Lake Tahoe, they’d jogged down a mountain bike path and into Incline Village. First stop had been the Tahoe police station, where Bracken had taken the diary out of his man holster and handed it off to an officer to send to his contact in the Savannah PD.

  It was weird to see him behaving like some law-abiding citizen. An unexpected side of him, though she found an odd sense of comfort in his familiar manner—brisk, no nonsense and downright authoritative. At his core, Bracken was still McBadass to a fault.

  “How long is this goddamn paperwork going to take?” he’d barked, eyeballing the stack that another officer had attempted to hand over to him. The man had stopped short when Bracken shook his head. A second officer jumped to do Bracken’s bidding—to expedite the facsimile, whatever that meant. It wasn’t like the machine was going to pick up a burst of speed. The word tyrant sprang to mind. Yep, Bracken seemed he had quite a reputation going. Why should she be surprised?

  If she hadn’t wanted the matter expedited herself, she’d be grinning like a madwoman at his domineering, badass ways. As it was, she felt her lips twitch when the same officer who’d tried to foist the paper on Bracken sat down, picked up a pencil and began taking dictation.

  She wandered over and took a seat by the window, studying Bracken as he spoke. Aside from his scowl, her ex-biker was downright handsome, all-male in a blatantly rugged way. The slight bump on his nose only added to his appeal. He turned and his eyes softened before refocusing back on the task at hand.

  She’d overheard him on the phone earlier and had caught the fury in his tone as he described there being a rat in the woodpile. A tide of curses had followed. When he’d come out of his bedroom, she’d played dumb, acting as if she hadn’t been listening.

  Coming over to her, he’d placed a kiss on the top of her head. Comforting her, knowing how upset she was over it all. He’d kept her safe. Hey, it was his job, right? As a cop. A detective. A total McBadass. Given his penchant for pissing people off, hits on him probably happened on a regular basis.

  Bracken interrupted her thoughts. “Ready?”

  She stood up. “Everything in order with the Savannah police?”

  “Yeah. The NVPD will arrest him for breaking and entering. Then a few guys from Savannah will be flying in to question him, and most likely, they’ll bring him back home.”

  “Thank god. The next time I face off with that bastard will be in court.” She turned toward the entrance but paused. Bracken was staring at her. Wearing an expression that did not bode well for her. No siree.

  “No chance of you running into him, especially here in Tahoe. You’ll stay in my cabin where it’s safe.” Bracken had returned, bossy and authoritative, and way out of line.

  “And where will you be?”

  He didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. He was going back to Reno.

  “Do you have a death wish?” she said, louder than intended. “What happened to together?”

  Bracken grabbed her arm and nudged her toward the door. “I’ll explain it to you on the run back.” Folding her mother’s papers, he tucked them inside his holster.

  “You bet you will.”

  En route back to the cabin, they made a brief pit stop at a store, filling drawstring backpacks with a few days’ worth of supplies. Not a place for discussion. And halfway back up the steep slope he’d chosen for their return, she realized they were both too winded for words. The manipulative jerk—he’d put her off on purpose.

  She picked up speed, getting out ahead of him, before abruptly stopping short and turning, just in time for him to slam into her. She laughed, feeling him rein back his power. Worried he’d hurt her, when that was the last thing on her mind. Think again, my friend, if you plan on ignoring me, she thought.

  Her throat tightened. My friend? Was that what Bracken was? A friend with benefits? A friend you loved so deeply, it left you gasping for breath, like you’d raced up a mountainside. What he’d done for her in town, that was a genuine act of friendship. What he’d done to her in Reno, on her sofa, on that trucking tire, that was lover material. A relationship—guess that was the best word to describe what was between them. Intimate. Intense. Passionate. And painful—heck, it’s always the people you cared about most that hurt you the deepest. She loved him, all right. Surly, control freak, badass ways and all.

  She stiffened, so awestruck by her emotion she missed how he’d wrapped his arms around her waist and had slowly pulled her in tight. Glancing up at him, her mouth dropped.

  “Jesus, Huntley.” His lips drew in closer, his fingers tightened around her hips, then lowering his head, he kissed her, soundly. Adamantly. Relentlessly. His body warm and hers even warmer. Like he couldn’t get enough of her. His tongue slid over her own, capturing hers in a seductive dance. She wove her fingers in his hair and tugged him down closer. He groaned deep within his throat. Back at you, Bracken. Back at you.

  When it ended, they simply looked at each other. Stunned, like two deer caught in the headlights of passion. Did he love her in return?

  He was the first to step back, letting his gaze roam over the mountain trail.

  “What did he do to you?”

  She frowned at his abrupt question. “Who? You know what Robert...”

  “Stefan.”

  “Pinched my ass. So I kneed him in the balls, just like I’d done to that jerk whose tooth you knocked out. Ever wonder why he disliked me so much?”

  “I’m going to kill him.”

  “We’ll off him together. We’re partners, remember.” She grinned up at him, then softly prodded, “Did you work with him for a long time?”

