The Dead Saga (Book 5): Odium V

by Claire C. Riley

  Should I hit him? Grab him? Push him? I just don’t know.

  Everything about Shooter makes me feel different.

  I feel so much stronger around him, like I’m a warrior who could fight anything.

  But weaker also, softer.

  I feel both feminine and attractive, even though he says I’m too skinny.

  I feel like I’m the only woman in the world in his eyes, though he’s surrounded by beautiful women daily.

  I feel safe. I feel in danger.

  I am both lost and found when he’s near.

  I feel purged of all of my burdens of this damned world yet weighed down by more.

  The losses, the gains, the dying…none of it matters when he’s around. Because when he’s around all that matters is the way he pins me in place with his eyes, and the way my body cries out for his touch.

  I hate that he makes me feel like this.

  But equally, I love it because I feel cleansed of my past.

  I feel free.

  Mikey is there in my mind, there’s no denying the space that he takes up in my heart, but what I feel for Shooter is something entirely different. It’s something much more freeing than love.

  I’m chewing on the inside of my cheek again, with my heart slamming against the inside of my chest so hard I think I’m having a heart attack. But I can’t think of a single word to say to break the intensity between us. It’s like there’s a rope tied to me and he’s slowly pulling me in.

  “Can’t look at me like that and not expect me to do somethin’ about it, Nina,” he growls out.

  I swallow before replying, my breath catching in my throat. “I’m not doing anything.”

  His beard twitches again. “Sure you are. You’re looking at me like there’s nothin’ and no one left in the world but us. And maybe there isn’t. Maybe this is it, right now, right here. Maybe this is all we get.”

  “What are you saying, Shooter?” I say, my words practically a whisper.

  “I’m sayin’ that maybe we shouldn’t be wasting so much time talkin’.”

  I open my mouth to reply, but all my words are lost when Shooter moves his hands so that he’s cupping my face in them. His skin is rough, like old leather against my cheeks, and they smell like dirt and smoke, but he holds my face like it’s a flower—gentle, delicately. He leans in, his gaze fixed on mine so intently that I can feel his stare burning through my entire body.

  And then his lips are pressed against mine and I’m breathless and weak in his arms despite all my reservations about him.

  And then, just like he said I would, I kiss him back.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I remember being a child, and my father saying to me that he couldn’t remember me ever not being there. That it was like life without me in it hadn’t ever existed.

  That’s how I feel when Shooter kisses me, and I finally relent and kiss him back. Like all the bullshit I’ve been through previously doesn’t exist. All the pain and suffering, none of it matters. Only the here. Only the now.

  His hands are rough on me as he moves them over my body, but I don’t even care. He’s everywhere—his tongue in my mouth, his hands in my hair. He’s even in my mind, and my body is screaming for more of him. It wants his touch, needs it like it needs air almost, and I can’t help but respond to him. I’m weak in his arms as he pulls me roughly against him, his broad chest pressing against mine, and I hear a soft rumble from the back of his throat.

  He’s rough and raw and I give in to him. I give him everything I have, more than I ever gave Mikey because this now, right here and now, I’m not pretending. There’s no fear of rejection. No worry that I’m not enough. There’s no pretense.

  I just let go and I forget how to be broken and instead feel fixed—mended in a way that I haven’t felt before. It’s just Shooter and me, and everything else has just fallen away from us like snow melting off a mountain.

  I kiss him back fervently, our breaths hot against each other’s lips. And with each kiss I forget more and more how shitty this world is. I let him blot out the bad and I let something grow inside of me that I hadn’t known was there before. His hands roam my body, feeling their way across the soft peaks of my breasts and the heat at the apex of my thighs. I don’t want this, yet I need it. I need him, and his rough touch. The brutality of his kisses that make it so I can’t think straight and I don’t have to remember or even fucking apologize for the things I’ve done. Because it’s okay. He accepts me—every single dirty part of me—and that’s the biggest fix of all. My drug of choice is acceptance, and Shooter is my heroin.

  My thoughts are colliding, smashing against one another before I can even grasp onto them. His hands are gripping tightly onto my biceps, and if I were a little shorter he’d be almost lifting me off the ground as he grinds his pelvis against mine. He moves his hands from my arms and pushes me back against the wall so hard that I know it’s going to bruise.

  Oh my god…

  I pull my mouth away from his. “Gunner!” I call out.

  Shooter stills, one hand halfway to undoing my jeans and the other pawing at my breast. He’s panting as he looks up at me, his normally bright blue eyes seeming darker somehow.

  “Did you just call out another brother’s name?” he practically growls at me.

  “Yes!” I say, and then I see the fury on his face, his cheeks flushing an angry red. “No, no, not like that.” I press a kiss to his lips, but he doesn’t respond. “Gunner—”

  “You say his name again and I’m goin’ to start getting really fuckin’ annoyed.”

  I roll my eyes. “Gunner and Amara were kissing!”

  “Couldn’t really give a fuck about that motherfucker right now, woman!”

  “Shooter! Stop acting like such a stubborn ass and listen to me. They were kissing. Like really kissing!”

