Sexy Bastards Anthology: Bad Boy, Biker, Alpha, Motorcycle Club, Contemporary Romance Collection

by Lexy Timms

  That had to be part of the reason for her jump off the bridge earlier.

  In a voice harsher than he intended, he turned her so he could look in her face and snapped, “Who beat you?”

  Chapter 3

  Willow opened her eyes and stared up at the man who’d save her life. The man who knew her husband and although strong and caring, was no match for Greg when he was in a rage.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said in a soft voice.

  “Of course it matters,” he said again, his gaze narrowed and hard. “He deserves to feel every blow he’s inflicted on you twice as hard.”

  Like that would happen. She shrugged and stayed quiet. What was the point? As he knew Greg, chances were he wouldn’t believe her. Greg was always the affable, get-along-with-everyone person to his buddies. But in private, it was as if he could be the person he really was inside. He was always angry. Always mad at his friends who appeared to have more. He wanted power and prestige but never could get it.

  He was a mechanic by trade but preferred to work on his friends’ vehicles than actually take jobs that make money. She’d been working for the last year to pay the rent and put food on the table. When there wasn’t money for booze, he took off and came home with it anyway. She had no idea what he did or how he got it, but he was always in a rage when he came home. The booze only made it worse. He’d been getting more violent with each passing month.

  The first time he’d beaten her, she’d left. Only he’d found her and dragged her back and damn near killed her.

  He’d threatened to do so. And she’d believed him. That fear had kept her in line for a long time. But freedom beckoned, only it had been months before she had a chance to do it again. He dropped her off at work, picked her up at work, and her boss watched her like a hawk in between.

  Often, there were men in the house overnight, and one of his best friends lived next door. He was one scary dude. And he was always staring at her. Like he would’ve liked to get his hands on her, too. Surrounded by abuse, she’d tried to stay out of trouble and wait for the right time.

  Last night had been the right time.

  She’d made it.

  And somehow she’d failed yet again.

  But lying here, it was hard to be mad. In fact, she was damn glad to be alive. She had no idea where she’d go, but maybe she could find enough money to take a bus out East and hide.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He didn’t pretend to misunderstand but stared down at her and then gave a clipped nod. “You’re welcome. I’m sorry life got so bad that death was preferable.”

  “It seemed like the only alternative,” she said in a low voice.

  He picked her up until she was leaning against his chest. Her breasts plumped against him. Instantly, cold air pricked her skin and she shivered. She could feel his body stirring beneath her.

  With a muffled curse, he turned on the hot water again and let her soak up more heat. “You’re likely to be cold for a long time.”

  She nodded and huddled closer. Recovery would be slow on so many levels. A yawn escaped. She just wanted to wallow in the water and sleep. The warmth was a seductive cocoon, like being back in the womb, cared for and loved.

  “Where the hell is your family?”

  She sighed. He had a right to know some things. Not all, so she’d tell him what she could. “I have no family. My parents and younger sister were killed in a car crash when I was six. I lived in multiple foster homes until I was eighteen and have been on my own since.”

  There was an odd silence, then her hand was lifted and the simple gold ring on her finger rotated. Crap. He meant that family.

  Greg wasn’t family. He was her captor. Prison guard. And maybe executioner. Only time would tell.

  “And your husband?”

  “He left tonight.”

  The stranger raised his head and he stared at her in disbelief. “You tried to kill yourself because he walked out.”

  She shook her head. “He didn’t walk away from me, he finally left me alone so I could escape. But he’ll find me. He always does.” She stared up into the stranger’s mesmerizing gaze and said in an apologetic voice, “Death really is the best answer.”

  Anger flared in his gaze. “It’s never the right answer.”

  What could she say? She hadn’t wanted it to be the answer. But after months of looking for an escape, it had seemed to be the only option. The last thing she wanted to do was spike the stranger’s anger. She struggled to sit up and in a formal voice that sounded silly to her own ears, she said, “I’m sorry. Thank you for saving me tonight. If we could dry my clothes, I’ll leave.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” he snapped in a harsh voice. “Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

  She froze. Her gaze slowly rose to stare at the man who’d saved her – but had he? Or did he have plans for her too?

  ***

  It was not what he’d meant to say, and from the look on her face, it was the worst thing he could say. He opened his mouth to correct his words when he saw that same fatalistic acceptance in her voice. And then he got mad.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he roared. “If a man says that, you should be trying to knock him down and out so you can get away.”

  She shuddered and bent her head.

  “Do you hear me? You are no prisoner.”

  “I’m a prisoner. I’ve always been a prisoner," she whispered. “Of fate first, then the system, then my husband.”

  “You are not a victim.” This time his voice was cold and clear. “You were a victim.”

  She stared at him.

  “Forget what I just said a moment ago,” he snapped. “I’m not a prison guard and you are not a victim, but until you change that mindset, you’re not leaving here.”

