Outlaw's Salvation (A Viper’s Bite MC Novel Book 2): A Bad Boy MC Romance (Viper's Bite MC)

by Lena Bourne

  “We’re staying here?” I ask, looking at the motel and then at him, and back at the motel. “What about getting hepatitis and all that? I’m sure this is the perfect place for it.”

  He parks the car in front of what is probably the main office. “It’ll be fine. I spent a couple of nights here once, after an argument with my mom.” When I look at him again, his face is completely serious. “Besides, cops don’t come to places like this.”

  The way he says it, not so much what he’s saying, chills me to the bone. I hand him the cash I got out of the ATM at the gas station, but he shakes his head.

  “My fifty will take care of this.”

  Then he’s gone, and even though this will probably be the dirtiest motel room anyone’s ever seen, I can’t wait to be alone with him.

  But even my desire wanes as we enter our room. It’s smells like a barn that someone’s spilled bleach all over, and there’s a trail of brown spots on the wallpaper over the bed that looks a lot like blood spatter.

  “I’ll take a shower now,” he says. “You make yourself comfortable.”

  I don’t even want to look at anything in this room, let alone touch it. He must read that in my face, because he smiles, digs in his pocket and hands me a quarter, inclining his head towards the bed. “I think that’s one of those vibrating beds. Why don’t you give it a try?”

  I take the quarter, and even look for a place to put it, before I realize I’d rather not lie down on that bed. By then he’s in the bathroom, and I hear the shower running through the thin walls.

  I walk over and knock, leaning against the door. “Do you need some help in there? You know, because of the bandages.”

  I can hear the water running, but he’s not answering.

  “Brett?”

  “I got it, Sam, I’ll be right out.” That should be a happy prospect, but somehow it feels sadder than a week of rain.

  I’m sitting on the edge of the bed when he comes out wearing a clean pair of boxers, droplets of water still covering his torso, his hair wet and slicked back. He peels off the black plastic garbage bag he wrapped around his bandage and tosses it on the floor, then walks to the window. “Your turn.”

  I wish we could do some more kissing now, but I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that I haven’t showered in two days.

  “OK, yeah” I say and kneel beside my suitcase to get some fresh clothes. I can feel his eyes linger on my back like he’s touching me, but when I turn he’s looking out the window.

  “Do you have my phone?” he asks as I straighten up.

  And my urge not to give it up is strong, but I resist, hand it over then go into the bathroom. I’d much rather not touch anything in here, and I really wish I bought some towels along with the toothbrush, but it’s too late to worry about that, and I need this shower. Still, it’s the fastest one I’ve ever taken, and I don’t take off my flip-flops.

  When I come out, wrapped in just a towel, Brett’s still standing by the window, the phone pressed to his ear. But he’s not talking to anyone, and hangs up when he sees me. The look he gives me is longing that goes much deeper than mere desire, floods every pore of my being, pools somewhere deep in my belly, and pulls me towards him with a force I can’t fight.

  But he just lays his hands on my arms, and looks so deep in my eyes I feel like I’m floating in that pool of desire, getting sucked down by the whirlwinds, unable to breathe, unable to reach solid ground. But I don’t want to.

  We should be kissing, but instead he releases me. “We should get some sleep now.”

  He turns back to the window, picks up his phone again and dials.

  I don’t know what’s happening, but it doesn’t feel like it’s a good thing, and my hands are actually shaking as I rummage through my suitcase to find something to wear. I wish I’d packed some sweats, because I want as little of my skin to touch the surfaces in this room as possible, but I didn’t, so in the end I just put on my maxi beach dress and a tunic. Wearing all that to bed might be too hot, but the AC seems to be working fine.

  He curses suddenly and tosses the phone on the bed.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, walking closer.

  “My mom’s not picking up,” he says, turning to face me. We’re standing so close our bodies are almost touching. But something’s wrong. So wrong, I’m getting panicked, my heart starting to race and my chest constricting.

