“I mean, it’s not like they don’t have the room,” she’s huffing. “My God, we come all this way to visit our grandchildren, and we end up spending the whole trip sitting in our hotel room twiddling our thumbs.” The woman waits for a response from her husband. When he doesn’t give one, she continues. “She’s never liked us, you know. Robbie wouldn’t be behind this. It was her idea. I’m sure of it.”
“Rose, it’s fine,” the man says tiredly. “We saw the kiddos all day yesterday. Besides, I’m not going to complain about not having to sleep on a little kid’s bed that’s two feet off the ground and six inches too short.”
“That’s beside the point.” The woman waves her hand at him as though waving away his words. “The point is, they don’t want us here. She doesn’t want us here. After all we’ve done for them. We practically paid for their wedding!”
The couple continues their bickering, and I stop listening and turn my attention to the day ahead of me. My first stop should be the laundromat again, to check whether they’re open. Last night I spent some time searching for information about who owns E-Z Wash Express. I found the business in the state’s database, with the owner listed as an M. L. Stephanos. No first name, just initials. Plugging his name (assuming it’s a him) into a search engine yielded no results. Whoever this person is, he or she has no online presence. He’s not in any FBI database, either. It’s possible this is a squeaky-clean luddite who stays far away from computers. It’s also possible the name isn’t real.
Before I try to visit the laundromat again, I need to see if Chief Crup’s babysitters are out there waiting for me this morning. And I could use some exercise to work out the kinks from that lousy night’s sleep. I decide to kill two birds with one stone and go for a run. Dumping the last of my coffee and bagel, I go upstairs to my room and grab my running clothes out of my bag. I put on a pair of shorts, my sports bra and a T-shirt, and my running shoes. Pulling a headband over my head to keep my hair out of my face, I slip my key card into a small concealed pocket in my shorts and head out the door with my ear buds and my phone.
The highway that my hotel is on isn’t exactly conducive to a pleasant run, but I seem to remember that if I take it about half a mile into town, there’s a side road I can turn onto that will lead me into a quiet neighborhood. I do a few stretches leaning against a wooden bench outside the front door of the hotel, then start off at a slow jog to warm up my muscles.
No police car pulls out of the shadows to follow me. It looks like the Tanner Springs PD has decided to leave me alone this morning. Maybe following me to a sub shop yesterday proved boring enough that they lost interest. I increase my pace a couple of minutes into my run, and spot the side street I want to turn down. The street ends up being busier than I thought it would be. It’s wider than I remember — practically a highway in its own right. Maybe there’s some development on the other end of it that has increased the traffic. Thankfully, there’s a fairly generous shoulder, so I move over onto the dirt and gravel and keep running. I’m on the left-hand side of the road, and cars pass by me, close enough for me to feel the wind as they pass, but not close enough to worry me.
I see the street that leads into the neighborhood and turn in. I start to pass by a series of tidy, medium-sized homes, with large leafy trees in front of them. As I run along, I remember that a childhood friend from elementary school used to live down here. Amelia, her name was. I picture her long straight hair and her red glasses, and recall how she used to have an American Girl doll collection I envied. I remember coming over to her house to play a couple of times. Until her mom found out who my parents were and where we lived, and decided Amelia couldn’t play with me anymore.
A heavy feeling starts in the pit of my stomach. Amazing how something like that will still upset you, all these years later.
I take a deep, cleansing breath and blow it out, then turn up the volume on my music. I increase my pace, as though by running faster I can run away from the ghosts of my past. I finish my run through the neighborhood, purposely avoiding the street that Amelia’s old house is on. By the time I get back onto the highway, I’m breathing heavily and streaming with sweat.
Glad to be on the home stretch as my feet pound along the dirt and gravel, I start daydreaming about how good a shower will feel. I’m praying that the room I’m in will have good water pressure when my right foot comes down half-on and half-off the raised blacktop. With a yelp of surprise, I go down hard. Falling sideways, my hip lands on a large piece of gravel, right on the bone. The pain is so sharp that for a second it immobilizes me. Tears spring to my eyes and I let out an involuntary cry, doubling over.
