by Anne Malcom
Found the smiling fucker who worshipped the ground she walked on.
“Glad to see you’re back,” she murmured, winking at him and ignoring her husband. “I’m going to work. You’re going to think about what you’ve done,” she addressed Lucky, turning to look over her shoulder, swaying her hips. “And think of the fact that I’m not wearing any panties.”
Lucky groaned as she walked out the door, actual pain on his face, worse than any of the times the fucker had been shot. Despite his elementary humor, Lucky was one of the strongest people Gage knew. Apart from the bastard’s wife. He had his demons too, but he just smiled at them rather than grimacing.
He watched the doorway for a long time before shaking his head and punching Gage in the shoulder.
“That’s your fault, fucker,” he hissed.
Gage grinned. It hurt, but he did it. “What comes out of your fuckin’ mouth is no one’s fault but your own and you know it.”
Lucky scowled at him, then looked him up and down. “So you’re back from LA? For good?”
Gage had helped Killian head up the chapter in LA, then had taken the VP gavel when Killian gave it up in order to head the security detail for his wife.
No way the kid was going to be apart from his wife after she’d been almost killed by a crazed stalker. She was one of the most famous people in the world, and the safest; not only would Killian make sure nothing happened to her, but she had the Sons of Templar to back her.
But after that shit went down in LA, not even the worst of it, Gage had taken a vacation to someone else’s hell to make sure he didn’t end up in his own.
Rosie’s.
He’d known she’d had something licking at her heels.
Something bad.
Because he’d moved into her place. And he’d seen the very effective cleanup job. Would’ve passed everything but a blue light. But Gage knew when death had touched a room. He knew even better when it had been covered up.
First he’d known she was okay because he’d made sure Wire tapped every fake passport she had, including the third one she thought the club didn’t know about. Her brother might not have known, but Gage did.
He’d found Rosie in the depths of the underworld, using herself as bait to take down human trafficking rings. He didn’t stop her though. She was more than capable, and he suspected it was the only thing that was keeping her together—killing monsters. He knew that better than anyone.
So he let her be.
And then shit had gone down.
Like it always did when people connected to the club had any kind of romantic shit going down.
It worked out in the end.
For Rosie, at least.
They still had the shadow of the Fernandez fucker hanging over them, though Gage was already exploring every option they had on taking him down. Because the fucker had tried to strike the club. No one did that and lived.
Not even one of the most dangerous criminals in the world. Because Gage wasn’t one of the most dangerous. He was the most.
Taking Fernandez down took time.
Patience.
So he took it.
Split his time between Amber and LA. More in LA of late because he got deep in some pussy he shouldn’t have.
“Killian said you had girl trouble,” Lucky said, a grin plastered on his face, as it always was these days. Especially with his wife around. “Now, I heard tales of shootings and explosions. Where is she?” He made a big show of looking around Gage as if he was hiding some bitch behind his back.
Gage folded his arms. “Who?”
“The woman, of course!” Lucky threw up his arms, his eyes touching on his wife, who was talking to Lily in the parking lot. Gage knew the fucker couldn’t go ten seconds without making sure she was still okay when she was in his eye line. Like he was terrified she might fall off the face of the Earth if he didn’t do so. Or maybe because he was terrified he might.
“There is no woman,” Gage said. He did not need a woman who threatened to throw him off the face of the Earth if something happened to her. He’d already had that.
He was happy in Hell, as happy as a man could be being tortured. But he couldn’t do any more. Because he was so fucked up now, the only way he could be happy was if he was being tortured. He wasn’t wishing that on any bitch.
Wide eyes, pale skin, and lilacs entered his mind. He pushed the thought away with disgust.
Lucky frowned. “How is there no woman? There were shootings. Explosions,” he said, speaking of some mild shit that had gone down in their LA chapter as though that explained something.
Gage grinned at his brother, clapping him on the arm. “Bro, just because explosions and shootings meant you’ve found the right woman doesn’t mean the same for me. Just means I’ve found a woman. Or that it was a Tuesday.” He spoke with a careful, casual tone, making sure he didn’t betray just how close that particular woman had been to fucking destroying him.
There was no point in talking of almost destructions.
Shit was put to bed.
She was, at least. The sooner he forgot her, the better.
He’d already fucking forgotten her, which was the problem, since the bitch from last night was proving hard—read: impossible—to forget.
Lucky regarded him, peering at him like he was trying to read Gage’s fuckin’ mind or something. He was convinced that “telepathy was purely a matter of concentration.”
“Nope,” Lucky said finally. “There’s a woman.” He shook his head, grimacing, not aware that he’d all but read Gage’s mind that time. “I’ve got a feeling your courtship is gonna make the rest of ours look like a day at the park.”
Gage narrowed his eyes and readied himself to make his point to Lucky with his fist in his face. It wasn’t the first time, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
A clap on his back was the one thing that stopped him.
He turned to meet the gray eyes of his president.
“You’re back for good, brother?” Cade asked, the corner of his mouth twitching in what everyone knew was his version of a grin.