  Her expression never changed. She was either confused or not taking it in. He wasn’t taking it in either. What the hell was he doing? But he was going to do this. She’d been mistreated for so long she had no idea what the hell life was all about. Victim mentality was crippling at the best of times. In a beaten and abused wife, it was deadly.

  Now if only he knew who the hell the husband was. He’d make sure the bastard knew exactly what it felt like to take a beating – a real one.

  “So I’m a prisoner but not a prisoner?” Her voice was soft.

  “And that’s not fair, is it?”

  “No,” her voice rose with indignation. “It’s not.”

  “Good, then get angry. Fight against it. Fight against me.”

  Instead, she slumped in defeat.

  Damn it. This was going to take time.

  Fine. He’d had no immediate plans yesterday. He sure as hell did now.

  If he had to be cruel to be kind, then he would be. She deserved to know that life was not a bitch. She was only a bitch sometimes. It’s what people made of life the rest of the time that counted.

  Chapter 4

  She didn’t know what to make of him. According to his words, she’d be a prisoner until… when? Until she changed her mindset. How did she do that? All she wanted to do was run like hell as far and as fast as she could in the opposite direction.

  And yet why?

  So far, this man hadn't hurt her. He’d bent over backwards to save her. Even now, his words sounded like he was doing this for her – even if he was misguided. All men did things for themselves and only themselves. She’d learned that at a young age. Maybe if her father had lived she’d have learned different lessons, but so far, men had proven to be power-hungry assholes.

  But maybe not this man.

  According to him, he wasn’t a prison guard and she wasn’t a victim.

  Yet according to the rest of his sentence – that she wasn’t leaving here until she changed her mindset – she was a victim and he was a prison guard. It was confusing, to say the least.

  He reached down past their slick bodies and pulled the plug. Instantly the warm water started to drain away. She didn’t want to move
. Couldn’t move. He took up so much space that it would be hard to stand without shoving her bum in his face. He’d not made any move toward her sexually, but it would come. Of course it would. She’d listened to other women at work talk about their loving parents and old boyfriends and current lovers. She understood that they were living different lives to the one she was living.

  Other women spoke in wondrous tones about making love and how many times they’d climaxed during the previous night. Not her. She wasn’t sure she knew what an organism was. Some of the women had asked her about her wedding and the honeymoon. She’d made up the answers, hoping it would be socially acceptable. In truth, she’d gotten married in the town court office and the honeymoon had been spent at home getting the crap beaten out of her.

  Why had she gotten married? She stared down at the simple gold ring on her finger. Because at the time, she felt she had no choice. It hadn’t changed anything for her. For Greg, well, it had made him happier. And if he was happier, then her life was easier.

  Happy in that he now legally owned her. She’d often wondered why he hadn’t bought her a dog collar. It was how he viewed her. Treated her. Hell, if Greg had a dog, he’d have treated it better than he treated his wife.

  Life was a bitch and according to her husband, she was one of life’s bitches, too.

  “Give me your hand.”

  She jolted back to awareness to see the stranger reaching a hand down to her. He already stood outside the bathtub, a towel tossed over his shoulder, completely uncaring of his nude state. Then why would he care? He was gorgeous and strong, if the heavily ridged muscles were anything to go by, and he was covered with tattoos.

  And he was hung. As in seriously hung. She felt the warmth flood her face and she quickly averted her gaze as she reached up to grasp his hand. He held onto her while she carefully stood up and stepped out of the bath.

  In the same impersonal manner that was starting to get to her, he took the towel and briskly ran it over her body. Just enough force to dry off the water and not enough to hurt. He’d done this a time or two for people. Oddly enough, that bothered her. Why, she didn’t know. Anyone this gorgeous had women, and lots of them.

  None of her business.

  As a finale, he wrapped the towel around her body and tucked the loose corner in the space between her breasts, all without saying a word. He grabbed a second smaller towel and proceeded to dry her long hair. And this time, his touch was gentle, as if knowing how painful it could be to have one’s hair pulled. His ministrations were so caring and felt so good she closed her eyes and let him work.

  When he dropped the towel over a rack, she thought for sure he was done. Instead, he picked up a hairbrush and proceeded to get all the tangles out.

  Again in silence. And again without hurting her.

  Yet not letting her do anything but what he wanted.

  ***

  He waited and watched as she let him care for her. She stepped where he said to step and never argued. He wanted to see some of that fire. It was inside. It had to be. Only a desperate person considered suicide, and that was a passionate act in itself.

  And the longer he stayed caring for her, the more he cared for the outcome. She was getting under his skin. He hated the submissiveness. The sheer lack of caring. He wanted her to hit him. Stop him. He knew he could lay her on the bed and take her and she’d do nothing to stop him. Good thing he didn’t want a blow up doll in his bed, he wanted fire and ice.

  Besides, she wasn’t his girl.

  She was married, and that was a complication he didn’t need. Although if death was preferable to being married, then he might not need to consider the marriage an issue either. But someone had to tell the asshole he wasn’t getting his wife back.