Dimly, I realize part of my body is actually lying in the road. I force myself to slide myself completely onto the shoulder while I wait for the pain from my hip to recede. When it does, I realize I’ve hurt my ankle, too, though I can’t tell how badly. I inhale and exhale slowly, breathing through the pain, and try to flex my foot. A flare of fire shoots up my leg, making me grit my teeth and wince. I can move it, at least, so it’s not broken. It might be sprained, but if I’m lucky it’s just twisted. I decide to sit here for a few minutes before I try to walk.
Just then, a motorcycle comes over the hill off in the distance. The distinctive thump of its engine tells me it’s a Harley. I look up, and notice the rider isn’t wearing a helmet. His long hair flies out behind him as he rides. I can’t help but think he looks a bit like Travis.
Then as the bike gets closer, I realize why.
It’s because it is Travis.
Shit.
Crazily, I find myself glancing around for someplace to hide. As though I could just roll into the drainage ditch and he wouldn’t see me. But it’s already too late. It’s clear he’s recognized me. And even worse:
He’s slowing down.
“Dammit,” I mutter under my breath. “Dammit, dammit, dammit.”
Travis stops the bike about five feet from where I’m sitting. He cuts the engine.
“This ain’t no road to be runnin’ on,” he growls, frowning in disapproval as he looks me over.
“Uh, good morning to you, too,” I shoot back. “And funny, I seem to have a memory problem. I don’t remember asking you to come here and give me your opinion.”
Travis swings a leg over his seat and climbs off the bike. He walks forward a couple of steps, until he’s towering over me like a giant. “What the hell are you doin’ sittin’ there? Waitin’ for a bus?”
I roll my eyes. “If you must know, I twisted my ankle. I’m just resting it for a few minutes before I try to stand up.”
“You’re gonna get mowed down by a truck, sitting there.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t choose a more convenient place to twist my ankle,” I snap. “I guess I should have consulted you first.” He’s glaring at me like I’m some sort of stupid kid. It makes my blood boil, even though he’s right. This isn’t the safest place to be sitting. But that doesn’t make me any less irritated with him.
“You should have at least had the common sense not to go running on a highway.”
I snort. “That’s pretty funny, coming from someone who doesn’t bother to wear a helmet.”
I expect that to piss him off, and get ready for him to yell at me. But to my surprise, one corner of his mouth goes up in a grudging smirk. “Maybe. But that’s my choice. Not yours.”
“So only men get choices?” I counter. “You get to choose to risk splattering your brains all over the pavement every time you ride, but I have to ask permission to choose a running route?”
Travis shakes his head and sighs. “I see the years haven’t made you any less of a pain in the ass.” He reaches a large hand toward me. “Come on. Let’s see if you can stand up.”
I consider refusing, but in the end I decide this momentary détente is better than outright hostility. I reach up to accept his offer. His strong fingers wrap around my hand, enclosing it in a grip I know could crush every bone if he had a mind to. At t
he contact with his skin a rush of memory bursts into my brain. Suddenly I’m seventeen again, and he’s taking my hand for the first time.
Stop it.
Frowning with concentration, I plant my good foot firmly. And then, with a surprising gentleness, he raises me up, as though I’m no lighter than a feather to him.
Once I’m standing, balancing on one foot, he doesn’t let go. Instead, as I face him, he takes hold of my opposite shoulder with his other hand, to steady me.
“Try to put your foot down,” he says.
His deep baritone is so achingly familiar. It calls up memories of a time when I thought that maybe — just maybe — there was someone in the world who could love me just the way I was. Someone I could trust with the most broken parts of me.
A little shudder of longing passes through me like an echo, but I push it away.
Gingerly, I place my right foot on the ground. Travis’s grip tightens on my shoulder as I try to put weight on it. A needle of pain goes up my leg and I wince, but it’s not as bad as I feared. I freeze for a second, then put a little more weight on.
