by Dez Burke
I watched the act, wondering what came next when the door opened and they brought Callan in. His face looked better—marginally. About half the swelling had gone down and he had stitches above his left brow and along the cheek on the same side. His left hand was bandaged, both hands secured in front of him with cable ties.
The guard placed Callan in the chair next to me with the same force he had used on me. Maybe the rough handling was because of the dead DEA agents or maybe the ATF just wanted us to know who was in charge. Like the cuffs didn’t tell us that already.
McCready’s gaze moved from me to Callan. She smiled, her eyebrows lifting with the phony gesture. “I wanted your girlfriend to be here when you sell her out.”
“You’re boring me,” Callan told her. “Get on with it.”
A small thrill ran through me at his insolence. I remembered all the times I had wanted to talk back—to my teachers, my father, the manager at the diner I waitressed at and Freya. I had always been afraid to rock the boat. I’d witnessed from an early age what my father did to my mother when she talked back.
Callan didn’t know that kind of fear. I wasn’t sure he knew any kind of fear.
McCready looked at me, her brows crawling higher. “I’m trying to discuss whether you’re even alive next week and I’m boring him. You should choose your lovers more carefully, my dear.”
I shrugged, but my chest drew a little tighter. The dark glittering in McCready’s gaze told me she could read the tension running through my body.
Callan said nothing, just drilled a hole through the woman with his hard stare.
She blinked first. “You’re a lot like your brother, Mister Tilley. Lincoln wouldn’t listen to me either.”
He brought his hands up and placed them on the table. Next to McCready, the man scooted his chair half a foot from the table. The gesture provoked a smile in Callan. A few hours ago, he had been handcuffed and bloodied in the back seat of a Crown Victoria, the only destination given an early grave. Now the men who had put him in that vehicle were dead. The man in the suit knew that and Callan scared the shit out of him.
Not McCready. She didn’t flinch, but her gaze remained frozen on Callan’s hands even as he started talking.
“That fuck driving the car testified at Lincoln’s trial.”
McCready looked at the man next to her. He nodded. She flicked her hand at the revelation. “What’s your point?”
“He’s on Big Red’s payroll. Both of them were.”
McCready folded her arms across her chest, her expression dripping with an oily smugness that made me want to retch. “Tell me something I don’t know?”
That stopped Callan for a second. He gave a short shake of his head then laughed. “That’s good enough to get Lincoln a retrial.”
“How does that keep Miss Watkins alive when I drop her back in Thunder Valley to face charges for stealing her father’s truck?” Taking a piece of paper from the folder, McCready pushed it between us. “Or do you care more about your brother’s freedom than your own or Avery’s life?”
I glanced at the paper. It was a photocopy of a complaint with the Thunder Valley police department. My father’s drunken scrawl cut through the signature line.
She shoved more papers in front of us. First, she showed us a statement from one of the ATF agents on the scene reporting how the brick of money in my backpack had tested positive for trace narcotics, indicating that it had recently been used in the drug trade. The second was another agent report, this one detailing how he had seen me from his position in the helicopter trying to stuff Baldie’s body back into the car.
“If the Gypsies let Avery live, we’ll indict her on federal drug charges and accessory to the murder of two federal agents.” McCready took the pages back before I could finish reading. “You might get off on the murders, but you either have to claim the drug money or admit to stealing it.”
Callan’s right hand clenched into a fist. He forced it straight, breath leaving his body in a slow, long stream as he fought for control. Callan looked at the man, glaring until the guy started to wiggle uncomfortably.
“Let me guess, you’re the prosecutor this bitch is keeping on a short chain?”
The man blinked, his uncertainty in how to answer evident in the grimace he pulled. McCready laughed, but the sound was thin.
“Mr. Jennings is with the U.S. Attorneys office,” she confirmed. She leaned forward and winked at Callan. “No chain, just a shock collar and a remote.”
