TAKE ME, OUTLAW: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance

by Zoey Parker

  And for that matter, what the fuck is he doing back at his old place anyway, if it's not safe? He can't just rent a cheap room somewhere, or take her in the back of the bar where the cots are? What, would that offend Little Miss Cunt-by-Dior's delicate sensibilities?

  As I stood there sniffling from the cold, I heard a moan come from the first floor window, followed by another. Despite my chattering teeth, I couldn't help but grin. Oh yeah, it sounded like they were really getting down to business now. If I squinted hard enough, I could almost make out their silhouettes in the window. If I inched just a little closer and kept my head down, maybe I could even see a bit more detail.

  Did I say I wasn't here to peep or join in? Well, one out of two ain't bad. I'm sorry, Nic old buddy, but you can consider a little light peeping payment for services rendered. All things considered, with the fucking Arctic tundra I'm being forced to wait around in for hours, giving me a little show to crank my shaft to is the very least you can do for me. And besides, what Bard doesn't know won't hurt him, right?

  Goddamn right.

  I walked across the street, trying to stay casual-looking. I felt like a grade-A creep, but didn't really care that much. It was just a little harmless thrill.

  As I moved closer to the window, I saw a homeless dude shuffling down the street toward me, wrapped in raggedy-ass old coats and blankets. He wore a wide-brimmed felt hat that looked like it had been run through a garbage disposal, and two mismatched scarves were pulled up over his nose and mouth to keep the cold air out of his lungs. He pushed a battered old shopping cart bulging with plastic trash bags.

  Poor prick. That's probably everything he owns in life, in that fuckin' cart. Jesus, he can't possibly plan to sleep out in this freezing cold, can he? He won't survive an hour, if that. There's gotta be a shelter he can go to, right?

  The bum walked right up to me. One of the front wheels on his cart squealed and spun, defying the other three. “Spare some change?” he whined loudly, his voice muffled by the scarves.

  I hunched my shoulders down, shushing him. “Yeah, yeah, sure!” I whispered hoarsely. “Just keep it down, will ya? Here, I'll give you something, hang on.”

  I turned away from him and dug into my pocket, feeling for a couple of dollars. My fingers were numb from the cold.

  “Looks like you're doin' somethin' you shouldn't be, ha!” the bum cackled, pointing to the window overhead. As he moved, a strange smell wafted from the folds of his clothes. It was something with an oddly fresh and minty tang, not the usual stink of piss and body odor you'd expect from a homeless guy. “Are you looking for trouble, eh?”

  “What's it to you?” I sneered, trying to place the smell.

  Cologne?

  But why would a bum be wearing cologne?

  Before I could pull my hand out of my pocket, the “bum” moved with incredible speed, whipping a metal length of pipe out from under his garbage bags. Before I could react, it whistled through the air toward me, cracking against my skull. The world tilted under me crazily, the ground switching places with the sky.

  I craned my neck painfully, my vision blurring. I could barely see the man as he pulled off the scarves and hat, revealing the rat-like face of Vole, his eyes blazing with cruel humor.

  “'Cause you just found it, you bike-humping motherfucker.”

  The metal pipe sang as it swung at me again, and that was the last thing I saw before the darkness washed over me like an icy ocean.

  Chapter Eight

  Lauren

  I woke up with the milky haze of December sunlight in my face and rolled over, looking up at the ceiling. The cracked and flaking plaster, speckled with gray mildew, was unfamiliar to me, and for a moment, I was disoriented. Then I felt the tautly-muscled arm wrapped around my waist, and the previous night came back to me in a rush of disjointed memories.

  Oh my God. What did I do?

  In the daylight, the room looked completely different. The deep and sensual shadows had been replaced with stark grayish-white walls, dotted with fist-sized craters revealing the rotted wiring behind them. Thick curtains of dust hung eerily suspended in the sunlight, and the air was so cold I could almost see my breath.

  Nic was curled up against me, snoring lightly. His face was still as boyish and captivating as I remembered from the night before, and I felt a strange urge to stroke it gently, despite the alarm bells clanging in my head.

  You slept with a biker last night! You dressed up in your sexiest little dress and you went to a dangerous bar in a godforsaken neighborhood, alone, and you found the cutest guy there and you threw yourself at him shamelessly and you went back to his place—which, for all you knew, would end up being some kind of perverted murder chamber—and you had sex with him and you fell asleep in a condemned fucking building.

  When I thought of it all like that, I was almost impressed. I found myself choking back a hysterical giggle. Hell, I was pretty hardcore!

  And speaking of “having it in me,” oh my God, the sex last night, I thought, and suppressed another nervous titter. I'd never known sex could be so good, so primal. I'd never had orgasms like that before. I wanted them again, desperately.

  So why was I thinking of slipping out from under his arm and stealing away before he could wake up? Why not just snuggle back in bed, wait for him to stir on his own, thank him for a night of exquisite passion, and ask if he wants to go somewhere for breakfast? Why not see if there was a chance for another night like that, and another?