“I don’t think it’s sprained,” I tell him, relieved. “Just wrenched it a bit.”
“Good deal,” he nods. He doesn’t take his hand off my shoulder. Now that I’m not so worried about my ankle, I’m starting to be very aware of how sweaty and gross I probably look right now.
“Well,” I continue, a little awkwardly. “Thanks for stopping. I mean, you didn’t have to.” I look up into his eyes, for the first time, really. Those electric blues stare back at me, unreadable. I feel my sweaty cheeks flush and resist the impulse to look away.
“You shouldn’t be walking on that,” he murmurs. “Not until you can put it up and get some ice on it.”
“It’s okay. It’s not far.” Actually, the prospect of walking the final three quarters of a mile back to the hotel is daunting, but I can make it if I go slowly enough.
“Fuck that. Come on.”
The hand that’s still holding mine tugs softly as he takes a step toward his Harley. Instinctively, I pull away, resisting.
“You need me to carry you?” he asks.
“What? No!” I squawk.
“Well then, come on.”
“I don’t need you to give me a ride, Travis.”
“I’m not letting you walk back.” His jaw goes hard.
“I’m a grown woman,” I fire back. “You don’t let me do anything.”
“Do I have to pick you up and put you on the bike myself?” he threatens.
“You wouldn’t dare,” I snap, but even as I say it, I know I’m wrong.
“You wanna try me?”
I huff in irritation. “The years haven’t made you any less pig-headed, have they?”
That gets a laugh out of him. “More, if anything,” he growls, giving me just the hint of a grin. “So knock it off and come on.”
He looks at me expectantly. When I don’t move right away, he leans over and bends down as if to pick me up.
I let out shriek. “Okay, okay!” I protest, feeling ridiculous. He gives me his hand again and I lean into it for support. I take a hobbling step forward. Then another. Then another. Finally, when I’m standing next to the bike, Travis lets go of me and straddles the seat.
“Put your hand on my shoulder for balance,” he instructs, and watches as I clumsily lift my injured leg over the back. He waits until I’ve managed to situate myself and put both feet on the pegs.
“Where we goin’?” he asks.
“Oh! The Courtyard Hotel.” I wave a hand in that direction.
Travis fires up the bike. As he puts it in gear, it lurches forward a little, and I instinctively grab onto his waist for support. My hands slip under the leather of his motorcycle vest, settling on the soft cotton of his T-shirt. I can feel the hard muscles of his stomach and the heat of his skin through the fabric.
Something stirs inside me: a primal, physical reaction that weakens my knees and causes my breath to speed up before I even realize what’s happening.
I lean forward against Travis, feeling the muscles in his back work as he steers the bike. The whole way back to the hotel, I fight the fluttering of my heart and the heat pooling between my legs. I try not to think about how dizzying it is to be so close to him — even as I fantasize about sliding my hands under his shirt and running my hands along the skin of his muscled abdomen.
11
Beast
I drive Brooke back to her hotel, tryin’ and failin’ to ignore the way her arms are locked around my waist. How she’s snuggled up to me, her tits pressing against my back. Brooke always had this effect on me, even when we were teenagers. By the time we get there, I’m hard as a bat.
I pull the bike into the circular drive in front of the hotel doors, then cut the engine. She awkwardly climbs off of the seat, favoring her right ankle.
“Thanks,” she murmurs grudgingly. “I guess I’m lucky you happened along.”
She takes one step toward the door, limping. Goddamnit, I can’t let her go in like that. “Hold up,” I grumble. I pull the bike forward a few feet and put down the kickstand. “I’ll help you inside.”
“It’s fine, Travis. I can manage.”
“Nope. I’m comin’ with you.”
Brooke lets out an exasperated sigh. “And I suppose I don’t have any say in the matter?”
She’s pissing me off, but still, I can’t help but laugh. “Well, considering I’m almost three times your size and you have a fucked up leg, I’d say the answer to that question is, no.”
