Wild Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 2)

by Lydia Pax

  He backed up and backed up, slipping around the storage facility, circling her. The blood from the wound in his shoulder poured down his shirt.

  “Stop it,” she said. “Stop fucking moving or I will kill you, I swear to god!”

  Randall stopped and looked up at her. “Sweetie,” he said, gathering his legs up underneath himself. “This has all gotten so out of control. I just...I just wanted to talk to you, you see? You wouldn't talk to me. You wouldn't hear my side, do you understand? I just wanted to be heard. I just wanted—”

  He twisted and leapt forward, roaring for blood. She barely had time to register that the box cutter was in his hands—he must have picked it up—when she reacted.

  Helen fired and fired—shooting around him, landing one in his knee, and another in his stomach, and a last one in his chest.

  But Randall kept going. Face twisted. Possessed. He raged—and Helen knew he was going to kill her. The gun was empty, and Randall approached still, bloody and contorted with anger. The box cutter's razors shone in the dim light.

  There was a sound—sudden and heavy—as the door banged upward and opened. Beretta.

  Randall spun, growling now at the intruder. Instantly, Beretta raised his gun and shot him in the head.

  She’d never been so happy to see him in all her life.

  Chapter 37

  For several minutes, she hugged Beretta tight—needing to feel him, needing to feel that he was really there, that this wasn't some dream.

  Maybe she would have been able to hold off Randall while he bled out...but maybe not. She had definitely done in for him, definitely killed him even if he had still been on his feet. But Beretta had made sure that Helen didn't get hurt, and for that, she was grateful.

  “Are you okay?” he asked finally, leading her out from the storage unit.

  It took her a long time to answer. She was too occupied with holding him, with feeling his body. God, he felt good. He smelled good. Everything about him was good—even the bad parts.

  “Yes,” she said. “At least, I will be. I think.”

  “Good.”

  He took her by the shoulders and led her out of the storage facility toward the parking lot. Away from the blood, away from the smell. Outside, in the moonlight, he looked her over—checking her wrists, her mouth, her throat. His touch was sure, but gentle. Her entire body warmed to his touch.

  Pure fucking danger. That’s what Beretta was.

  She had thought it before, but she hadn’t put it together all at once. Not just danger for others—not just a total badass who could beat and dominate anyone he came across.

  But danger for her. Danger for her soul. Danger for the way that he could burn her up inside and fill her with nothing but need. Danger for the way she knew she could never trust him again after the way he had treated her.

  And danger for the way she wanted to trust him, wanted to believe in him, wanted to know that she could rely on him.

  That was pure danger, right there, and she didn’t know what to do about it. Why was it that all she could think to do was embrace it? Make it part of herself?

  Beretta ran his thumb down her cheek. “Really did a number on you, didn't he?”

  “Yes,” she said. “He wanted to do more.”

  “You stopped him, though.”

  “I think it was you who stopped him.”

  Beretta shrugged. “Maybe. You looked like you had pretty well put him away.”

  “Well.” She put a hand through her hair, stepping farther away from the facility. “I'm glad you were there, in any case.”

  “Me too.”

  They walked out to his bike. Locke was parked next to it, his head resting against the steering wheel. Helen, anger flaring, strode up to the window and banged it with her open palm.

  Locke surged upward, looking at her in confusion. Then he smiled.

  “Hey! You're okay!”

  “Stay awake, dingus,” she said. “Don't fall asleep with a concussion. Come on.”

  “Oh,” he nodded. “Right. Okay.”

  He got out the car, standing up and stretching. That satisfied Helen. Then Beretta walked over to Locke and took him by the shoulders. For one horrible moment Helen thought they were going to fight again, and that she was going to have to kick Beretta's ass for trying to beat up a concussed man.

  Beretta embraced Locke, though, taking him into his arms in a quick, tight hug.

  “Thank you, Locke,” he said. “Thank you for calling me. Thank you for looking after her.”

