by Silver James
Remember the Night
A Nightriders Novella
_____
Silver James
REMEMBER THE NIGHT is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
REMEMBER THE NIGHT
COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Silver James
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact: [email protected]
Cover design © by Clary Carey, [email protected]
Images: www.depositphotos.com
Handsome Man In Hat ©Mimagephotos
Motorcycle in flames ©3quarks
Wolf jump illustration ©I.Petrovic
Edited by Gregory Alan
Published digitally in the United States of America
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Night Moves
BOOKS BY SILVER JAMES
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Chapter 1
Lucky
WATCHING HER STAND there shaking with cold and shock while a callous cop asked questions pissed me right the hell off. She’d sacrificed her wool muffler as a tourniquet on Tag’s leg and her coat to keep him warm. A firefighter poured bottled water over her bloody hands as she struggled through her answers.
“He—the motorcyclist I mean, was in the southbound left turn lane, a few cars back. The arrow changed to green and everybody in the turn lanes moved. He’d cleared the intersection when the light turned green. I was going north and started forward but this black SUV came from the west and cut me off.” Her eyes slid over to the rust-red stain where Tag had almost lost his leg and sniffled. “It hit him. Deliberately.”
The firefighter pressed a wad of paper towels in her hands and walked away. Fuck. Her lips were as blue as my balls. Gemma West. I’d walked away from her ten years ago when she’d been a scrawny sixteen-year-old. She damn sure wasn’t a kid anymore.
“Deliberately? How do you know their intent?”
Gemma huffed out a breath and started to wrap her arms around her chest. She stopped when she realized her shirt was bloody. “Because after they ran the red light, they pulled up next to him. He was in the left lane, they were in the right. The SUV swerved right into him.”
“Why were you paying such close attention?”
Her expression went all What the hell? as she answered. “Because I laid down skid marks to keep from hitting them and while I was stopped, I turned to watch as I was reaching for my phone to call 911.”
Dancer Calhoun, vice president of the Oklahoma Chapter of the Nightriders MC and one of my best friends, stood beside me, also listening to the cop’s interrogation. We’re Wolves—shape shifters—and even in human form, our hearing’s preternatural. Without considering the consequences, I shrugged out of my leather jacket. I ignored the cop’s sneer as I walked up behind Gemma and dropped the coat over her shoulders.
“Them?”
She didn’t glance back—a testament to her distracted state. She was focused on the cop and I couldn’t help but be impressed. She’d stopped, kept Tag from bleeding to death, and even now was giving a description of the men who’d injured my enforcer. I backed away. The cop looked pissed that I was even there.
“Yes. Two men. They stopped, got out and walked back to the injured man. I jumped out, yelled that I was calling 911. One of them was standing over him.” She gulped and turned her head slightly to glance at the stretcher where two EMTs and a firefighter were working on Tag.
“They didn’t say anything, just ran back to their car and sped away. They had patches on their jackets. It…it looked like a dog with horns. And there were two other patches with words but I couldn’t read them. I did get part of the tag number. There was an H and an N and the numbers six and eight.”
“It’s dark. How did you see all that?”
I saw Gemma’s spine stiffen then she pointed to the mercury vapor lights lining the street. “The same way I can read your name tag, Officer Brown.” Almost as if by instinct, she slipped her arms into my jacket and wrapped it tight across her chest.
Fuck. My dick was so hard it might break. Gemma was standing there twenty feet away and I wanted her so gawddamned bad. Dancer tugged my arm, breaking my concentration, and he urged me to step back several paces so no one would overhear our conversation.
“I’ll put the word out on the bloody bastards in the SUV and meet you at the hospital.” Dancer tilted his head toward Gemma. “She’s wearin’ your colors now, Luc.”
“She’s cold.”
“Uh huh.” He didn’t sound convinced.
“She saved Tag, Dancer.”
“Aye. True that.”
“Shut up.”
“Didn’t say a word, boyo.” Whenever Dancer’s accent came out, I knew I was in for it, and the Irish came out even thicker when Dance asked, “Will ya be callin’ himself?”
“Yeah. The Russian needs to know. He’ll notify all the chapters to keep their eyes open. I’m sick and fucking tired of the Hell Dogs infiltrating Nightrider territory.”
The Russian was national president of the Nightriders motorcycle club, and was based out of our original chapter in Mission Springs, Missouri. We’d made a ride up there to help out when the Hell Dogs kidnapped a couple of Nightrider old ladies. We were at war with the Dogs and Russki needed to know they’d come to Oklahoma.
Dancer’s gaze hardened. “And I bloody damn well don’t like the way the wankers are pissin’ on us t’mark what ain’t theirs.”
We watched as Tag was loaded into the back of the ambulance.
“We’ll deal with it. Tag first, though.”
“Tag first.” Dancer offered a one-fingered salute to the cops then mounted his Harley and roared off, following the ambulance running Code 3.