“Jesus Christ,” she mutters, and starts hobbling toward the door. I get in front of her and hold it open to let her pass through. Once we’re inside, she briefly stumbles on the edge of a rug, and I catch her arm before she falls. Brooke looks up at me and gives me a reluctant purse of her lips. “Thanks,” she mumbles.
I let her lead the way to the elevator, where she punches the button for the fourth floor. Once we’re at her room, she fumbles for her key card and inserts it in the little slot. The door’s a little heavy for someone who can’t plant both feet, so I push that open too, and let her go in before me.
Brooke turns around about a foot inside the room, and literally bashes her face into my chest.
“Whoa,” I chuckle, grabbing her by both shoulders.
“I…” Her face flames red. “I don’t remember inviting you in,” she sputters, to cover up her embarrassment.
“You’re welcome,” I shoot back. “Sit down on the bed and give me your key card. I’m gonna go grab some ice.”
It’s pretty damn obvious she doesn’t want to, but to her credit she shuts up and does as I say. I take her card and grab the ice bucket sitting on top of the mini-fridge. It’s got a plastic bag draped over the top of it, which I put inside the bucket and use to make an ice pack for Brooke’s leg.
When I get back, she’s propped up on her bed with some pillows behind her. Her left leg’s on the floor, her right sticking out straight in front of her. I walk over and lay the bag of ice over her ankle as gently as I can. Brooke hisses as the coldness hits her skin, but doesn’t complain.
“You sure it’s not sprained?” I ask.
“No,” she shakes her head. “At least, not badly. I just need to be off it for a few hours.”
“Now will you admit you shouldn’t have been running on that stretch of road?”
She casts her eyes up to the ceiling. “I could have rolled my ankle anywhere. It just happened to be there.”
For a few seconds, neither one of us says anything. I tell myself I should take off.
“So,” I ask instead. “What are you here for, Brooke? Some sort of FBI shit?”
She looks at me for a second, hesitating. Finally, she gives me a brief nod. “Yeah.”
“What sort of shit?”
“A tip that was sent into our field office.” She pauses. “Human trafficking.”
“Seriously?” I ask skeptically. “Like, a sex ring?”
It’s not like it’s impossible. But it sure seems unlikely that something like that would happen out here.
“Yes, seriously.”
“You get the shit end of the stick at your job, B, investigatin’ something like that out here?”
My nickname for her slips out before I realize it. If she notices, she doesn’t say anything.
“Yeah, maybe.” She laughs softly. “My boss isn’t exactly my biggest fan.”
“You found anything yet?”
She smirks at me, one eyebrow shooting up in amusement. Something in her face reminds me of old times. It makes my chest hurt.
“I’m an FBI agent, Travis,” she chuckles. “I’m not at liberty to tell a civilian the details of the case I’m investigating.”
I snort. “Civilian. That’s what we call ‘em, too.”
She frowns. “What?”
“People who aren’t in an MC,” I explain. “We call them civilians.”
“Ah,” she smiles. “Well. I guess we’re both members of an exclusive club.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
For a second, neither one of us says anything. The silence turns awkward, and Brooke looks down at the bedspread and clears her throat.
“Travis,” she murmurs, her voice soft. “Thank you again, for helping me. And…” She stops, swallowing once. “I’m sorry. About… you know. The past. Everything.” Her voice is tinged with regret. Brooke takes a deep breath, and then blows it out. “I had my reasons, for leaving the way I did. I know it was a shitty thing to do.”
My jaw tenses. It’s fuckin’ surreal standing here right now, hearing her say this. Never thought I’d see this girl again, that’s for sure. Much less get an apology from her.
I’ve been holding on to a lot of anger at Brooke Brentano over the years. Even as I told myself at the time I didn’t give a shit. But the fact is, she’s the first girl I ever felt anything for. The only one, to be honest. Hell, at the time I even thought I was probably in love with her. And I guess I fooled myself into thinking she might be in love with me, too.
BEAST: Lords of Carnage MC Page 7