Tropical Tryst: 25 All New and Exclusive Sexy Reads

by Nicole Morgan

  She stops and yanks her hand from my grasp. It slips out easily, because we're both so wet.

  "I'm not going anywhere!" she yells. "I'm staying right here! And if you won't stay with me—"

  "What are you doing?" I ask, interrupting her because I know the end of that sentence, and I don't want her to tell me to get lost. Ever. Can't hear those words from her. Because I love her more than I remember loving my mother, or Father O'Reilly. "Is this just some long, drawn out suicide attempt, Chloe? Because you failed the first time? You don't owe anyone your life. It's yours. You didn't do anything wrong."

  "I owe it to these kids to take care of them. I promised them I would, and I'm going to," she says, anger flashing from her eyes. "And who are you to question me, or make jokes about the darkest moment of my life? You don't know me, not really, not yet, anyway. But clearly you had no intention of sticking around unless things were just peachy and we could spend our days fucking and not worrying about a damn thing. I should've known. I can't believe I believed you, or trusted you."

  Those are some heavy words, but I provoked them by mentioning her suicide attempt and that part's on me. But I have no intention of standing here arguing with her, because with women and the way they do it, that could take days.

  "Calm the fuck down and listen to some sense, Chloe," I say regretting it the second her eyes flash an even deeper angry gold, but there's no taking it back. "No small fish ever fucks with the cartel, or enters into deals with them. They get killed if they try. I can't protect you here, all I can do is die with you. But I don't want to do that, and I don't want to lose you. Please just believe me, Chloe. I've dealt with cartel assholes before, I know what I'm talking about."

  "I'm staying, Rider," she says and walks past me, slipping and almost falling into the mud. "And if you don't want to stay here with me, then you can just leave. I don't need you. I'll be fine without you."

  She went and fucking said it. Told me to get lost because I'm not needed, not wanted. And I'll be god damned if I'll ever stick around for anyone who's just fine without me. Or risk my life for someone like that. I loved my mother too, and that shit faded to nothing. Hell, I even mostly forgot about Father O'Reilly until being here brought all those memories back. I'll forget Chloe and my love for her too. Fast, most likely, since she's right, we don't know each other very well at all.

  I wait in the rain until she disappears into her bungalow, then go down to get my stuff from mine. Most of my shit is in her bungalow, but it's all replaceable and I won't dignify this departure with a goodbye. She'll be just fine without me. And in a couple of days, it'll be like we never met. Just me and the open road. The only thing I could ever trust not to let me down.

  CHAPTER 11

  RIDER

  The rain stopped by the time I reached the top of the first hill on my way from the orphanage to where ever. So I just kept going, rode until the afternoon gave way to dusk and night gave way to morning again. Thought of nothing, felt nothing, was aware of nothing, but my headlight fighting the darkness. My tires and the pavement, the wind whizzing by, were making a symphony, which is different on every road I ride, yet always the same at it's core, and the only certainty in my life. The only safe haven.

  I took the long way here, but now I'm on a hill overlooking the main harbor in Rio de Janeiro. Jesus Christ, Our Savior is spreading his arms wide over the city below me. He never saved me from shit, maybe because I didn't give my life to him the way I promised I would. I completely forgot about that until right now, but for years I wanted to be a priest just like Father O'Reilly. I'd probably make a bad one, as it turned out. But Jesus has given me the open road, the freedom and peace it brings me. And I'll never try to toss that gift away again like I almost did for Chloe.

  When I left the States, I planned to ride all the way south until the road ended. Then I'd get myself aboard one of those huge cross-oceanic cargo ships, roll my bike into a container, and continue my journey wherever the ship dropped me off. Europe or Asia, it doesn't matter. This world is full of roads, and they're all mine to ride.

  I'm not meant to have a home. The empty road is my only home. I will never again try to change that. This time I learned my lesson well. I've thought about that all the way here, yet I don’t want to begin my descent to the harbor.

  It's not time to leave this road yet, a small voice is telling me inside my mind, has been since I left the orphanage and Chloe behind. But that's just the last echoes of my love for Chloe as it fades.

  But they're loud enough to stop me from going down to the harbor. I passed a run-down roadside shack of a bar a few miles back. A couple of Harleys were parked out front, and I almost stopped right then and there, to have a drink with my brothers from another country. As much as MCs fight each other, there is a sense of brotherhood and loyalty that stretches beyond mere allegiance to our clubs. We all share the love of the open road, and it makes us all brothers. I learned that often on my rides, have no reason to believe the two bikers in that bar will refuse if I offer to buy them a beer. My MC brothers are all very far away right now, but I need a brother in spirit to talk to and reconnect with that unity we share, which is larger than my own petty existence here on this earth.

  The two bikes are still parked in front of the bar, but they're joined by a black Merc with tinted windows. The bar is eerily quiet, with no one behind the counter and only one of the tables showing signs of recent occupation in the form of a nearly empty glass of scotch and a spilt bottle of beer that's still frothing as it drips down to the floor.