  “We need to talk,” he finally says, and the words hit me like a ton of iron.

  “Do we?” I ask sarcastically, not even sure what I’m fearing, but I know it’s terrible. He could tell me to leave again. I mean that’s how we left it before it all went to hell, and he was shot and we had to flee Mexico, but now all that’s behind us, and he’s probably thinking rationally again and he’s gonna tell me to leave, because that might be for the best, he has to run, evade the law, and I’ll just be slowing him down, and besides I’m way more trouble than I’m worth. I’m an ex-whore, and I already got him shot twice, and I managed to turn the entire Mexican cartel against him too. The speed at which those things are flooding my mind is nauseating, makes the room spin around me like I’m drunk. I don’t want to talk, I want to fall asleep in his arms, even if it’s on these dirty sheets in this filthy motel room. And I want to wake up in his arms too. Tomorrow and all the days after that.

  “Let’s sit.” He guides me down onto the edge of the bed, and I go willingly, but then he’s just looking at me again, deep into my eyes, until the soft warmth coiling inside me starts assuring me I was just imagining all those imminent bad things to come.

  “Samantha,” he says, my name floating on his voice like the softest feather. “These last few weeks with you have been amazing. The best I ever had. But I can’t stay in the US, and I can’t ever return here. So I’m planning to go up to Canada, and I want you to come with me. But…but it’s your decision. You’ll be tying yourself to a fugitive if you do. That might mean a prison sentence for you too…I’m not sure.”

  The several tons of iron crushing me under their weight, since he started this conversation vanish. I feel weightless, like I’m floating, my body not even connected to my soul anymore.

  “If you can’t do that, I’ll accept it,” he continues. “Though in that case I’ll first go back to Mexico and make sure you never have to worry about those bastards again.”

  “No!” I finally find my voice. He’ll get killed if he does. I can’t live without him.

  “No?” he asks sadly, reaching out to touch my face, but changing his mind before his fingers connect with my skin.

  “I won’t let you get killed for me,” I clarify, the disconnect in the conversation dawning on me. “But it’s a yes to everything else. I’ll go anywhere with you, just as long as you’ll have me. I’ve done some bad things myself, and you don’t care about that, do you? We can fix this, we can make it work. We just, we just…we just need to stay together.”

  He shakes his head, though his chest is rising and falling fast, like he’s excited. “It’s probably not that simple.”

  “Yes, Brett, it is,” I say nodding my head, and looking directly into his eyes now, willing him to understand. “You’re the only man who has ever made me feel this way, feel love and belonging, made me wish I could have a family, and I’m not about to just let that go easily. Unless there’s another reason you’re saying this. Are you just getting tired of me?”

  I can’t believe I asked that, and I’m trembling now as I wait for his answer.

  “I’ll never get tired of you,” he says, shaking his head, but he didn’t even have to speak it. That softness in his eyes never left all the while we were talking, and it’s even fluffier now, so that answer was written plain in his eyes as he looked into mine. “You’re an amazing and beautiful woman, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

  “Then it’s settled. I still think my dad can make your problem go away, but if you say Canada then Canada it is. I respect your wishes, and I’ll go anywhere w
ith you. We’re both free like that, I think.”

  He cups my cheeks, leans in and kisses me, and its like all that fluffiness in his eyes is inside me now, filling me to the brink, wrapping itself around my soul, making me feel lighter than air again. I don’t want this kiss to ever end. Like literally never.

  But it does, and then he’s just staring into my eyes again, nodding very slowly. “Samantha, I’d love to continue this, but I’m so tired I’m about to pass out.”

  I laugh, the sound filling the entire room like the chirping of birds. Which is fitting, since everything inside me is bouncing in joy. And I’d love nothing more than to keep kissing, let him take my clothes off, lie naked with him on the bed, even though it’s the filthiest I’ve ever seen. But he looks very pale, and I’m tired too.

