Long Ride: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Black Sparks MC) (Whiskey Bad Boys Book 1)

by Kathryn Thomas

  “What can I say? They can’t all be like me,” Liana whispered.

  Jack turned and gave her a lascivious smile. “That’s for sure.”

  “Now where were we?” Liana asked, grazing her shaking hand over Jack’s junk, fumbling for the button of his black jeans, her other hand walking up his chest. The warmth and stiffness that greeted her once she undid his zipper and worked her hand in past the boxer briefs was enough to make her gag, knowing what it meant. She grabbed his member and worked it out his underwear.

  She gritted her teeth as Jack grabbed her head and pushed it up against his chest. She stroked his member harder, more urgently, trying the best she could to insert something else—anything else—into her mind. A calm, peaceful beach, a coral reef—Nicholas Stone lying beside her, safe and in peace, genuine happiness and love in his gray-green eyes. She felt a tear jerk from her eye. The distance between what she wanted, and what she had at this moment—an aroused man she loathed, a corpse on the bed—seemed insurmountable. She closed her eyes and worked her way down the shaft of Jack’s cock with both hands, sinking to her knees. Casually, he grabbed her hair and shoved her face into his crotch, nearly gagging her, the cloying Vetiver scent of his cologne invading her nostrils. He tipped his head back with a short moan, momentarily caught up in the moment Liana’s hope fluttered.

  “Hey, slow down,” said Jack suddenly, a gleam in his eyes as he regarded Helena’s body, and the younger woman below him. “Who’s in charge here, anyway? You think all is forgiven?”

  “I—” Liana stammered.

  “No, you owe me for running away.”

  Liana’s stomach lurched as he reached down to grab Helena’s hair and yank it upward, the lids of her lifeless eyes boring down into her soul, the dead woman’s jaw slightly unhinged, like a broken door. He reached down to place Liana’s hand on his cock.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll make it fun for you. All you have to do is play nice and give your girlfriend a kiss.”

  Liana had never seen a corpse before in her life, let alone touched one. She clawed the bedclothes. The bile rocketed to the tip of her mouth, and she held a hand up to her face to hide it. Rigor mortis had barely set in on Helena, but she could almost smell the rottenness that was about to emanate from her pores. She leaned down to touch the waxy lips that were still warm; a strange coppery smell, like blood or some other bodily fluid, filled her sinuses.

  “Come on, open that mouth,” said Jack. “Show me how much you love it.”

  Liana lurched forward, feeling like she was about to climb into her own grave. “You always know just what turns me on,” she said, the words seeming to rumble up from somewhere deep inside her, somewhere deeper than her disgust, somewhere deeper than her revulsion and hatred for Jack, somewhere where she could still see broad daylight out the window, could still know there were buds on the magnolia trees and robins pecking on the lawn, and that if she could just playact long enough, that if she could let the actress in herself take over, to do what she was trained to do. She had to believe God might still be on her side, and that she might still be able to crawl out of this darkness and see those things again.

  Nick had been locked up for two years, and it had nearly broken him. But he’d survived. Somehow, he’d been strong enough. And it was his face she thought of now as she said the words. How he had every opportunity to dismiss her as a spoiled brat, an opportunist, as a soulless whore. Instead, after everything she’d done to him, and everything she’d put him through, he’d still seen the best in her. Now it was up to her see the best in herself. She reached down and closed her grip around the switchblade, as Jack, distracted by his twisted lust, reached for her shirt to rip it off, forcing her to drop the blade again. She almost growled in frustration.

  “Filthy girl,” said the cop, his tongue flicking out as he reached down to undo her pants and yank down her panties, leaving the blade just out of reach. “I ought to lock you up.”

  She was half-naked now and, from behind, she felt Jack grab and push her into Helena’s stiff body. She held her breath, wetness forming around her eyes, straining for the blade, now almost sticking halfway out of the pocket of her jeans, which were around her ankles.

  She grabbed Jack’s cock and pumped harder, listening to him moan with twisted pleasure as he held her facedown on the bed, tears running down her face, knowing she only had one chance.