  I smell blood and gunpowder, and that gut feeling I've honed over years of doing the wrong thing in dangerous places is telling me to get the fuck out of this place. Raised voices are coming from the back, and it doesn't sound like the conversation’s gonna end well for everyone involved. Just as it didn't for the wearer of that black biker boot, who is now lying behind the bar. A narrow trickle of dark red blood is snaking past his boot and towards the middle of the bar.

  There's a code in the biker world. We help each other if we’re able, and if we're not at war. If I run away now, I'll forever have to live with being too much of a coward to honor that code. And I have little else but that code to live for anyway.

  CHLOE

  * * *

  I CALMED DOWN SOON after I realized Rider wasn't right behind me, wasn't following me to my bungalow where we could finish our argument with a roof over our heads. And a bed near.

  But when I went searching for him he was gone. His bike was gone, the stuff of his that he didn't leave in my bungalow were gone. He just left. The shock of that took my breath harder than getting plunged into deep icy water. Hours passed before it finally turned into anger. I stayed up all night waiting for him to return, couldn't sleep even when I tried, my anger wouldn't let me.

  One disagreement and he's gone?

  He just disappeared like I mean nothing to him. Like the things we shared, the words of love we exchanged didn't mean a thing.

  They meant everything to me. But clearly not very much to him.

  And it happened, because I wouldn't do as he wanted. Because I just want to protect the children from ending up in some state run orphanage where they might kill them even faster than the cartel would.

  The cartel isn't killing anyone. They'd have done it by now, if that was their intention. He said as much himself.

  All day, I held on to my anger at Rider as hard as I could, because it's easier than feeling that overwhelming anguish of despair that's skirting the edge of it. The kind of despair that makes all food taste like cardboard and chases away every last breath of hope. The kind of despair that made me pick up that knife to open my wrists, because I could see no other way out.

  I'll never go down that road again, but I so wanted to travel the road Rider was starting to show me. The path to love and friendship, kindness and sharing the burdens of this world, to days of happiness that lead to nights of bliss and unburdened passion, all wrapped up in a life of belon
ging.

  But maybe I just strayed so far from even hoping for something like that, it exploded in my mind with the first breath of its possibility.

  Clearly it was all just an illusion, the figment of my brain in love. An over-exaggeration of what's actually happening, as so often happens to me when I fall for someone, but never leads to anything good.

  Ed and Olivia didn't ask any questions, beyond that first one, wondering where Rider is.

  "He left," I told them. "And I don't want to talk about it."

  They handled it when the children started asking after him. They're my true family, my true friends, the only ones who stand with me against the cartel, against the sad fate these children will face once again, if no one stands up for them.

  I thought Rider would understand that, since he's an abandoned child himself. He's such a strong guy. I thought he understood that sometimes the strong must put even their lives on the line to save the weak.

  But I've clearly been just as wrong about him, as I was about my ex and all the guys that came before him.

  It's better I stay alone. I knew that before he so expertly found a way into my heart, but I know it beyond a shadow of a doubt now.

  It started raining again in the evening of the day after he left. This time it doesn't stop like it did on the day he left.

  I only have to open the door of my bungalow to see that the ditches aren't holding the downpour back, because a wide river of black water is rushing down the ravine right past the two back stilts of the schoolhouse.

  I rush out to see why the ditch isn't diverting the water as it should. It worked fine last night, but now the rushing water has completely obliterated one of its banks. I run to get the shovel and start digging. The mud is heavy and sticky, and I'm panting before long, hair and water stinging my eyes, or maybe that's the tears I won't shed for Rider.

  Every sinew in my arms and back is burning before long, and all the digging I'm doing isn't making any visible difference. But I'll keep going, keep trying, because that is all I have. Saving this orphanage is the only purpose in my life.

  The water is up to my ankles already, and I swear I can hear wood creaking, because the schoolhouse is about to collapse.

  I start digging even faster, because the pain in my arms is now the only thing keeping away the overwhelming wish to have Rider by my side. I'll lose my mind, if I surrender to that desire. It's the only thing I know with absolute certainty. And it's not jus because I need him to help me save the orphanage. I want him, because I don't want to face a future without him. All else is alright as long as we're together, as long as he loves me, no challenge, no problem too big to solve.

  He was worried about me, because he loves me. That's why he wanted us all to leave. And I went and told him I don't need him, that I’ll be fine without him. It's not true. I wanted to stay with him forever. Now he's gone, and I don't have any way to reach him, because he never even told me his last name or his phone number.

  CHAPTER 12

  RIDER

  The bar door opens behind me, and I duck behind the bar, crouching next to the dead man without thinking twice.

  The man yells something in Brazilian, and I assume he wants me to come back out from behind the bar, which is not happening. The arguing voices outside are growing fainter.

  The dead man is clutching a Glock, which he didn't have time to fully draw before he was gunned down by two shots to the chest.

  I grab the gun, lift it and aim at the man as he rounds the corner of the bar. He's wearing a suit and tie, so he's not a biker, but the enemy, and he's got a gun aimed at me too. That's all the thinking I do before squeezing the trigger and putting a bullet right between his eyes.