  So I just nod, and pull down the covers. Then we lie down and I nestle into his arms. The sheets are rough and the strong smell of bleach is burning the inside of my nose, yet I don’t want to be anywhere but right here.

  BRETT

  I slept like a fucking baby after she said she’d come to Canada with me. But now, watching the cold dawn break, it doesn’t seem like such a great idea. She could get arrested for it, sent to jail for a long time for aiding and abetting a fugitive. What kind of a man am I, letting her risk that?

  Probably no better than the one fucking that woman in the adjacent room. Her screams and the headboard banging against the wall woke me, but Sam is still sleeping. And I used to be that guy. More than once. But now I’m so in love, I can’t even take my eyes off her for more than a second. So letting her go is not an option. We’ll stay hidden, it’s the only choice we have.

  The painkiller shot they gave me at the hospital is starting to wear off, and we should leave this place soon. It’s almost six thirty. In a minute I’ll call my mother again. I left so many messages for her, she’d probably call back by now, if she wanted to talk to me. But then again, she’s always been a very stubborn woman, and maybe she wants to punish me some more for getting into all that trouble. But she also never learned to use a cell phone beyond dialing a number. Maybe she didn’t get my voicemails. That means I’ll have to apologize all over again in person, even though I’ve done it five times already on the recording. But I’m stubborn too.

  I dial her number again, and this time the robotic voice of the answering service informs me there’s no more space to leave a message. Which means she hasn’t even listened to any of the ones I left last night.

  Fine, two can play that game. I have her neighbor’s number. If my mom won’t take my messages willingly, there are other ways to get her to talk to me. It’s not even about the money I left with her. I’m leaving, might never be back. This could be the last chance I have of seeing my mother and saying goodbye. She’s nearly 66 years old after all.

  I don’t realize just how very early in the morning it actually is until a very sleepy lady answers the phone.

  “Hello, Ma’am. I’m sorry to wake you,” I say. “This is Brett Williams, Maggie’s son. She’s not answering her phone. Do you think you could go check on her?”

  There’s a gasp, followed by the sound of things being shifted in the background and the bed creaking.

  “Would that be possible?” I ask again. “I would very much appreciate it.”

  “Her son, you say?” the lady says, clearing her throat. “She said you might call one day. She also said not to tell you anything, but I think that’s wrong.”

  She sounds like my annoying third grade teacher right now. “Tell me what?”

  “Your mother doesn’t live here anymore,” the lady says. “She…she has…”

  She sounds like she’s choking on her own words, and it’s really pissing me off. Just like my third grade teacher always did.

  “She has what?” I ask too harshly.

  “Pancreatic cancer, end stage,” the lady says sternly, then continues more softly. “She moved to a hospice about three weeks ago.”

  “Which hospice, where?” if I just focus on the facts it’ll be alright. But once I write down the address and say goodbye to the lady, it all comes at me in a whoosh.

  Cancer. Terminal. Hospice. I fucked up my life so bad that my elderly mother, who raised me single-handedly and sacrificed practically everything for me including moving here to Arizona, away from all her friends, so I’d reconsider joining the MC, had to go to a hospice to die. Because her no good son was nowhere around to take care of her. And I can’t even go see her without risking death row. If the cops are waiting for me anywhere, then it’s by my mother’s hospice bed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  BRETT

  I don’t know how much time’s passed since I got the news, but the sun’s shining outside and it’s time to go.

  I shake Sam lightly and she stirs, but she doesn’t open her eyes until I call her name.

  She jerks and flinches a little at first, but once her eyes find mine she smiles, sits up and stretches.

  “I feel so rested,” she says then yawns loudly. “How long did we sleep?”

  “All night,” I tell her. I left the phone by the window and I have no idea what time it is.

  Her eyes lock on mine shrewdly, the sleepiness gone. “What’s wrong, Brett?”