  Because he's a biker, you ninny, the prim voice in my head answered. Bikers don't do snuggles and breakfast. They're into cheap, one-night-only thrills, and that's what you were. And yeah, you managed to get your rocks off too. Good for you. Go write about it in your diary. But first, get your shoes and your dress and your purse and get the hell out of here before he wakes up and kicks you out.

  I hated to admit that the voice was right. But deep down, I knew that it was. Just like I knew how mortified I would be if he woke up, thanked me gruffly for the fuck, and shoved me out the door. If I left on my own, I could hold my head high—or at least, as high as you could hold your head while doing a walk of shame in a slinky black dress in Rogers Park the day after Christmas. I could say it had all been my choice, that I'd been in control from the moment I walked into the Devil's Nest to the moment I walked out of here. I could own it then, call it a glorious adventure and remember it fondly, instead of a night of bad decisions and a morning of pitiful rejection. That, I couldn't possibly stand.

  Sounds good. So first, let me figure out how to escape the old morning-after bear trap.

  I looked at the arm around my waist again, and remembered the last time I'd had to do this. It had been the first year of college, a month before I'd met Jared. Gingerly, I placed my fingertips on Nic's wrist, testing the pressure to determine whether he was a light sleeper. When he kept snoring placidly, I gripped the wrist just a bit more firmly and slowly started to lift it. As I did, I flashed back to the old crane machine in the arcade I frequented as a kid—the one that seemed to let every tantalizing toy slip through its metal claws at the last moment. The more impatient you became, the more you rushed, and the more it would refuse to grip properly.

  Gently, Lauren come on, easy does it...

  His breathing stopped for a brief moment, and the muscles in my stomach tightened reflexively. Another long moment passed. He snorted softly, then settled into his light snoring again.

  I carefully continued to lift the arm, moving it back behind me and lowering it to the bed. Once that was done, I slowly sat up. I expected the springs of ancient-looking mattress to groan and pop loudly, betraying me. But luck seemed to be on my side so far. The springs dug into my buttocks painfully, and they let only out a soft squeal as I stood up, but Nic stayed asleep.

  Okay. So far, so good.

  As I reached for my purse, I saw the small pile of used condoms on the floor nearby. I nodded to myself. At least I'd made one responsible decision last night, amid
the insanity.

  My dress was laying in a silky black heap next to my shiny designer stilettos. Incongruous amid the dust and squalor of the studio, I thought they looked like some bizarre still life painting. I slipped on my panties, and then lifted the dress and slid into it, making sure the pads of my bare toes didn't make any sound against the chilly hardwood floor. I felt a jagged splinter dig savagely into the sole of my right foot, and I bit back a hiss of pain. Still, I lifted my shoes and carried them, not wanting to risk the sound of the heels on my way out.

  My bladder ached, but I knew I couldn't stop to use the bathroom. Every moment I was still here, I was daring him to wake up and find me in the process of sneaking out. Irrationally, I feared that even more than I'd feared waiting around for him to reject me. If I simply vanished without a trace, I could still be considered mysterious. But being caught sneaking away guiltily would make me feel like the timid little mouse I'd tried so hard not to act like last night.

  Finally, I lifted my purse, wincing as the contents shifted and clinked together. Nic coughed gently and rolled over to face me, and for a terrible moment, I was certain his eyes would be open and locked on mine, his eyebrows raised knowingly. Going somewhere, babe? That's cool. I was finished anyway. Don't let the door hit you where the Lord split you. Oh, and don't get any crazy thoughts about coming back, okay? One per customer. That's my rule.

  Instead, his eyes remained closed, and his snoring continued. He looked so oddly vulnerable, so boyish and sweet, so harmless—and in that moment, I was afraid that he'd be hurt when he woke to find me gone.

  Oh, stop talking out of your ass, you dippy schoolgirl, the schoolmarm voice snapped. He's a wolf, and you're thinking of him like he's a sheep. Now go hop a train and get on with your life, before he opens those cynical blue eyes of his and makes you feel like you're two inches tall.

  I hung the strap of my purse over my shoulder, gently pushed the door open, and left. On my way down the hall, a floorboard creaked loudly under my foot, and I thought I heard Nic sit up in bed.

  I broke into a run and didn't stop—didn't even look back—until I hit the train station.

  Chapter Nine

  Nic

  I woke up to find myself alone in bed.

  Usually, this would have been my choice. Years ago, I learned that sleeping with women after fucking them was nothing but trouble. Whenever we'd both wake up, there'd either be a bunch of awkward silences and guilt from them that I didn't really need when starting my day, or worse, they'd be all lovey and clingy and ask, “So when do I get to see you again?”

  I'd had to teach myself how to look at them with hard enough eyes so they immediately knew there wouldn't be an “again,” and then I'd usually have to deal with listening to them cry in the bathroom while they made a goddamn show of getting ready to leave...rattling their makeup kits loudly, slamming down the lever on the toilet, and all the rest of it. Then they'd stomp out indignantly, expecting me to feel like shit, run after them, and apologize. Which, naturally, I never did.