  Everything in the room was rotten, and not just the body, swirling around her in a miasma of horror, pain and adrenaline. She wouldn’t let him do this. She wasn’t the girl who would be used like this—not anymore. She’d been there, and she would never, could never, go back. She settled, letting serenity sweep over her for a moment—the serenity to act.

  With a noise halfway between a scream and a battle cry, she brandished the blade and drove it homeward, aiming for his cock. He let out a pained scream and grabbed for her, but she was quick enough to roll off the bed, then made another slash across in a wild motion, stabbing deeper, two hands gripped on the blade. Jack screamed and momentarily loosened his grip on her, reaching for his bleeding genitals. She pushed Helena’s body off her; it landed on the carpet with a sickening thump, and Liana scrambled over it as she made wildly for the door, hoping Jack hadn’t managed to find a way to lock it from the inside.

  “Bitch!” he roared, diving after her, catching her ankle.

  She fumbled the blade again and dropped it, where it bounced once and skidded out of her reach. Despairing, heart screaming inside her, adrenaline hot enough hat she could almost see it rushing through her veins, she clawed for anything within her reach. Spying the lamp cord, plugged into the wall, she ripped it out of the socket and pulled it toward her violently. The base of the lamp was ridged porcelain and once it shattered, she grabbed the largest piece she could and brought it down over Jack’s head with a final, primal scream.

  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

  Nick rode as if through a tunnel, barely seeing the traffic on either side of him, his face numb and cracked from the wind, his gloved hands so tight on the handlebars he could have had them crushed to a fine powder by the time he got off on the Cincinnati exit. By then, the sun was merely a yellow-orange streak on the western horizon, and he already feared it was too late. But he kept moving forward, because as long as he was alive and Liana needed him, he’d keep moving toward her. The desperation of her text—HELP—flashed through his brain still. He couldn’t shake it no matter how much he tried to replace it with images of hope. Instead, it pressed him forward, through the exhaust of the big rigs in front of him, weaving in and out of the rush hour traffic.

  He hadn’t had time to secure a proper weapon, a bulletproof vest, or the help of his fellow Black Sparks. He just rode. He knew there was little to no chance any of them would want to help him, not after he’d caused them so much grief with Jack and the Vipers. He had to do this on his own.

  There was no doubt about it; he felt he was riding into battle. He willed himself to not think, to not contemplate the possibility that he had missed his opportunity—his last opportunity—to save the woman he knew he loved.

  His gut still ached as he leaned over the bike, and when he thought of the burly cop laughing as he writhed helpless on the cement floor, handcuffed to the metal chair, he heard another laugh echoing beneath—Noel Richardson, laughing with one of the cops as Nick sat in the back of a police car. Thinking back to that moment, Nick realized Noel hadn’t cared about Liana as a person at all; he cared about her as property, as something someone he owned and that Nick, a lesser being, had touched without his permission. In Noel Richardson’s book, that meant Nick had not only to be put in his place, but destroyed, too. And Jack Camus felt the same way. And chasing him was the thought that he had failed Liana again, that by allowing Jack Camus to get the best of him he had proved the worst of what people believed in him: that he was worthless. But if he couldn’t protect the people he loved, he was worthless.

  The wind whipped the hair that peeked from
underneath his helmet as he took the exit the directions had pointed him to: a wealthy, newly developed part of downtown that had used to contain mills and factories; now they had been converted into condos with gritty metal and brick accents in a semblance of industry. But he practically skidded onto the shoulder of the road when he saw the flashing lights, swirling red, haunting his dreams like a curse he couldn’t outrun. Two police cruisers and an ambulance, their doors open, had been parked near the entrance to the complex. Curious bystanders were grouped behind a line of yellow police tape, and cops and officials, their faces alternately obscured and aglow, tried to keep order.

  “Sir!” a cop called as he saw Nick throw his bike down into the landscaped shrubbery, moving toward them in fury. “Stay back!”

  But Nick didn’t slow down for even a second as he ran toward the gurney being wheeled out of the door of the building. But he’d already seen all he needed to see. The horror of the wisp of blonde hair peeking out of the gurney, a slender slope of the head underneath the blue cloth.

  Nick felt as if a train had just barreled over him as he sank to the ground, his hands reaching out for the metal of the gurney. The EMTs shrank back.