  Shooter stands up straight and breathes out heavily through his nose. He drags a hand down his face. “You’re really killin’ the mood here, Nina.”

  I almost snort out a laugh. This big buff biker looks so frustrated by me that it’s difficult not to. “Shooter, they were kissing. He wasn’t hurting her, he was being—passionate, I guess.”

  When Shooter looks just as pissed off and confused as moments earlier, I yell at him.

  “Fucking grab me like you can’t keep your hands off of me!” I yell in his face.

  He frowns for a split second and then I can’t deny the tingle it gives me when he replaces his frown with a wolfish smile and grabs my arms with both hands. He leans in and presses his face to my neck and begins licking and nibbling at it. I almost forget what I was trying to show him as I groan and arch my back, my body begging me to just shut the hell up and go with it, because this is ecstasy and that’s all that matters right now.

  Only it’s not, and I know it.

  “Like this? You want me to grab you like this, Nina?” he rasps against my throat and then traces across it with his tongue. I nod and groan all at once.

  I throw my head back and close my eyes, letting my body take over as he begins his merciless grinding again. But the image of Gunner is in my mind and I know I can’t push this to one side, not even for half an hour.

  “Gunner was holding Amara, like this,” I gasp. “They were kissing, they were about to—you know,” I pant out, hating myself for getting involved, but I have to say something. I have to know that Gunner’s okay. “He was telling her no, and she was begging him, Shooter. She was forcing herself on him And he was holding her back.”

  Shooter stops moving again. His breath is hot against my throat and I hear him swallow before looking up at me. He looks across at his own hands, which are still gripping my biceps, almost bruisingly so. “They were about to fuck,” he says.

  “Yes, basically,” I reply. “She was begging him, and he was saying no. He knew it wasn’t allowed and she was practically throwing herself at him. He was holding her arms and trying to stop himself, but he was clearly losing the battle.” />
  We stare at each other in silence, both of our bodies still pressed against each other. Neither of us want to move, to let this end. Because back out there in the real world, maybe the spell will be broken and we’ll realize that this isn’t going to work out.

  But of course the time comes.

  I feel Shooter’s grip loosen and then he lets me go, though I see the reluctance in his eyes. The heat is still there between us, but it’s fading now as reality sets in. Eventually Shooter steps away from me. He pulls his cigarettes from his back pocket and lights one in silence before letting out a mouthful of smoke.

  Even in the dim lighting I can see the regret on his face.

  “I need to go find Nitro,” he eventually says, looking away from me. “Right fuckin’ now.”

  I nod in agreement and then frown. “Nitro? Why?”

  Shooter looks away from me and then turns completely and heads toward the door without saying a word.

  “Shooter? What have you done?”

  And I can’t stop the panic from rising inside of me, because I know without him saying it. I know he’s done something wrong. Something bad that he won’t be able to take back.

  He opens the door, and the light flooding in is momentarily blinding. “Go back to your room, Nina, and stay armed with that machete of yours. The Rejects are still around here, and I don’t trust them not to attack again.” He walks out into the sunlight and the door swings closed behind him.

  I stand in the dark, watching the dust motes lazily traveling through the air around me and a thousand thoughts flying through my mind. But the most important one is that of Shooter, and how he’ll feel if he’s killed Gunner without true justification, and what the repercussions on the club will be.

  Chapter Twenty

  All I want to do is go back to my cabin like he told me to and wait for him to come back. Shooter will make everything right. He’s fixing me, slowly, without even trying, so I have no doubts that he’ll be able to fix whatever he’s done.

  I’m still alone in the dark room of the building, though without Shooter here it feels dirty and cold. The smell of piss and rat droppings is more evident without the scent of his sweat and bike oil. It feels unsafe—dangerous, even. Outside the day is growing late, and shadows are playing across the ground, creeping toward me, slowly, slowly, but getting ever closer.

  In here it’s quiet. I can barely hear the main camp only a few hundred yards away, where people are and life goes on. And Shooter is.

  “Fuck,” I whisper to the darkness around me. “Fucking fuck, Shooter!” I curse him and then run to the door.

  I throw it open and run outside and back down the way I came. I don’t care what he told me to do. I’m not a coward, not anymore, and I can’t just sit in my room and pretend that none of this happened. That he hasn’t done something awful that he won’t be able to forgive himself for.

  And I can’t pretend that I don’t feel anything for Shooter, either. I don’t know what it is, but it’s something. It’s not love, it’s more primal than that. Much more primal.

  I run back down the incline, almost stumbling over my own feet. I pass the path to the beach and feel a twinge of guilt but I push it to one side. And then I’m back in the main part of camp and looking around frantically for Shooter, or Amara, but not Nitro or Gunner because I know that they’re not here.

  Shooter wouldn’t have done what needs to be done in front of everyone. He wouldn’t take that risk, not after what happened with Mary. I start running toward the main gates, and from somewhere I hear Michael calling my name but I ignore him in my blind need to get to the exit. Every step seems like the smallest one of all, as if by taking one step forward I’m barely moving at all.