  I’m sure she thinks I’m about to break up with her again, like she did last night when I told her about Canada. And the fact that she notices, that she cares enough to get angry, is amazingly comforting. But she’s not gonna like what I’m about to tell her.

  “My mother’s at a hospice,” I say. “She’s dying, and I have to go see her.”

  She gasps, covering her mouth with her palm and looking at me with wide eyes, because she’s a very smart woman and she connected the dots already, but I still have to make it clear. “I might get arrested when I do.”

  Her eyes get even wider if that’s possible, but her hands are no longer covering her mouth, they’ve found mine and are squeezing it tightly, painfully even, like she’s never gonna let go, like she can’t. And that’s a painful thought, because she might have to, but it’s also making me feel better, in as much as a handshake can offset the prospect of spending the rest of my life in jail.

  She’s nodding, or more like swaying her head from side to side, and not saying anything.

  “What are you thinking?” I finally ask, since I can’t figure it out on my own.

  She stops swaying her head, and inclines it to the side, looking at me. “OK, well, my first idea would be to get my dad to move her somewhere—“

  “No, that’s—“ she stops me speaking by laying her hand over her mouth, and smiling serenely.

  “But, that’s not something you’d agree to, I know,” she continues. “So I suggest we get all dressed up and go there pretending we’re someone else. Like her niece and nephew or something. I clean up really nice, and I’m sure you do too. You’ve been wanted for a while, right?”

  I nod. “For about a year…since the MC broke up.”

  “So the cops are probably not still following your mom around, right? They probably left instructions to call them when you show up or something.” She’s smiling at me now, her eyes sparkling like the ocean under the midday sun. Or like diamonds. If diamonds were blue. Which they’re not, but her eyes are even prettier than those.

  “You have a very intimate knowledge of police procedures,” I say, brushing her sleep-mussed hair down against her head with my hand.

  “Like I said, I watch a lot of thrillers, and real-life crime documentaries,” she says, the smile all but faded off her lips. “What do you think about my plan?”

  “Well, it’s worth a shot,” I say and grin at her. It might work. It might not. But at least she’s willing to try with me, at least she’s not kicking and screaming and telling me I can’t go see my mom, since I’ll get arrested, like pretty much all of my exes would be doing right now. Sam’s levelheadedness is amazing too, just like the rest of her is.

  I could fumble around for words to explain
all that to her, and how much she means to me, but that could take awhile. So I just grab her and kiss her, for a long time and like it’s the last time. Which I hope to God it’s not.

  SAMANTHA

  We’ve been in this plush dressing room of a fancy department store for almost an hour, and he’s still refusing to get anything of what I’m forcing him to try on. I’m about ready to lose it. I’ve picked out the flowery, flowing summer dress and flats I’m wearing ages ago.

  “Seriously, Brett,” I say exasperatedly. “You can pay me back every cent for all this and buy me a couple of dresses and purses besides once we’re done with this. But just decide which outfit you want already.”

  He’s wearing a white button down shirt and khaki pants, but he’s more interested in checking out his clean-shaven face in the mirror. I’m more interested in doing that too, because, oh my God, he’s got the best looking face I’ve ever seen on a guy. I was pretty sure about that from checking out his ID photo while I waited in line to cross the border, but photos just don’t tell the whole story. And I was a little nervous about seeing him without a beard when I dragged him to the barber, but there was absolutely no need. The hard part will be deciding whether I want him to grow the beard back or not. His curly hair is slicked back into a man bun at the back of his head, and I think it looks great, but he’s been complaining a lot about that too.

  He steps back from the mirror and examines his full reflection. “I guess this is as good as it’s gonna get,” he finally says, then turns to face me. “But is this how you want me? Because I’d never pick any of this out for myself. I’m not the guy who dresses like this.”

  Is that what he’s worried about? He doesn’t need to be. I want him exactly like he looked that first night I saw him at the club. In old washed out jeans and t-shirt, his hair unkempt and unruly. In fact, I have the hardest time stopping myself from going over there and messing it up right now.