  “Liana!”

  “Sir,” the nasal-voiced cop said again, his calmness infuriating as he grabbed Nick’s shoulder. “This is a crime scene!”

  “He killed her!” Nick screamed. “Where is he? Where’s Jack Camus?”

  But even if somebody had responded, he wouldn’t have heard the words. He was sinking, down into a vortex of grief, sorrow and rage. All he had been, all of him that desired happiness and hope, was gone. Every part of him that thought he could ever redeem himself, or that thought he was capable of atoning for the wrong he had done, was gone. If Liana was dead, that part of him died with her.

  In an instant, all of Nicholas Stone had been effaced, reduced to a single swirling flame—revenge. But there was no despair—he’d been too late, but there was one and only thing he could do for the woman who had begged for his help, and who he had failed once again. He could mourn Liana, or he could act. He wouldn’t rest until Jack Camus had been reduced to ash.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The footsteps in the parking garage were slow, halting, deliberate. They indicated more than just some resident coming down from a condo, preparing for a night on the town. They were the steps of someone who knew what they were aiming for.

  Nick crouched in the corner, exhausted, filthy, legs pulled up to his chest, his head buried in his hands. He’d been staking out the condo for hours, walking the grounds, trying to stay out of sight of the cops and the authorities. He’d stay here forever if he had to. He didn’t have any home to go to anymore. Tryg and Tomahawk wouldn’t give him the time of day, not when they’d probably already disowned Nick and made Martin Malone vice president in his stead. He’d tried calling Kirrily once, but she never picked up. She had no choice but to follow her husband’s lead after all, like a good M.C. wife, and he couldn’t fault her for that. The man who had once been his father figure had given up on him—all because of Liana, and now she was gone, too.

  In short, he had nothing. All he had was the cinderblock garage, and the red rage that clouded his vision. He stayed hunched in the corner now, plotting his next move. He never expected Jack Camus to come to him.

  “So.”

  Nick’s head shot up. In the dim fluorescent lighting overhead, his eyes struggling to adjust to the dimness. Jack’s eyes looked hollow, his face gaunt. He held his body at an unnatural angle, and Nick realized why the pacing of his steps had sounded so strange. He was filthier than Nick, his clothes stained with what was very likely blood. He was merely dragging himself along.

  Realization suddenly dawned on Nick exactly where he had been injured, and his body clenched. Good.

  Jack’s voice cracked when he spoke. “I thought I’d arranged it so you’d be spending some quality time with Bubba right about now.”

  “It turns out there’s at least one cop in the world who isn’t an asshole,” Nick muttered.” And he’s an ex-con, too. Go figure.”

  “That chick detective, Madigan, is a joke. If it weren’t for her, I could have gotten you stuck with those charges for putting Daniel Kinski on ice. Literally. But hey,” he added, “conspiracy isn’t too shabby. That’s five years, at least.”

  “I’ll do a million, if it means you’re rotting six feet under,” said Nick, rising to his feet. “Liana trusted you, and all you ever did was use her. You brought her fear and sadness and pain. That’s all you ever intended to bring.”

  Jack laughed harshly. “You don’t think she had a good time ice skating?”

  “You were bribing her. You wanted her under your thumb. She was alone and scared in New York, trying to make it on her own. And you took advantage of that. You’re a monster.”

  “She wouldn’t have lasted five seconds in the city without me. She’s weak.”

  “She’s not weak,” argued Nick. “She’s stronger than you could ever imagine, and all you ever did, from the moment you knew her, is tear her down.”

  Jack grinned. “You’re not really blaming me for your failure to protect her, are you? You know, that’s so typical of a boy who grew up without any positive adult role models in his life, who never learned to take responsibility for his own actions. You know, on the force, we have programs that help troubled youth with that kind of self-destructive behavior. ”

  “You killed her,” Nick growled, his hands clenched into fists hard enough to crush glass. “You and you alone.”

  “What can I say? Even the prettiest girl can’t slash a cop with a switchblade and expect to live.”

  That a girl, Liana. Nick took minimal comfort in the fact that she hadn’t gone out without a fight. “You know, I thought your voice sounded a little higher.”