Before Gage could answer, the mouthy fuck spoke for him.
“He’s got a woman,” Lucky interjected.
Gage readied his fist once more.
Cade’s eyes widened in shock.
Gage knew arguing with the fuck was pointless. Lucky was just as bad—if not worse—than any of the women around there. A dog with a fuckin’ bone. Gage was sure he’d be pickin’ out wedding china or some shit when he got back.
He’d get the picture soon enough.
When no woman entered the picture.
Especially not a fuckin’ woman who smelled like vanilla and lilac, whose hazel eyes seared into him, whose skin needed to be marked by him.
The woman who made his cock rock-hard at the mere thought of her, even with her bloodied face, shapeless clothing and scrunched-up face as he’d roared away from the hospital.
No, not that woman.
Definitely not the crazy bitch he’d left behind in LA either.
“I need the tow truck,” he said instead of replying to Lucky. He’d pretend to ignore him until the bastard started chasing a butterfly or remembered someone he forgot to kill.
Cade’s eyes widened even more. “A tow truck?”
Gage nodded once.
“Why do you need a tow truck?” Lucky asked, raising a brow. “You haven’t been behind one since you prospected, and you shot the last person who tried to make you do anything regarding work with the garage.”
Gage rolled his eyes. “It was a flesh wound. When the fuck are you gonna let that go?”
Lucky folded his arms. “Right around the time you give me the name of your new sweetheart so I can stalk her on Facebook. And in real life if I’m not satisfied with the amount of pictures she has.” He paused. “Or if she has too many. It’s a slippery slope on social media. Too many consecutive selfies mean she’s a narcissist, but not enough means she doesn’t have a friend in th
e world and just sits in her room watching makeup tutorials on YouTube.”
Gage ignored him and focused on an excuse as to why he needed the tow truck.
He didn’t do mechanic work. Not when the garage was merely a front for the illegal gun running before the club went legit, and sure as fuck not now that they’d expanded to yuppie fucks—who they ripped off—with too much money and too much concern about image.
He killed people.
Tortured them.
Made them bleed.
Blew things up.
He didn’t change fuckin’ oil.
But there was a wrecked car on the outskirts of town that needed towing and repairing. And no way was anyone else touching it. It was his.
The thought was concrete in his mind without fully realizing it.
Instead of questioning him, Cade nodded once. Fucker knew not to ask questions when it came to Gage. Plausible deniability and all that. “Keys are in the office.”
Gage didn’t waste any time turning on his heel and striding out the door before Lucky could ask to be the best man at his fucking wedding or some shit.
He liked Bex.
He didn’t want to have to explain to her why he’d shot her husband—for the second time.
Lauren
“Holy shit, Lauren!” Niles, my editor, gaped at me when I took off my dark glasses.
I didn’t exactly want to take them off, but there was no obvious reason for me to be wearing them inside. Unlike Lucy, who had routinely worn huge shades until at least noon on a Monday to “hide the evil daylight,” I wasn’t known for hangovers.
Or drinking at all.
Hence me not being able to pull off the indoor sunglasses look.
I winced at the lights smarting against my eyes. Or more accurately stabbing razorblades into my eyeballs.
The doctors had been reasonably certain that I didn’t have a concussion, though they’d kept me in for monitoring for the rest of the night, just in case.
I was thankful that my job included health insurance for that little stay. I had a sensibly sized nest egg for unforeseen emergencies, but hospital bills added up quickly, and a features editor for a small-town paper didn’t exactly earn a lot.
In this economy, I was lucky to still have a job in journalism. It was a dying industry, and small-town independent publications were set to become extinct in the not-so-distant future.
The only reason why the Amber Star was hanging on was because Amber was different, and one of the many ‘real’ small towns left in America. Despite being in California and on the beach, we were far enough away from LA not to get sucked into that void. Almost all the businesses were owner-operated—we didn’t even have a Starbucks. Every time a big conglomerate came sniffing around, offering too much money to yank away the personality of the town, we closed ranks.
I was sure the money would become too tempting in the future. It always did. Then big business would bastardize our town so it looked like the rest of the world.
And all the rest of the small-town newspapers in America were getting killed off in the name of progress. In the monopolizing of the media industry, the monopolizing of the freaking country.
So my job wasn’t exactly secure; it was only a matter of time. And I didn’t want to leave Amber. I loved my hometown, even if my parents had moved away… after.
There were too many memories for them there, they said. For me, it was the memories that kept me going, made that weight on my chest light enough to at least breathe around.
So I wasn’t about to let go of my town, my memories. I was going to clutch onto them with vigor for as long I was gainfully employed and could afford to live in Amber.
Hence me walking into the office the morning they discharged me from the hospital with instructions to ‘take it easy’ and gave me a handful of pill bottles—all of which I’d thrown out. I wasn’t about to miss a day of work when things were already precarious for every single person in the office. Niles had to lay off two people in as many months. We were down to a skeleton crew.