Jennings took her reply as his cue to start talking. He had carried a briefcase with him into the room and he popped its locks. “The federal government is willing to grant both of you immunity in exchange for your testimony and assistance in investigating the criminal organization known as the Thunder Gypsies Motorcycle Club.”
The attorney nodded in my direction. “Full immunity for Miss Watkins on the federal charges and we have assurances from the county prosecutor that there will be no charges on the vehicle theft.”
My face started to heat in anger. This was American justice? This sadistic woman with a badge and her pet attorney were the good guys? Sprankle and his partner were dead in self-defense. The Gypsies had no legal claim to the drug money and weren’t about to press charges for its theft. About the only thing they genuinely had me on was my father’s car. But none of that mattered. I wasn’t an heiress with trust money to fund my defense, and I couldn’t imagine the Gypsies letting me live long enough to go to trial if the feds returned me to Thunder Valley.
But I didn’t have information McCready wanted. The only criminals I could inform on were the dead DEA agents.
“And Lincoln?” Callan asked.
I looked at Callan, only a little surprised he hadn’t asked about his own immunity.
Jennings started to answer, but McCready interrupted. “I’m reaching out to Lincoln based on today’s developments. Right now, we only have papers for you and Miss Watkins. Lincoln will have to cut his own deal.”
I looked at Callan, his expression unreadable. Would he push McCready for more? Did he have anything to bargain with?
“What’s it going to be, Mr. Tilley?” Her mouth shaped a superior smile, as if she knew the answer before Callan did. “Your brother or your lover?”
In the Wind
Four months later, I was waitressing at a small truck stop in western Oklahoma. I had a new name and a new social security number. The salary from the truck stop and the meager tips helped pay for a one-bedroom apartment not far from work, which was lucky because there wasn’t enough money left at the end of the month to think about a car payment or even a used beater. At least not yet.
Pushing the button for the elevator in my apartment building for the third time without the call light displaying, I pressed my forehead against the brick wall and let the cold emanating from it seep into my skin. Two waitresses had called in sick, leaving me to cover more than twice my usual number of tables. Beat to hell didn’t begin to describe how I felt.
“Elevator’s out again,” I mumbled and turned toward the open staircase and the two flights of stairs I would have to climb.
Hands wrapped around my waist, halting me. “You look exhausted, baby.”
“Nancy and Chloe were out,” I said, relaxing into Callan’s chest for a moment’s respite. “Didn’t get lunch, but I’m a full hundred ahead on tips from all the extra tables I had to cover.”
I felt him bend slightly and then my feet were off the floor as he scooped me up. I buried my face against his neck. “If you just got engine grease on my uniform—”
“Small price to pay to get your sweet butt hauled up two flights, baby.”
I pushed at his chest, unsuccessfully coaxing him to put me down. I might have had a busier than usual day, but it didn’t compare to his lugging parts and semi-truck tires around in the garage affixed to the diner.
“Put me down, Drew,” I said, using the new name witness protection had given him.
He growled at t
he name’s use and hugged me tighter to his broad chest. “Don’t argue, baby girl. You’ll thank me later when my cock’s in you and you’re not too tired to ride it.”
My cheeks started to burn and I looked around his shoulder to make sure we were alone as he ascended the stairs. Even though I couldn’t see anyone, I still whispered my retort.
“I’m never going to be too tired to ride you.”
“That’s my girl.” He gave me a squeeze then stopped talking as he focused on the remaining steps in front of him.
Reaching our apartment, he put me down and opened the door. “After you, Mrs. Connolly.”
The name was fake, the marriage was real. We had insisted on a small ceremony before joining witness protection. It had occurred on the sixth floor of a federal building, my time as Avery Tilley lasting little more than an hour before we had new identities.
Callan shut the door and set all three locks and the chain in place. With his hands on my hips, he slow walked me toward the bathroom. “Why don’t you take a soak while I get dinner started.”