  He stared down at the silent women and watched in wonder as his own long-buried protective instincts arose. Not since his mother. He’d avoided that scenario ever since, but he’d never forgotten the same broken look on his mother’s face. He’d cared for her until the end.

  And hadn’t expected to find himself in the same situation again.

  No, this wasn’t quite the same. His mother had died. He wouldn’t let that be the same end for this young woman.

  Besides, this woman was younger. She would have time to recover. Surely her abuse hadn’t been for the decade that his mother had endured. She had gotten cancer as her system was too worn out trying to survive. She’d welcomed death.

  Like this woman.

  At the time, as a young man, he’d tried to get the only person he cared about to fight. To live. If not for her sake, then for his. But she hadn’t wanted chemo or drugs. She’d been happy to let her body waste away into nothing.

  He’d been so angry at the time. He’d hated her for a while. He still didn’t understand giving in to the disease, but she called it a letting go. A letting be. A giving way so something bigger and better could come into her life.

  He knew she meant God and Heaven. He’d hated God as a child for allowing his father to be such a bastard. For letting his mother be such a victim. And for letting his childhood be so horrendous.

  Now as an adult, he understood choices and victim mentality. He understood what she had meant about letting go.

  But as he stared down at the beautiful waif waiting for him to say something, to do something, he realized he had so much more to learn.

  So did she.

  He nudged her toward the bed. “Get into bed. I’ll bring you something hot to drink.”

  As he watched, she dropped the towel and crawled under the blankets. She fluffed the pillow once and sank into the bed.

  She’d be asleep in minutes, so he didn’t bother with the hot drink.

  Was she aware of her catatonic state? He hoped not. He also hoped it was anything but normal for her.

  Quickly collecting the towels, he tossed those and her clothes along with his into the washing machine and started the wash cycle. If nothing else, they’d have clean dry clothes in the morning. He doubted he’d have anything suitable for her to wear otherwise.

  It was late, and he was damn tired. He walked to the other side of the bed and slipped in, trying not to disturb her. He lay on his back, his body exhausted from the earlier exertion but his mind spinning with endless questions.

  He tried to sleep, but it wouldn’t come. He tossed from side to side then gave it up. He turned to watch her sleep. Deep, relaxed, healing sleep.

  Good for her. He reached out and tugged her into his arms.

  With a smile, he realized that’s what had been wrong in the first place. Almost since the first moment he’d met her, he’d held her in his arms – one way or another.

  Now that they were in bed, she’d been lying beside him. And that apparently wasn’t good enough. He wanted her back in his arms.

  Feeling like he’d somehow crossed a precipice of no return but too tired to be worried about it, he closed his eyes and slept.

  Chapter 5

  She woke to find herself tucked under blankets and wrapped in an inferno of body heat. Lord, it felt good. After last night, she was worried that she’d never be warm again. Now she reveled in the heat. And the comfort.

  The stranger held her against his chest, his heavy thigh thrown across her legs. Pinning her in place. She lay there quietly. Although she was pinned, the sensation wasn’t oppressive. In fact, it was comforting. He wasn’t pressing down on her to keep her in place. Rather, it was a more gentle letting her know that he was there for her.

  Who was this man who moved her so? Who made her wonder about a future after all? Could she have one without the pain and the fear? Was it possible to leave Greg and go on to have a different relationship with someone else? She’d never wanted to before. She still didn’t now. But this man… he made her want so much more than what she had.

  Not that she knew what she had any longer. Greg would kill her next time he saw her. If he knew about her fall off the bridge, her night in a stranger’s bed, he’d kill her and take g
reat pleasure in it.

  If he found out.

  And she had to stop him from finding out.

  “Who are you?” she whispered soundlessly into the room filled with the early morning glow of dawn, knowing he was asleep and couldn’t hear her. She studied his face, so relaxed in repose. He was a beautiful male with his square jaw and high cheekbones and the bright eyes she remembered well. They were a razor blue that caught her and held her in his grasp.

  He was a man who went after what he wanted then reached out and took it.

  But never against another’s will.

  She was proof of that.

  What did he do for a living? His hands showed calluses, as if he worked with them or had a hobby he indulged in often. He’d do well coaxing something out of nothing. There was a tenderness to him, though he’d probably hate her for saying so.

  She smiled then.

  A deep growl slid out from the perfect chiseled lips beside her. “What are you smiling about?”

  She froze, the smile dropping off.

  “Don’t be silent now,” the same barely-awake gravel voice murmured. “I’d like to know.”

  She wanted to answer. She struggled to articulate an answer. Instead, she gave a statement of being. “I’m alive.”

  His lashes lifted slowly. His head rested not a foot from hers, his gaze alert and penetrating.

  “And that’s a good thing.”

  She hesitated then offered a small smile. “It is.” She took a deep breath and added, “Thank you.”

  His electric blue eyes widened. She’d heard the term before but had never seen an example in her life. Now she had. And they were beautiful.

  “You’re welcome. Glad to see that the bright morning light has brought back your common sense.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that, yet she knew some explanation was in order.