  “Sure, man. Sure. Of course.” Locke seemed rather surprised by this. When Beretta let him go, Locke patted him on the shoulder. “What's a brother for, huh?”

  Beretta patted him back—masculinity reaffirmed—and then sat down on his bike. Helen followed him and sat down directly next to him, putting an arm around his waist and let her head collapse into his chest. He was warm and strong and everything she wanted to feel.

  There hadn't been any indecision for him. He'd heard she was in danger and came right away, planning as he traveled. That was something she could rely on. Someone she could rely on.

  “Jordan,” he said. “Jordan Hancock.”

  “Who's that?”

  “You wanted to know my real name. There it is.”

  She let out a small “huh” sound. “I wouldn't have thought it would be Jordan.” She smiled. “It's nice.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Beretta. “About everything. I was afraid that by keeping you close, you would be in danger. Instead...you were in more danger.”

  “You can’t control my life, Jordan.”

  “I know that. I just...I want you safe. I can’t stand the thought of losing you again. I love you too much for that.”

  It took them both a moment to realize what he said.

  “You love me?” she asked. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “I just...that’s hard to take all the way seriously. I know you’re serious. But I know you’re still hung up on Madeline. You told me yourself you still had feelings for her.”

  He was quiet for a moment before answering. “I have been broken up about her for a long time. I won’t lie to you, Helen. When she died, it broke my heart. I had to learn how to live again, and that took a lot of doing.”

  “So you just wanted me to be her all along. You wanted me to be this dead woman for you.”

  “No, I—”

  “I won’t do it, Beretta. I’m not her. I am sorry, truly I am, for your loss. And I'm sorry that I left you. It breaks me up inside. It was the dumbest thing I ever did. But it doesn’t matter how hard you kiss me, I’m not going to be some woman that you’re still not over. I don’t care if—”

  “I love you, Helen. And I loved her. And I know you’re not her. I’m glad you’re not. I have a lot of feelings about her, and they’re not all gone. I can’t help that. What kind of man would I be if I could turn my heart off like that? Would you want to be with someone like that?”

  “I’m...”

  No was the answer. She wouldn’t.

  But her fears were still real.

  “I’m not some replacement. I’m nobody’s consolation prize.”

  “You sure as shit aren’t. I love you, like I said. And yeah, you really reminded me of her at first, before I knew you. Who you are. All your strengths. All your weaknesses. But I know those now. I know how different you are. I love you all the same. I just...” he shrugged, smiling. “I have a type, all right? Can’t fault a man for that.”

  “And what type is that?”

  “Strong. Smart. Beautiful. I’m even content with two out of three. But you nailed the whole jackpot. I’m pretty much helpless when it comes to you.”

  “I thought I was your property.”

  “Let me correct myself.” He took her by the throat. Her center heated up instantly. This was the touch she craved. This was the way she needed to feel. “I’m helpless to do anything but fuck the shit out of you.”

  He kiss
ed her, sizzling hot and hard, his tongue forcing into her mouth, his hand pulling her face against his. Every part of her felt warm and alive; she needed this man, needed his strength, needed his danger and his badness.

  Nothing but danger, and nothing but what she wanted.

  Her hand ran across his crotch, feeling him stiff there, ready, willing. Always, he was so ready to fuck her—just like he said. A dynamo. She needed that energy.

  And his cock. She needed that too, for sure.

  Every last part of him was perfect—not perfect for the world, but perfect for her.

  The kiss broke off slowly, their lips both wet with the other's desire. She cradled his face in her hands, staring deep into his eyes.

  “Jordan...I love you, too.”

  They embraced again, and this time Helen forgot about the rest of the world—thinking that no doubt he would fuck her, would make love to her for the first time. Make love to her the way she longed for all this time, knowing his name, knowing what to cry out, knowing that his only thought was her.

  And then, Locke cleared his throat. He had approached from behind, stepping out from the SUV.