I turned to look at him over my shoulder, eyeing him with the kind of suspicion only a wife could possess. “You weren’t flirting with anyone today, were you?”
Not that he didn’t help with dinner or the rest of the apartment on a regular basis. I just wanted to tease him for being so considerate. There were days when I felt like I didn’t deserve him and other days when I knew I didn’t. I just hoped Callan didn’t figure it out.
“Never, baby.” He turned my body then pushed me gently against the wall. He raised his left hand to stroke my cheek. His thumb had healed from the surgery, but the scar would always be there—a reminder that Callan Tilley kept his promises.
He brought his mouth to mine, my lips opening to the gentle exploration of his tongue.
“First dinner,” he teased, ending the kiss. “Then dessert. These legs are going to be wrapped around my shoulders.”
Finding the hem of my waitressing dress, he lifted it to caress my thighs. “I want you soft and pliant.”
I nodded, the space between my thighs growing moist in anticipation.
“Good,” he turned me back in the direction of the bathroom and lightly slapped my ass before walking away. “You’ve got about forty minutes before I’m ready to feed you.”
I took thirty-five and emerged with just my bathrobe covering me. The apartment was too small for a dining area, so Callan had placed our plates and glasses on the coffee table. I went to sit next to him on the couch, but he pulled me onto his lap.
Feeling a little weepy around the eyes, I pressed my face against his neck.
“Don’t cry, woman,” he lightly joked, but I knew he felt my tears harder than I did.
“I’m not crying,” I teased in return. “I’m just afraid to look at what you came up with in the kitchen.”
“Remind me to spank you later.” Leaning forward, he picked up one of the plates and balanced it on my knee.
The smell of breaded salmon and asparagus tips clawed at my stomach, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since the two slices of peanut butter on toast I’d had that morning. I picked up the fork and brought the first mouthful to Callan’s lips. When he shook his head, refusing, I took a bite.
“Mmm...” My eyes closed in satisfaction. When I opened them, he wiggled an asparagus tip in front of me. I took a bite then maneuvered another piece of salmon onto my fork and offered it to him. This time, he accepted.
We worked our way a nibble at a time through the contents of both plates, my bottom snugly planted on his lap throughout the meal. Finished, he held me to him, his hand stealthily finding its way under my robe.
The tears that had threatened earlier sprung full force at his gentle touching. He shushed me, but that didn’t stop my crying.
“I love you, baby,” Callan whispered against my throat.
I slugged his shoulder. It had taken him a month after our marriage before he actually said such words. I had spoken them at least a dozen times by then, always feeling guilty after they left my mouth because I knew he wasn’t ready to utter them in return. I could have waited forever—I already knew he loved me from when he answered that bitch McCready’s question.
Your brother or your lover...
Without hesitation, he had stared the ATF agent down and ordered her to take the handcuffs off me. When she complied, he ordered her and Jennings from the room. With the cable ties still around his wrists, Callan had lifted his arms over my head to loosely hug me.
We’ll do this together, baby. You and me.
On the couch in our little apartment with its secondhand furnishings, Callan nudged me with his nose. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m happy.” I whispered my answer, afraid some outside force would knock on the door the instant I admitted my joy and take everything away, whether it was a Gypsy, some government agency or another dirty cop.
He tilted my head up so that I had to look at him. “And being happy scares you?”
I nodded. Hell, after my father and being invisible most of my life, even compliments scared me. Being happy, loved and cared for terrified me. As working poor as we were in witness protection, I’d never had so much to lose in my life.
“Scares me, too,” he confessed.
Callan wasn’t the type of man to cry, but I could see deep emotion shimmering in his gaze.
“How do you keep from going crazy with it?” I needed to know. Some days I felt one kind word or kiss away from the loony bin. That in itself seemed certifiable.
Softly smiling, he eased me onto the cushion, stood and offered me his hands. “Let me show you.”
It wasn’t an answer—or maybe it was.