I had enough time to get a taxi home, having already called the sheriff from the hospital about my wrecked car sitting six miles out of town. It was only proper to let them know before someone happened upon it, abandoned, they looked up my plates, suspected the worst and then called my parents.
They may have recovered from the wounds of the past, but I didn’t think they would’ve been able to handle a call from a police officer letting them know they’d found their daughter’s crashed car with no sign of said daughter.
And it was also a hazard. I’d swerved enough to get myself fully off the road and fully into this situation in the first place, but still, it was a distraction. Even if that road wasn’t exactly well traveled, especially in the early hours of the morning.
I’d been doing the last of my long-haul drive from Phoenix, determined to get home before work Monday so I didn’t have to take a vacation day. I hadn’t been overly tired, as I’d planned my stops well—I was overly alert if anything. Which caused me to notice the dog that had scampered onto the road to nibble on some roadkill and for me to swerve to avoid hitting it.
The number one rule my father taught me was to “never swerve for animals. They’re not as precious as you are.” But instinct had prevailed. This was not a raccoon or a squirrel. It was a dog.
One that was nowhere to be found after I’d wrenched myself out of my car and discovered that my phone had been smashed beyond repair in the crash.
Hence me walking.
Because the other option was to wait for someone to come by, and at that hour of the night, on that particular road, my odds were slim. I hadn’t been severely injured, and the walk was roughly six miles. I was fit, and I could’ve made it.
Until—don’t think of him.
The officer who’d taken my call assured me they’d get someone out as soon as possible to tow my car and retrieve my belongings.
Above and beyond the call of local law enforcement, but that was how things were done here. Especially since the local police had less crime to fight now that the Sons of Templar had gone legitimate. Well, they hadn’t exactly fought it in the past, thanks to an uneasy agreement between Bill—the previous sheriff—and the club. The agreement that was shredded when Luke made sheriff. He had been determined to take the club down, but after a fair amount of drama, they were still standing and Luke wasn’t the sheriff anymore. Now he was part of the biker family.
“Lauren!” Niles demanded, as I’d obviously not answered his first cried word.
I jumped, the movement sending shoots of agony down my aching body. In addition to the head wound, every single part of me screamed in pain. It was normal with a car accident, my doctor told me. I had known that already, since the trauma a body went through even in a minor car accident was enough to cause considerable pain for up to a month.
I merely had to grit my teeth through it.
Likely the medication I’d thrown out would’ve taken the edge off, but I didn’t do anything to take the edge off.
I dealt. I was used to being cut from the hard edges of life.
“It’s nothing.” I waved in dismissal before the entire office crowded around me.
They were already staring, and I wasn’t used to that.
I continued to stride to my desk, sinking down to hide while Niles followed and continued to gape at me.
“Nothing? You’ve got a gash on your head and a bruised eye. That’s not nothing. Who did this to you? I’ll kill them,” he hissed.
I suppressed a laugh. My balding, fifty-year-old, tweed vest–wearing, spectacled editor was going to kill someone? The man had fight when it came to words and stories, but strictly on paper. Never in real life.
“Well my car is already pretty dead, so you don’t have to kill it,” I assured him, tapping at my screen and navigating to my email so I could inform my insurance company of my car’s untimely death. Driver error was covered in my policy, which was comprehensi
ve. Sensible.
I hoped they’d get it sorted quickly. I could technically walk from my apartment to the office—as I’d done after a lightning-quick shower to wash the hospital grime off me that morning—but I needed a car. We were downsizing at the paper, which meant I had to cover stories, which weren’t always located within the town limits.
“You crashed?” Niles exclaimed, shock painting his face. “You?”
I smiled. He knew me well since I’d been working there almost straight out of college. Well, after my break from college, and reality.
Niles knew my thoughts about safety. He’d driven in a car with me once and told me that his “dead grandmother would not only drive faster, but she’d thank you for how safe you’re keeping her grandson, since it’s impossible to crash at fifteen miles per hour.”
I nodded. “Me.”
He leaned on my desk, taking his glasses off to clean them on the bottom of his shirt. “Well, who was the idiot who crashed into you?” he demanded. “Were they drunk? Are they paying for repairs? I hope the police brought them in.”
I could see the wheels turning in his head as his cheeks reddened and he prepared for one of his famous rants.
He hated injustice, and he made it his mission to get loud and borderline hysterical in order to right it.
I smiled once more. “The idiot happens to be me and my aversion for killing canines,” I told him.
He squinted at me through his newly cleaned glasses, pausing his temper tantrum.
“I swerved for a dog,” I explained, sighing. “Not something you’re meant to do, but I also couldn’t handle killing a dog. I figured on that patch of road, going my ‘dead grandmother speed,’ my injuries wouldn’t be serious.” I shrugged, failing to hide my flinch at the pain that came with the motion. “And they’re not. Serious, that is.” I screwed up my nose. “Though I would like to find that dog.”
I’d been worrying about it all night. Mostly in an effort to distract myself from being left bleeding at the curb by my not-so-shining knight in leather.
It had hurt more than I liked to admit.
And I was thinking about my body pressed to his more than I would like to admit, as well.