I needed to go with the ambulance too, but my wolf demanded we stay with Gemma. My animal side had always known she belonged to us. Tag first, I reminded the wolf. The men of the Nightriders were my brothers. More than family. And one of them was hurt. I’d track Gemma later, now that I knew she was back in town. I paused long enough to pull a leather vest from my bike’s saddlebag. I didn’t go anywhere without my colors on my back. Moments later, after a last look at Gemma, I roared after the ambulance, my dick and wolf both pissed at me.
Gemma
I HUDDLED DEEPER into the leather jacket that had mysteriously appeared around my shoulders. It still held a sliver of heat from the man who wore it. Enveloped in the scent of its former owner, I inhaled, reminded of snow on cedars and autumn bonfires—primitive smells, wild and free. And vaguely familiar. I searched for the memory the scent triggered but couldn’t find it.
My hands still shook from the cold as I waited for my pitiful excuse of a heater to warm up. The last twenty-four hours officially sucked. My day job boss had hit on me and then demoted me when I turned down his demand for a blow job in the break room. By the time my shift was over, Human Resources was closed and if I didn’t hustle, I’d be late to my night job.
I made it just in time, but
two of the waitresses had called in sick so I had three times the work. Because I was stretched so thin during the dinner rush, my tables found my service lacking, as evidenced by the measly tips I’d gotten.
And now this. I’d just wanted to go home, take a bath, and sleep, but I had to stop to help. A hard shiver set my teeth to chattering. My only winter coat was in the back of that ambulance and had probably been tossed by now since it was covered in blood. Like me. My khakis and wait-staff shirt were ruined. I thought about the blood I’d gotten on the mysterious jacket but from the patches on the front, I figured it didn’t matter, seeing as it belonged to one of those motorcycle gang members.
The residual cold, and shock, hit so hard my muscles almost locked up from the shiver griping my body. The needle on the temperature gauge still registered a big, fat C for Frigid. I was shaking uncontrollably when someone knocked on my window. A little scream escaped and I’m pretty sure my eyes were the size of half-dollars as I stared at the big, scary dude leaning over to stare in at me. He, too, was wearing a leather jacket with patches on it.
“You okay, hon?” I could only blink at him since my mouth wasn’t working yet. “We came to get Tag’s bike and noticed you still sittin’ here. You feelin’ all right?”
I saw a tow truck, with emergency lights flashing, and two men working on the mangled motorcycle. Managing a nod, I cracked the window. “F-fine. J-just waiting on th-the heater. C-cold.”
The biker eyed the jacket I wore and some emotion slid across his face. Was that surprise? Anger? His expression blanked and he went back to looking scary as hell.
“I’ll be fine.” Good. I managed to keep my teeth from chattering that time.
“Bring your car in to Riders Garage tomorrow. We’ll take a look at it, get it running right.”
“Th-thanks, but it’s fine.” The old clunker wasn’t but I didn’t have money for repairs.
Almost as if he could read my mind, he added, “No charge, babe. I’m Tinker. As long as you’re wearing those colors, you’re one of ours and Nightriders take care of our own.”
I glanced down at the jacket and realized one of the patches said “President.” Holy crap. The president of the Nightriders gave me his jacket? I panicked, had to give it back. Scrambling out of the car, I shed the coat and held it out to Tinker. The man was huge—six foot five at a minimum and probably close to three hundred pounds of muscle. “Here.”
He backed away, hands thrust palm forward in my direction, refusing to take the jacket dangling from my hand. “I didn’t give it to you, babe. That means I can’t take it back. I like my dick too much.”
He turned on his heel and walked away before I could ask what that even meant. I checked the patches on his jacket. There was a huge one on the back, the word “Nightriders” on top with a stylized leaping wolf, whose back legs turned into a comet trail. Beneath the emblem, was the word “Oklahoma.”
The biker glanced over his shoulder. “Put the coat back on before you freeze. And come by the garage in the morning. We’ll fix your car. Yeah?”
“But I have work.”
“On Saturday?”
Oh, duh. Friday night. I’d lost track of days. Working seven days a week tended to leave me confused. “Tomorrow night. I have work tomorrow night.”
“Bring it by first thing in the morning. I’ll get one of the boys to run you home. If it’s not ready by the time you need to get to work, one of us will get you there.” He gave me an odd look before he turned and continued toward the tow truck.
The name and address of the garage was painted on the side of the truck. I was surprised when I realized it was located not far from my apartment. Then I wondered what would happen if I didn’t show up. Would they hunt me down? Steal my car to fix it?
I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of this whole situation but experience told me that laughter would just lead to tears of the hysterical variety. I crawled back into the car. A tendril of heat dribbled from the air vent. Not enough to keep me warm so I shrugged back into the jacket.
Would the president go to the hospital? Probably. He’d been here, at the scene of the accident. And I’d seen a motorcycle tear out after the ambulance.
That’s what I’d do. I’d go to the hospital. Find out how the injured guy was doing. Give the jacket back. And run.