  I was seventeen the first time I held a gun, but I took to it like a fish to water. The day I fired off twelve rounds without missing my mark once was the day I finally completely let go of my promise to become a priest. By then, I liked doing the wrong thing too much.

  I peer carefully through the door at the back of the bar. In the distance, two more suit-wearing guys are dragging a biker into the dense jungle just beyond the narrow strip of gravel behind the bar.

  I run out into the blinding sunshine, but veer left as I head into the trees, with no clear plan in mind except doing what I can to prevent the biker they've overpowered from meeting the same fate as the one lying dead behind the bar.

  Luckily they're talking a lot and loudly, as all Latinos always do, no matter what kind of situation they're in, so I have no trouble following them while staying out of sight.

  The biker is on his knees under a palm tree when I finally reach them, one of the suited men holding a gun to the back of his head, while the other one stands in front of him still talking a mile a minute.

  It's not usually the case, but right now I'm glad for the Latinos' inability to say whatever they have to say in a timely fashion. It gives me all the time I need to aim carefully and dispatch the one with the gun. The talking one goes down next, his mouth still open to say whatever he was gonna say before life left him.

  The biker jumps to his feet, looking around wildly, searching for me. I emerge from behind the palm tree, my gun still half raised, because I'm a stranger to this guy who still has the fear of death etched into the features of his face.

  He says something in Brazilian holding his hands up in the gesture of surrender.

  I lower my gun. "I don't understand what you're saying, but you're welcome."

  "Thank you," he says in heavily accented English. "I am Maluco, presidente of Dois Cobras."

  He turns and shows me the logo on the back of his cut, the two snakes reminding me of the ones adorning the back of my own cut before I ripped that shit off when I crossed into Mexico. I left the cut in Chloe's room, after wearing it while I fucked her a few times like she wanted.

  The man walks over, gives me a friendly tap on the arm. "Come on, I will buy you a drink and thank you as is fitting for the service you provided."

  I shake my head, because the clarity and peace that eluded me all through my long ride last night are finally here. And they've never been stronger.

  I just risked my life to save a stranger, yet I left Chloe, the woman I love, to face a fate that may be worse than death on her own. I have to go back to her as fast as I can and stay by her side through anything, forever. Because she is all I need, the only person who's ever given me true peace, true purpose, a true belonging that goes beyond any home I've ever lost. If dying by her side, or dying to save her, is what's required, I won't think twice. And it will take dying for me to ever leave her again.

  "I have to go," I say. "We'll get a drink some other time."

  I stride away back towards the bar, hear him do the same behind me.

  "Wait," he calls out once we reach the open ground in front of the bar. "What is your name?"

  "Rider," I say without breaking step.

  "Wait," he says again. "Take my phone number and call me, if you ever need anything. I must repay the favor you have given me."

  Even though every cell in my body is laser focused on getting back to Chloe as soon as physically possible, I do realize that having the phone number of a president of a local MC to call if things get bad is a good thing to have. So I follow him into the bar, where he first laments the loss of his brother for a good while in Brazilian before finally scribbling his number on a napkin.

  He starts talking again before handing it to me, thanking me profusely some more, and again promising to come right away if I ever need him. I raise my hand to silence him, after learning yet again that Latinos will over talk even in languages they have only a basic grasp of.

  "There is a woman who needs me," I say. "And I've kept her waiting for me long enough."

  He nods knowingly and finally hands me the napkin.

  I offer to help him move the dead guy, but he tells me his men are on their way.

  It starts raining a few miles into my ride, and doesn't stop, only gets worse. My bike might n
ot survive this downpour. But it just needs to survive long enough to get me to Chloe. Then it might as well never start again, as far as I'm concerned. A bike can be replaced, Chloe can never be.

  CHLOE

  * * *

  IT'S BEEN RAINING for hours, so hard the skin on my fingers is puckered painfully. But I'll dig until my arms fall off. Ed and Olivia are digging further up, where the ditch has also now collapsed under the rush of the water. There's a lake where the open ground in the middle of our orphanage was and the water just keeps streaming down, harder and harder, filling it. The water where I'm digging is already halfway up to my knees.

  The kids are safe for now. We moved them to the garage, which is the only building in the entire camp that's on an incline, so the water hasn't reached it yet.

  But it will. At the rate it's coming down, it will cover the entire camp soon, probably wash it away by morning. I told them to run up the hill if the garage starts flooding.

  I freeze in my digging, thinking I heard the roar of a Harley over the hissing of the rain and the rushing water. But there's no way. It's just my crazed mind playing its last trick on me, before I'm finally forced to admit defeat. I'm so close to doing that, I can already taste its bitter aftertaste. I remember the taste of defeat well from the first week or so after I left home for good, finally realizing that my world was ruined beyond repair, that the only thing left for me was to get lost somewhere where no one knows me.

  But then I found my calling here, helping these poor kids lead a good life. And it will be hard to let go of that, to leave it behind, to admit that I failed at it.

  I think I hear the kids talking now, jabbering excitedly, but that's just in my mind. I'm just imagining them begging me to stay when I tell them all is lost.

  I start digging hard again, even though my arms are shaking because I'm so tired. But I won't stop. I'll never stop trying.