  “I hate to break up your party,” he said, looking a bit embarrassed to have stopped them. “But we have a big fucking problem still. The Cartel is going to kill us the next time they see us unless we give them money...and we don't have any to give.”

  Chapter 38

  They met back up with Tank in the parking lot of a fast food joint near the edge of the city. There was no use keeping tabs on Ivan, not anymore. The opportunity they had been given was gone, and probably that was a good thing too. It hadn't been a good shot and it would have left Tank and Beretta both dead.

  Beretta could see that now. He could see a lot of things.

  He'd been a damned fool. There had been better ways to communicate with Ace, with Locke, with everyone. Better ways to be a good man than to try and take control of every last detail. He could trust more than that; he was better than that.

  He would be better than that.

  It was deep in the night—or early in the morning, as it were—and none of them had slept for a long time. They were tired and beat up, and not a single one of the ragtag assembly was anywhere near one hundred percent.

  All the same, they were what they had.

  And what Beretta had—as always—was a plan. He'd been so concerned about the people around him dying for so long that he didn't even treat them like they were alive. But he could see the folly of that now—could see what he had to do to take control of the situation.

  And so, he explained his plan to Tank, Locke, and Helen. As he did, Helen's grip on his arm became tighter—he could tell she didn't like it.

  “...and I already spoke with the Cartel,” Beretta finished. “They'll be there. Right on schedule. We have to be there too.”

  “You're really serious about this?” said Tank. “You're just going to walk straight in there?”

  “I don't see that I've got much of a choice.”

  “What about the rest of us?” asked Locke. “What about Ace?”

  “Ace will be safe so long as we do this quick. Without him, we need a leader. So I'm leading. That all right with you guys?”

  Locke nodded. “Sure thing, boss.”

  Tank, though, seemed surprised at the question, shrugging out of habit. “You've seemed to want the job anyway.”

  “That's not what I asked. Are you all right with me leading? I don't want to force it on you. I respect you too much for that.”

  On the highway, cars passed. People living lives that had nothing to do with this heap of trouble. Tank shoved his hands in his pockets and sighed.

  “Sure,” he said, smiling. “One suicide plan is as good as the other.”

  “Good enough,” said Beretta. “All right, then. I want you both on the outside of the Belle until it goes sideways. And it will go sideways. That we know it and they don't is our advantage.”

  “How will we know when that happens?” asked Tank.

  “Trust me,” said Beretta. “You'll know.”

  There was nothing left for them but to walk straight into the lion's den. A fool could see that. If they ran, they would be found—and they'd have nothing anyway. Better to die fighting than to be run down somewhere in the middle of nowhere, living a life in fear.

  “What do you think?” he asked Helen.

  She was beautiful and smart and confident, and he loved her for all of that. For everything she was. It felt so goddamn good to stop denying himself, to stop denying her. He loved her fire. He loved her grit.

  He loved her.

  Closeness to him didn't have to be a death sentence. He could make sure of it. He would make her happy and safe, forever.

  “I think you're the dumbest smart man I've ever met.”

  Beretta smiled. “I'll take that as a compliment.”

  “Like I said.” Helen smiled back. “Dumbest smart man.”

  “All right.” Beretta clapped his hands. “Time's wasting. I have to make one more phone call. There's a man who's gonna to be dying to know about this meeting.”

  Chapter 39

  In the early morning, the Hell's Belle was a much different animal than it was in the evenings. The bar was sparsely populated—only the drunkest of the drunks and the workers remained. The drunks were asleep at the bar, slumped on their stools. The workers shambled from one table to the next, wiping them down and setting up the chairs.

  When Beretta entered, he was patted down thoroughly by two large men with shotguns—the same bodyguards that had been flanking Ivan the night before. The taste of chocolate was on his mouth.