Chapter 2
Gemma
I SHOULD HAVE been freaked out by the number of motorcycles in the hospital parking lot. Instead, it was the conversation I overheard after I finally found a parking space and made it to the building that upset me. Two women in scrubs and down coats huddled near the ER entrance. One was smoking and the other was swigging down an energy drink.
“Do you think they’ll save his leg?” the drinker asked.
“They should just amputate. The guy doesn’t have insurance. The cost of microsurgery to reattach? That’s a hell of a lot of money for the hospital to absorb. Cheaper to just cut it off.” This from the smoker.
“Well, he is one of those low-life bikers. He probably deserved it.”
I stopped mid-step, wondering if I’d heard them correctly. Doctors were going to amputate because the man didn’t have insurance? And that was okay because he was in a motorcycle gang?
Furious, I rushed inside and when I walked into the ER waiting room, I slammed into a wall of black leather and testosterone. I didn’t care, my sights set on the the check-in desk. I marched through the sea of bikers and stopped in front of the lone clerk.
All thoughts of returning the jacket were gone as I thumped my fists on the counter. Startled, the admissions clerk looked up as I demanded, “What the hell? You people are going to amputate a man’s leg because he doesn’t have insurance?”
The clerk stared at me, one hand hovering over the button to call security. I leveled a glare at her, all but daring the woman to hit the alarm as I inhaled to argue again. And almost choked on the aroma of cedar smoke. A stack of money appeared on the counter.
“This will take care of the preliminaries until I can get his insurance information.”
The admission clerk’s expression morphed from shock to surprise to…admiration? She grabbed the bundle gripped by a tan hand with long, probably clever fingers. Wait. Clever fingers? Why would I think that?
The clerk called security—the normal way, not by hitting the panic button, and the guard stood there while she counted. I counted with her. Five thousand dollars. In cash—hundreds and twenties. Who carried around that kind of money? Oh, duh. Motorcycle gang. I wanted to head slap myself.
“Satisfied?”
The man’s voice reverberated in my chest and that one word conjured up all sorts of images in my tired brain.
“There’s more where that came from.”
Oh, my sexy thoughts certainly hoped so! Then I recognized the voice. I forgot to breathe and needed to lean my elbows on the high counter to stay upright. I had to be dreaming. Or mistaken. That voice didn’t belong in the here and now. It belonged to the past. The distant past. I didn’t dare look at him.
The guy’s arm brushed against my shoulder and I had to lock my knees. When his big hand encircled my left biceps and he tugged me away from the counter, I tripped over my own feet. The man caught me, hauled me up next to his chest and suddenly, my nose was buried in his black T-shirt.
“Easy, baby. I’ve got you.”
He murmured the words into my hair. And did he just sniff me? I pushed back but when I saw his face, my knees failed completely. He scooped me into his arms, sat on a quickly vacated chair, and settled me across his thighs. Fighting the urge to hyperventilate, I stared at him. This was not happening. No way. But it was. I would have recognized him anywhere, even though I hadn’t seen him since that night. Lucas. Lucas Malone. The man who broke my heart. The man I’d tried for ten years to hate. And the only man I’d ever love.
Lucky
I RECOGNIZED HER nervousness, her scent changing from orange ginger to scalded milk, as she perched stiffly on my l
ap. I wanted to kiss her. Strip her down and hold her skin to skin. Make love to her. All the things I’d wanted those many years ago, but she’d been jail bait and I’d been on the verge of going to jail for a rape and murder I didn’t commit. I’d walked—okay I flat out ran—away.
When I finally came home, Gemma was long gone, estranged from her family, and nobody knew where she was. Then tonight happened. Damn it all to hell, I didn’t want Tag to be hurt or permanently maimed but it felt fucking good to have this woman in my arms.
“Gemma.” I soothed her back with my palm, enjoying the feel of my colors on her body.
She blinked. Several times. Then had to clear her throat after her first attempts at speech came out as a squeak. “Lucas.”
“It’s gonna be okay, baby.” Gemma just stared at me, her throat working as she swallowed convulsively. My dick and I were mesmerized by the movement and it twitched beneath her sweet ass. A shivery tremble registered beneath my palm. Was she afraid of me? “Gem?”
“Lucas.” A tear gathered at the corner of her eye, wobbling on her lashes before dripping down her cheek.
I brushed it away with my thumb then urged her to cuddle in close against my chest. She tucked her head under my chin and clung to me. For the first time in years, my wolf stopped pacing. I could feel him there, curled up just beneath my skin, content to be near her.
“And we’re not a gang, baby. The Nightriders are a motorcycle club. You need to remember that.” She giggled, and damn if that didn’t feel fucking amazing. I’d put a smile on her face.
We were still sitting like that when a doctor walked out from the treatment rooms. I straightened but didn’t let go of Gemma.
The doctor looked around at the massed membership of the Nightriders, shrugged and announced, “He’s up in surgery. The leg was stabilized and one of the best neurosurgeons in the state is working on him. I’d tell you to go home and come back in the morning but why waste my breath. Instead, I’ll direct you to the surgical waiting room up on five. Your boy is tough. He should come through fine.”