  The hollow eyes in Jack’s dingy, blood-streaked face flashed in anger.

  “Let’s talk about you, Stone. About what Liana was thinking about when the life was draining out of her. About you and how you failed her. How she managed to send out a text with her last ounce of strength, expecting her big bad biker boy to come riding to her rescue, and you couldn’t even get here on time? That while I was fucking her pussy raw, she was screaming and cursing your name?”

  Nick pressed his lips into a firm, line, trying to keep from screaming, from reaching from Jack’s neck and squeezing the juice out of his body like a grape, knowing the only thing that could result from such foolishness was Nick’s own death. “I don’t believe you.”

  Jack seemed unfazed. “So what are you going to do? Try to kill me with your bare hands?” He gingerly reached under his jacket and pulled out a Glock, cocked it, and aimed at Nick’s heart. Nick realized Jack knew he was unarmed. “Seems foolish, if you ask me.”

  Nick swallowed, his eyes darting from the barrel of the gun to Jack’s face.

  “Not to mention that if you kill me, forget the conspiracy charges. It’s murder, and you go to prison for the rest of your life. My friends on the force will see to it. Is that what you think Liana would want?”

  Nick hesitated for a second. Would the girl who used to trap spiders and set them free want him killing in revenge, even if it meant ending the life of the man who had snuffed out hers? Jack may have been lower than even a spider, in Nick’s opinion. But it wasn’t about what he thought, what he needed. This was the moment where he could decide to be a man, the man he hadn’t been able to be when he was younger. The man Liana had always known he could be, and still believed he was.

  “You don’t have a lot of great choices here, I admit. But some are more pleasant than others.”

  Suddenly, an explosion of light and noise came from behind Nick. A bullet tore through Jack’s shoulder, and he yelled and swore as the projectile sent him reeling backward on his bloodied, unstable legs. Still he was able to fire back indiscriminately in the darkness, and Nick ducked to avoid the bullets whizzing by his ear. Wildly, Nick pressed his body against the wall an
d looked behind him.

  “Tomahawk,” he gasped, as the red-bearded man emerged from the gloom of the parking garage holding a pistol, the Black Sparks M.C. patch on his jacket shining like a beacon in the darkness. Before now, Nick had never realized how wonderful it felt to see the insignia of one of his brothers. “Tryg?”

  The large figure of the club president had emerged right next to Tomahawk. “Step back,” Tryg rumbled as he stepped toward the younger man and made a grab. “Let us handle this.”

  “Let go of me!” screamed Nick, fighting the stronger man’s grip, tearing himself away, determined to get back to Jack. “Where were you when Liana was being murdered by this asshole? You wouldn’t lift a finger to help her! It was you! It’s your fault!”

  “Nick, what are you talking about?”

  “Liana,” he cried. “She’s—she’s—”

  The weight of his arm fell on Nick’s shoulder like a warm blanket, and the younger man felt his weight collapsing into the solid frame of the man who had held him up for so long. It was a good weight, though, with the strength and solidity of family. The only one he had. Now if only—

  “She’s okay, Nick,” murmured the older man, and Nick believed he was dreaming—or maybe he was already dead. In either case, if he could see Liana again, it would be okay.

  “But I saw—”

  Tomahawk shook his head, and Nick felt his knees buckle. It wasn’t her. It wasn’t her. This couldn’t be real.

  “But—how do you know? How did you find us?”

  “Kirrily.” Tryg opened his black leather glove to reveal a crystal. He dropped it into Nick’s hand. He just turned it over, the smoothness seeming to radiate an energy that came from Liana herself. “She’s safe with her relatives for now.”

  Nick’s stomach dropped, as if an energy, a force field, had opened up. “You mean—”

  Tomahawk cracked a smile. “And the police scanner behind the bar.”

  Tryg looked serious, the lines in his worn face seeming to morph and change, as if he could read a new language that was written there. “I was wrong, Nick. I judged Liana, and I judged you. But as it turned out, you were braver than even I knew. And so was she. She’s a Ryan,” he continued. “And you—” Nick looked up hopefully. “You’re family. And you always will be.”