  I pass Balls, who stares after me, a hard scowl on his face, and I don’t even have time to tell him to fuck off as I race around to the front of camp just in time to see Shooter kicking his bike to life. He turns it slowly and aims for the gates, and I call out his name as loud as I can. He either can’t hear me or he chooses to ignore me because he knows what I’m going to say, and he revs his bike as the gates start to open up.

  My legs are aching and my lungs are burning as I push myself as hard as I can go and sprint toward him.

  “Shooter!” I yell his name again, and this time I know he hears me.

  He glances my way, and I can see the annoyance on his face. “I told you to go to your room.”

  I shake my head and come to a grinding stop in front of him. I’m gasping for breath as I look and see the gates are open now and a couple of the Highwaymen are taking down three deaders that are just outside. I look back at Shooter as he picks his helmet up from the handlebars of his bike.

  “I want to come with you,” I say, breathlessly.

  He laughs—literally laughs right in my face. “No fuckin’ way. Go back to your room, bitch.”

  I reach back and punch him in the face as hard as I can, my anger getting the better of me. And I’m not going to lie to you, it fucking hurts. A lot. Probably more me than it does him. Definitely more me than him.

  “Oh my god! What is wrong with you?” I cry out. “Are you made of stone or something?” My hand is throbbing, and Shooter reaches up and pulls his helmet on, barely registering my punch.

  “Feel better now?” he bites out angrily, turning to glare at Highlander by the gate laughing at our little altercation.

  “Seriously! Do all bikers have this superhuman skill of a granite face, or is it just you?” I shake out my hand, tears in my eyes from the pain in my hand.

  Shooter is staring at me, and he looks pissed. Maybe more than pissed. I look around and see that the entire camp has come to a stop and is now watching us both. Every man and woman has the same what the fuck expression on their face. Every one except Highlander, who is still howling with laughter and clutching his stomach. Even when Shooter glares across at him, the man doesn’t shut up.

  “You just punched me, Nina,” Shooter grinds out, his eyebrows furrowed in frustration. “In the fuckin’ face.”

  If I thought I was worried before, it was nothing compared to now. “Yes, yes I did. But you called me ‘bitch,’ and I told you that I really dislike being called that.”

  He’s still staring at me silently, his blue eyes dark and his jaw twitching as if he is grinding his teeth.

  I swallow down the bubble of nerves. “And in fairness, you were being a jackass.”

  Still nothing.

  “I mean, you told me to go back to my room for fuck’s sake, Shooter. I’m not a prissy little woman, I don’t need protecting!”

  Shooter reaches over, one of his huge hands gripping my waist and pulling me forward. His hand moves to the back of my head and he stands while still straddling his bike and pulls me in for a kiss. It’s wrong, I know it is, Michael could see, for one thing, and then he’d think that Shooter was the reason I didn’t want to go and find Mikey, that my speech was all bullshit and I didn’t mean any of it, when in truth it’s nothing like that. This thing with Shooter and me, it’s purely coincidence that it happened right now. I mean, I can’t deny that there was something there before, but I could ignore it. But now? Now that I’ve decided to let Mikey go…now I need someone to help me heal. And that way is through Shooter.

  I guess you could say that I’m using him to get over Mikey. Like a rebound. But whatever, I’m not going to start pretending that I mean the world to Shooter, because I don’t. We barely know each other, barring some basic attraction. So I guess we’re both using each other.

  He pulls away and looks at me. “Woman, there ain’t nothin’ about you that’s fuckin’ prissy.” He hands me his helmet. “Put it on, and get on the back.”

  I don’t hesitate. Instead I take the helmet and pull it on, and then I climb on the back of Shooter’s bike before wrapping my arms around his waist.

  “You really packin’ double, Prez? With a civilian?” Backtrack says as he walks over, his expression full of confusion, but also something el
se. Something closer to pride.

  “This ain’t up for discussion, brother. Now I’ve got shit to do, so get the fuck out of my way.”

  I don’t have time to think what his words mean, or Backtrack’s, because Shooter revs the engine and Backtrack takes a step to one side. If I had a warning air horn I would be sounding it right about now, because Backtrack does not look happy. At all. Not even a little bit.

  “Hold on tight,” Shooter says, and I feel his muscles tense as I cling tighter onto him, and then we’re speeding out of the gate and toward Gunner and Nitro and whatever else awaits us out there.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  We actually don’t get far, which is both disappointing and yet expected. Looks like Nitro and Gunner caused some sort of deader disturbance on their road to hell, because deaders are crowding toward the central highway that leads right up to our front gate.

  Shooter pulls the bike to a stop but leaves the engine ticking. “You packin’?”

  “You really don’t know me all that well, do you?” I droll.

  I think he chuckles, but I can’t be certain. Between the engine’s purr, my blood raging through my veins and making my heart tick tick boom, and the groan of the deaders closing in, it’s hard to really hear anything properly.

  “We need to get these dead sacks turned back around. Looks like they’re coming from over there.” He points to a patch of trees to the left of the road. “But the woods are gonna be swarming with them. I hate to do this, woman, but—”

  “I can handle it,” I interject stubbornly. “I can handle anything.” And I mean it when I say it, for the first time. The words come from somewhere inside me that believes in my own strength and trusts me to not get killed.