  “A year. The first time I’ve let someone else handle my shit, and he set me up. Twice, too. I was undercover for a long time. Coming out of it, my head wasn’t into the norm of things. The job does that sometimes, fucks with your perspective. Man, was I played—thought the guy was a kiss ass looking to get ahead. Never figured he’d turn rotten.”

  “Well, why would you? He’s a cop.”

  “Yeah, nothing worse than a bad cop. He’s got to be taken down, quietly. As things stand, it’s my word against his. I need hard proof he’s the kingpin. God knows what bullshit he’s fed I.A. They’ve had a hard-on for me for a long time.”

  She chewed her lower lip. “They think you’re a criminal? A drug dealer? After all those medals? Plaques of honor?”

  He winced. “Stupid plaques. Yeah, I.A.’s not a big fan of mine.” He repeated her words. “I’ve been known to bend the rules, on occasion.”

  “No. You?” she quipped, then laughed.

  “I spent a year riding with an MC. I’ve seen a lot of bad shit. It’d be a better world with them off the streets. And though they deserve it, I can’t let them be led to the slaughter.” He ran his fingers over his chin, and her heart skipped beat. Not only was a fine specimen of manhood, but he had morals. He might have a wicked tongue and a surly disposition, but he was a genuinely good guy. And one who hated failure.

&nbs
p; “Fuck. I’ve been out to nail the slimeball behind the heroin, and now methamphetamine, distribution on the West Coast, and turns out he’s my fucking partner.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Act like the dumbass I’ve been for the past year.”

  “What are you saying? You can’t simply stroll back into the Warehouse and expect no one to react.”

  “This is what they know. I put a hurting on their best fighter and ruffled a few Russian feathers. Then, instead of throwing my win in Vladimir’s face, I rushed out of the Warehouse after you. If anything, they think I’m some love-struck sap.”

  Ouch. She flinched.

  “As far as they know, I’m not on to them.”

  “And Stefan?”

  “The little fucker is going wish he never screwed with me.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better for you if I returned with you? Kept up training like nothing is up?”

  “No way. Forget it.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re safer here.”

  “You can’t promise me that.”

  “Stay put. Keep a low profile. Keep up on your training. You still have a fight to win, remember? I’m going to finish what I started. You, of all people, should understand that. Besides, I’ve been in worse situations and have come out on top.” He took off running, shouting over his shoulder, “Pick up the pace. I’m fucking hungry.”

  She no choice but to follow him.

  An hour later, he was gone. It wasn’t like one of those farewells popular in romance novels, where the hero declares his love before heading off into danger. No tender caresses or whispered words full of promises. No forget-me-not moments.

  “I’ll call you when the job’s done and let you know when I’ll be back.” He’d barely looked at her as he revved the Harley back to life.

  Biker. Fighter. Cop. So much of what she thought she knew had turned out to be an illusion. Shades of gray, layers between lies and the truth. “See ya later, Creampuff,” was all Bracken had said before heading off down the winding driveway.

  She put her hands on her hips and watched Mr. Sex on Wheels ride off. It dawned on her that for all the doubts that’d plagued her, she really did know what lay at the heart of Bracken. Courage, strength, loyalty. His determination, and how he was hell-bent on finishing what he’d started despite the danger.

  Biker. Fighter. Cop.

  The man she loved beyond reason. She prayed it wasn’t too late to tell him so.

  Chapter Twenty

  About three hours after Bracken’s departure, Huntley’s cell phone vibrated.

  Fast work, she thought, imagining Stefan’s smug face behind the Plexiglas of a patrol car.

  Aiden’s number appeared on the screen. He rarely called her—heck, he hadn’t even told her he was in Reno, a sure sign things were not going well between them. But now? She grinned, suddenly anxious to hear some good news from her family.

  “Hey, what’s up? How’s Fresh Start Vegas treating you?”

  He didn’t respond. All she heard was his breath on the other end.

  “Aiden?”

  “Yeah.”

  She swallowed hard at the anger in his tone. “Are you okay?”

  Silence ensued, enough to cause her heart to nearly leap out of her chest. “Aiden. What’s going on? Did you relapse? Where are you?”

  “Reno.”

  “What? Holy hell, Aiden. Tell me exactly where you are and I’ll come and get you. I’m glad you called me this time.”

  “No. No! Stay away.”

  A loud noise followed, almost like he’d dropped the cell phone. What the hell was going on?

  She heard him say in a low, unrecognizable voice, “The Warehouse.” Then the connection ended. Aiden was relapsing. But this time, he’d called for help.

  For the next half hour, she hit his number. Over and over with the same result. Voice mail. Shit. Shit. Shit. Of all places for him to head to, the Warehouse? Damn it.

  Bracken was going to be so pissed but it couldn’t be helped. Her brother needed her. She found the number to the Tahoe Bus Company, called it and on a slip of paper, hastily jotted down the departure time for next bus to Reno.

  * * *

  “For a dead man, you look pretty damned amazing, Juan.”