I let him lead me into the bedroom and watched in silence as he pulled back the thin quilt covering the mattress. He stripped his t-shirt off then turned his attention to my robe. Slowly, he peeled the fabric off my shoulders and down my arms to expose my breasts.
Taking a seat on the bed, he pulled me so that I stood between his spread legs. His hands cupped my breasts as his mouth slowly advanced on one nipple. My head dipped backwards as his tongue touched the tight bud. My arms curled around Callan’s head, hugging him to my chest.
His fingers found their way between my pressed thighs. He took short, curling strokes against my clit, his tongue moving in the same pattern between small bites to my breast. The sensations had me straining on tiptoe to ease his access. My breathing became erratic, signaling how close he already had me to climax.
“Not yet, love.” He turned, taking me with him so that my back was against the mattress. He finished removing my robe, the fabric finding its way to the floor as he settled between my open thighs.
Pinching my lower lips apart, he started to gently suckle at my clit. The tenderness he exhibited had fresh tears coating my cheeks. He had told me, back in Charlottesville, that sometimes he would take me roughly, but every night since our arrest it had been this loving intimacy.
As if each night might be our last together, he wanted me to know how thoroughly loved I was. And, no matter how much it had thrilled me that long ago night, I didn’t need the roughness, just the strength that was always present.
Reaching down, I caressed the scar on his left hand. “Do you think we can ever have children?”
The thought had been pushing at me all week, as if the happiness I felt couldn’t be spent on just one person without overwhelming Callan with my need.
His mouth moved along my hip, kissing the sensitive hollow on one side before moving to its twin on the opposite hip. For a few seconds, I thought he hadn’t heard me or didn’t want to hurt me with the answer. Moving back to my mound, he kissed the top split then looked at me.
“Yeah, baby. I think we can. When every last Gypsy is dead.”
He lowered his head, not waiting to see my reaction. I nodded even as his tongue began to explore deep inside my sex. I knew it wasn’t an idle answer or one meant to delay an inevitable denial. We were in the
wind at that moment, gathering our bearings while McCready and her cohorts kept a watchful eye on us and prosecutors built the rest of their case against the motorcycle club. But Callan would carry through with the threat. He would do it not just for me and our future, but for his brothers and his father.
“Baby, that wasn’t supposed to make you cry.”
I wrapped my fingers around the back of his head and tugged him upward. “I want you in me. Please, Callan.”
He surfed up the bed, his arms pushing between my body and the mattress so that he could hold me tightly against him as his cock slowly sank into me. He nuzzled my neck, whispering sweet somethings as his hips took up a slow rhythm. I could feel him hard and moving inside me. My knees hugged his hips and my breath came in wet gasps of pleasure.
Callan wrapped one hand around my chin, forcing my mouth open. He kissed me, deep and twirling as his hips circled more tightly against me. Need whipped through me and my hands found his back. Fresh marks appeared beside fading ones as I dragged my nails against his flesh to keep from screaming.
Stopping the kiss, he panted against my ear, letting me know he was close.
Together, baby. You and me...
I lifted against him one last time, the scream finally breaking from my throat as I came. He had repeated the words many times since leaving that interrogation room. He said it when we discussed how we would get out of Oklahoma, how we wouldn’t abandon his brother or father, and how we would get to the point where we could stop looking over our shoulders. He said it at times like this when our bodies were melded together, the many repetitions etching the promise in my flesh and in my bones.
Together baby. You and me.
About the Author: Christa Wick
Find out about new releases (including Revenge, Book 2 in the Thunder Gypsies series), sales, contests, and free content from New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Christa Wick by signing up for the Wicked Reads newsletter at http://www.loveatanysize.com/wickednews. If you're ready for another Christa Wick title right now, check out An Alpha's Need, featuring four wicked beginnings filled with billionaires, BBWs, soldiers and a werewolf or two. Available on Amazon and other stores.