  Instead, I'd gotten very good at making an excuse and leaving when girls brought me back to their places, and when I brought them back to my place, I always made it clear beforehand that we wouldn't be spending the night together—that I just didn't roll like that. If they could hang, cool. If not, their loss.

  So why didn't I say that to her when I brought her back here last night? And why the hell do I feel so bad about waking up and finding her gone?

  I tried to shrug it off as I pulled my clothes on, but the question kept nagging at me. She was just a girl like all the others, right? Prettier than most, sure, and she'd seemed smart and funny, and she was a better lay than...well, anyone I'd ever been with, probably, if I were being honest with myself. Which was weird, since my bodycount had to be in the triple digits by now.

  But still just a random lay, right, Nic?

  Of course. And it seemed like she'd certainly felt that way too, or else she wouldn't have pulled a vanishing act, would she? No, she'd have stuck around like the rest, waiting for me to wake up, with starry eyes full of romantic expectations I knew I couldn't deliver on. So she bailed before I woke up, to spare us both that rotten scene.

  And you know what? Good for her. There oughtta be more chicks like her, when you come right down to it.

  But the fact is, there probably aren't any more like her.

  Jesus, where had that thought come from?

  I stepped out onto the street, feeling the cold air trace its fingers up my spine. I've never been much of a Christmas fan—I'd had a pretty short childhood, all in all—but even I had to admit that there was something a little sad about the day after. The decorations that had seemed so shiny and cheerful yesterday seemed like a bunch of cheap and tacky junk today, just waiting for their owners to throw them away or toss them back into their dusty boxes for another eleven months—forgotten and far from daylight, like prisoners in solitary.

  That reminded me of Kong, and man, did that hurt.

  I glanced across the street, expecting to see Growler loitering there. When I saw that he wasn't, an uneasy confusion bubbled up in my gut like a backed-up drain. He was supposed to be watching my back in case Vole tried to take another shot at me—and even if Growler wasn't exactly the world's smartest or most focused guy, it wasn't like him to just ignore or abandon an order he'd been given.

  He's probably just around the corner taking a piss in an alley, or up the street grabbing a breakfast burrito or something. Or maybe he saw Lauren leave and thought it meant that I was awake too, so he figured it was safe to bail.

  I mean, it's Growler, for Christ's sake. If anyone can take care of himself, it's him. He could scare the titanium off an exhaust pipe, and if Vole or any of those other Mafia motherfuckers had shown up, Growler would doubtless have turned them into human pretzels in the time it took to say “Leave the gun, take the cannoli.”

  But still, something seemed off.

  I hopped on Lola and gunned her engine. As I did, I found myself wishing that Lauren were perched on the back again, her arms wrapped around me, her soft breath tickling my ear.

  Trying once more to shake these thoughts out of my head, I rode up the street to the Nest.

  # # #

  When I got there and walked in the door, I could tell immediately that something was wrong. The jukebox—which had always been cranked 24/7 since the Nest opened—was dark and silent. The place was packed with Reapers, so many that all the seats were taken and there was almost no room to move among them. I did a quick head count, and realized that almost every member of the local chapter was here, close to forty guys all in all. We'd had gatherings that big before, of course, usually for special events, and when we had, the entire place had been full of jokes, roars, stomping boots, and breaking glass, plus waves of profanity that crashed through like a stormy ocean.

  But today, the Nest was eerily still. There were a few mutters and whispers among the guys, but overall, you could almost hear a pin drop.

  Not good.

  Bard was standing in the far corner, pacing and smoking cigarettes. He'd proudly given them up over a year ago, but one glance at the ashtray next to him—and the heavy gray cloud around him—told me he'd been chaining them all morning.

  Not good at all.

  When he saw me, Bard stubbed out his smoke and walked over. He always walked with a slow and patient stride, but from the rigid way he was holding his shoulders, I could tell that this time, his calmness was an act—one he was having trouble maintaining. He spoke quietly, spacing his words out with great effort.

  “I've been calling you, Nic. I was just about to send someone to your place to make sure you were alive. Where have you been?”

  I blinked, confused. He'd been calling me? I hadn't checked my burner this morning before leaving the house, even though I always had before. And of course, I hadn't looked at it all night, because, well...

  I reached for my pocket to check the screen for missed calls, but
Bard's hand shot out with lightning speed, clamping down on my wrist before I could. Jesus, he was strong. For a crazy moment, I thought he would twist his hand expertly, snapping my wrist easily like a dead stick as he'd done with so many others. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt genuinely afraid of Bard—that wasn't the nature of our relationship. He was like a father to me, but I was damned scared now, and the feeling made my stomach lurch.

  “Don't look at your phone, Nic. It's too late for that now. Look at me.”

  With difficulty, I raised my eyes to meet his own. There was anger there, to be sure, but the other things I saw there frightened me even more, because I hadn't ever seen them in his eyes before. He was scared, too. More than that, he looked oddly disappointed.

  I cleared my throat uneasily. “Bard, what the fuck? What's wrong?”

  “Growler never came back after last night. He's missing.”