  Bracken rubbed his thumb along the fine growth of hair on his chin. No way around it, a beard took time, which Bracken didn’t have. If his hunch was correct, hiding behind a beard wouldn’t matter anyway.

  He’d bypassed Reno completely for Vegas. Gone straight to the Mayhem clubhouse. Into the belly of the beast he’d thought he’d kissed goodbye.

  “Yeah, you clean up nicely for someone who’s been resurrected. Thought the old ticker gave out on you? How come you’re still alive?” Truman sat back in the worn leather chair, his feet up on the custom-made clubhouse table, the MC name painstakingly carved into the oak top.

  Someone had taken care carving that table.

  Someone with steady hands and not a care in the world.

  Someone Bracken didn’t have a prayer in hell of becoming like, not if Truman was the man Bracken thought him to be. And if not, chances were that Bracken’s wits, and his brains right along with them, would be splattered across this finely carved tabletop.

  Yeah, no time like the present to come clean. Especially given Truman’s confirmation...that the Mayhem were a half-mile away from pulling into the club, their vans packed to the gills with methamphetamines.

  Let’s hope the sixth-goddamned-sense he’d developed as a teenager was still intact.

  “The grim reaper got your tongue?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Sit.” Truman gestured to the chair to his right, the seat normally reserved for the Vice President. Bracken almost smiled. The guy had a set of balls on him, situating himself in the President’s seat. The irony of it all hadn’t gone unnoticed.

  Bracken followed Truman’s direction, settling himself into the comfortable chair, his long legs out in front of him and crossed at the ankle. From all outward appearances, he seemed as casually relaxed as his so-called friend.

  Looks can be deceiving.

  “What brings you back?” Truman asked.

  “The delivery.”

  “What about it?”

  Bracken folded his arms across his chest and leaned back into the chair. “It’s compromised.” He’d chosen his words carefully, then waited and watched for the other man’s reaction.

  Truman raised an eyebrow. Bingo. Message was received, loud and clear. Still, he waited for the man’s next question, and it wasn’t long in coming.

  “How so?”

  Game on. “I’ll spill. But I’ve got to know something first.”

  Truman nodded, seemingly unflustered by Bracken’s demand.

  “You a narc?” Bracken had to give the guy credit, not even a grimace. Not even a flinch.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “NVPD.”

  “Those dicks?”

  “Yep. The very same. Except for the biggest dick of them all, a bad fucking rogue cop, who’s turned a year’s worth of U/C work with these motherfuckers into dust.”

  “That prick Stefan?”

  “How’d you guess.”

  Truman smiled. “You’re the only guy I’ve had my money on this entire time.”

  “You DEA?”

  “Yes.”

  “Those dicks?” Bracken raised his eyebrows.

  “Yep. The very same.”

  “Fucking great. Robbed of another goddamned bust. You boys at the DEA like to get all the credit, huh?” He scowled, remembering how Caden’s fiancée had taken a career beating over the incriminating footage she’d taken of an il
legal steroid operation. An operation Bracken had brought down, only to have the DEA swoop in and take full credit.

  “Let’s see what you’ve got. Then, I’ll guarantee that you’re commemorated.”

  “Jesus. Keep your freaking medals. I want my goddamned name cleared. After Flagstaff, I.A.’s had a cell custom-fitted for me. Damned pencil pushers.”

  Truman laughed. “Not too thrilled with you shooting Pres? Brilliant work, I might add. If you weren’t such a ballbuster, you could come work for us.”

  “Something tells me you’re just about all they can handle.” Bracken rubbed his fingers across his jaw, then glanced at the clock on the wall.

  “Guess we’ve gotten to know each other pretty damned well.”

  “Guess so.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Stefan’s put a hit out on the Mayhem. Sending in the Russian mob to do it, then bringing the vans back to Reno. He’s been tracking the crew using the GPSs we installed.”

  “For fuck’s sake.”

  “They’ll probably give the Mayhem time to unwind from the ride, throw back a few drinks, get nice and relaxed, before shooting the place up. A repeat of Flagstaff. The little fucker thought of everything, including having the Russians wearing Pitbull colors. He’s setting it up to pin the entire thing on them.”

  “Hate those bastards, too.” Truman stood up. “I’d better call for backup. Do you want to be here for this, Juan? Or head back into the grave?”

  “It’s all yours. Just throw me a bone or two, enough for me to get on with my life.” Bracken stood as well. “Besides, I’ve got what I wanted. Someone who’s waiting to kill me back in Reno. That’s the second favor I’m asking. To turn a blind eye to what I’m about to do to that Numbnuts. He’ll require a little time before the public gets a load of him. But that’s between us, got it?”

  Truman nodded, then offered him a hand, which caused Bracken to grin.

  “What? No bear hug?”

  To his surprise, Truman dropped his hand and pulled him close. “It’s been a long, brutal year, man. Glad to know we’re on the same side and that things are coming to an end. I’m taking a break from all this after this is over. Served my time. Maybe time on an island somewhere. Drinking beer instead of shitty tequila might help ease the tick in my jaw.”