  He'd stopped at a gas station before arriving to quickly down a chunky bar of the stuff. If he was going to die, by god, he was going to do it with something sweet in his stomach. The small boost of caffeine from the chocolate wired his thoughts and made everything a little bit more focused.

  Ivan himself was set up at a table, waiting patiently and smoking a cigar. A tall glass of whiskey was in front of him, the bottle on the table mostly empty. The liquor's brand was expensive—Ivan had money to spare.

  “I don't see what the point of this is,” said Ivan. “I told you to get out of my town. You know I'm just going to kill you, don't you? You're not really giving me much of a choice.”

  “Maybe,” said Beretta. “Honestly, I think if you were going to kill me, you would have done it already. You don't want a war with the Wrecking Crew. And I made a couple of calls, and they know you're after us. If we die, if we disappear, they'll know who's done it.”

  Ivan took this without much reaction.

  “Then we go to war,” he said. “The kind of bankroll I got? I could go to war with ten gangs like yours.”

  “Maybe so,” said Beretta. “Even if that's true, if you want me dead, you'll have to get in line.”

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  Answering his question, a long luxury Cadillac pulled up from outside. Beretta could see it arrive through the dirty glass windows of the Belle. Its heavy engine rumbled off, and after a few moments, two tall men in expensive suits walked into the bar. They were Hispanic and wore thick, dark sunglasses.

  “Who the fuck is this?” said Ivan. “Did you bring...is that the fucking Cartel you brought in my bar? In my bar?”

  Ivan's bodyguards tried to pat them down—and were quickly rebuffed. Seeing this happen, Ivan reluctantly let them come forward.

  Beretta smiled and called the men over. They sat down at the table and straightened themselves simultaneously. Their guns were visible in the shoulder holsters beneath their jackets.

  “You don't know me,” said Beretta. “You did all your dealings with my Prez, Ace. But still, you know that I owe you money.”

  The Cartel men nodded. Their faces cold and stoic.

  “I want you to know that we had your money. But this man,” he pointed at Ivan, “stole it from us. So we can't pay you back. If you have any beef with us, you
should take it up with him.”

  The Cartel men looked at Ivan and then back at Beretta. Ivan, hearing this, started laughing. A little tear streamed down one eye and down his cheek and he banged the table.

  “You can't be fucking serious,” said Ivan. “That's your plan? That's how you're getting out of trouble? Jesus Christ. Doesn't everyone call you the smart one in your little group? Aren't you the man with the plan?”

  He laughed still, slapping the Cartel men on the back. They smiled, unsure. Their guns were right within their grasp and there was no doubt in his mind they'd killed before. If they drew, he'd be dead in a heartbeat.

  “I tell you what. You boys speak English pretty good, right?” They nodded and Ivan tapped the table. “Yeah, I stole money from him. Fair and square. He owes you cash? Fine. How about I pay you double what he owes you to kill this fucker for me? How's that? How's that for a war, Beretta?”

  The war wasn't quite started yet.

  There was another rumbling outside—this one deeper and heavier than what the Cartel had arrived. Like there was a train rolling by just outside. The nearest tracks were on the other side of town, but the rumbling was nearer by the second.

  Outside, they could hear gunfire—hard staccato shots bouncing off heavy metal. The rumbling continued to close on the bar. Metal crunched and explosions sounded. Ivan and the Cartel stood up, facing the wall. Beretta, having an idea of what was coming, was the only one to start running to the back of the bar.

  A fully-armored APC broke through the wall of the bar, tearing it apart. Bodies flew everywhere. Sparks showered and smoke gathered as appliances were split apart, wiring was uncovered, and small fires started congregating like church members after a prayer.

  This was Beretta's cavalry. His plan, the whole time, was to group all his enemies together and hope that somehow he could thrive in the chaos. His plan was to create as much of an absence of a plan as possible. It made a certain sort of poetic sense to him after all his other plans had gotten so horribly busted.

  He was dead anyway if he didn't do this; he figured it was as good a shot at any at sorting the mess out.