Ryker

by Nikki Ryker

  I'm damn sure this fire isn't my doing, which begs the question, who started it and why? Only one name springs immediately to mind.

  "Trent," I growl.

  The fucking bastard doesn't give a rat's ass his grandson is in the house, so long as he flushes us out or destroys us. The moment I get my hands on him, he's a dead man.

  But I have to survive the next few minutes to do it.

  I tug a washcloth from the rack and rush into the bedroom. The smoke is forming. It had been lit somewhere near the outside of the master bedroom, and already it's too thick. It won't take much to suffocate a baby. I scoop the wailing baby out of the bassinet by the bed, cradling him to my chest with one arm and test the knob on the bathroom door. I'm relieved to find it cool enough to the touch.

  I twist the knob and soak as much of the washcloth as I can, not bothering to wring it out. Bryan's small chest heaves against mine and his anguished wail cuts at me. I have to get him out of here. Trent probably has both doors covered. But a bullet is a more merciful death than burning. I'll take it. Perhaps under the cover of night I can slip away before things get too dicey. Maybe Trent won't dare act in front of the first responders sure to arrive soon.

  And maybe fucking Santa Claus would make an early trip. Trent wants a target? I'll give him one. But not until Bryan is safe.

  I place the damp cloth over Bryan's mouth and nose. It's not perfect, but it should keep most of the ash and heat from getting to his tiny lungs. I drape the blanket around my shoulders and begin running.

  The flames are licking along the insides of my house now, devouring the furniture and the paintings on the wall. The sofa Cleo and I made love on is gone, caught in the blaze. Before too long everything will be cinders. The heat batters me in waves and I take an involuntary step back. I'm going to jump through.

  Backing up to the only wall that isn't burning, I gather all my strength and charge. My leap takes me over a smoldering armchair and deposits me into the kitchen again. There's less that burns here, and the back patio door seems clear. My fingers feel fat and numb and it takes me five tries to get the latch on the door to open. When I stumble out, the rain that pelts my face feels like ice water.

  I draw the blanket in tighter and climb quickly and stealthily away from the house. There's no chance that anyone watching won't be able to spot me. The red-orange glow of my ruined house casts too much light. But if I can make it around the house and to the first responders, we'll be safer.

  The whiz of the bullet is inaudible over the crackling roar of the fire. It falls short of its target, causing dirt to spit inches from my ankle. I jerk away from the sight as though I've just faced a rattler. It's just as deadly, and likely to kill me faster. One of Trent's men has us in his sights. I'd love to find him and knock his teeth in, but the only way out is to run. A moving target is harder to hit and that increases the probability of both of us surviving.

  I'm not up to my full speed. Smoke I've inhaled from the bedroom is slowing me, and a hacking cough rises in my chest, bowing me forward. The air out here is saved from being noxious by the rain. The fire isn't out of control because nature acts as a sort of sprinkler system here in South Hollens. It's a wonder that Trent and his men could start a fire at all under these conditions.

  Bryan shrieks his displeasure to the sky as I sprint toward the flashing blue and red light I can spy around the building. I'm almost to the corner of my house when the bullet grazes my leg. It feels like a searing hot knife slashed across my ankle. My left leg goes out from under me and I go down, turning just in time to keep from crushing Bryan beneath my weight. He ends up plastered to my front, still swaddled in the fireproof blanket.

  Get up, you idiot, I berate myself. Get up. They're still shooting.

  I gather up Bryan, tucking him beneath one arm like a squirming football. I can't put my weight on the injured foot, but I hobble in a half-crouch toward the waiting ambulance. Heather is there, shouting down a group of firemen. When she spots me, her eyes fill with tears and she rushes toward me.

  "Ryker! Thank God you're okay! We thought-"

  I shove Bryan at her, and the hacking cough finally escapes me. I'm fucking exhausted, I'm sore, and I'm apoplectic with fury at Trent. Bryan doesn't need to be anywhere near me. I want him in a hospital.

  "Take care of him," I wheeze. "The fire started near his bassinet. Make sure his airways are clear."

  Heather's eyes take me in clinically, shifting from concerned friend to professional.

  "You shouldn't be standing either, Ryker."

  The mere fact that she's used my first name really makes the situation even more serious. She's afraid for me. And she probably should be. This wasn't a circuit malfunction or lightning strike. This is arson. If I can catch Trent at this and prove it, he'll go away for a long time.

  So without answering her questioning look, I stagger forward into the night.

  I'm going to make Trent McNeil pay for this. One way or the other.

  19

  Cleo

  When Holly pulls to a stop outside Ryker's house, the first responders have all but barred the roadway. There are at least two fire trucks trying to get the blaze under control. A police car stands guard nearby and an ambulance is parked very near it. The heat of the fire is like a physical blow, even from feet away. My eyes fill with tears and my knees nearly go out from under me. Holly has to grab my shoulders to keep me from sagging boneless to the ground. A choked sound escapes me, and it's halfway between a sob and a scream. The house is a dark silhouette within the flames, being consumed by the hungry flames.

  My crashes and tilts to the side. Or maybe that's me. The cold press of the slick pavement feels good against my cheek, and warm salty tears continue to slide down my cheeks. Gone. Everything I have ever loved has gone up in smoke. My baby died screaming in a fire. My stomach heaves and I choke on the bile that rises in my throat. My mind screams, and I can't tell if I'm screaming out loud.

  "Cleo," Holly whispers urgently. "Cleo, come on. You need to get up."

  "Gone. They're gone," I sob. "Bryan. Ryker."

  And the last impression they'd ever had of me was a coward, fleeing from the house, chased away by the ghost of my past. I choke on another wave of nausea.

  Somehow Holly gets me on my feet. I still have no control over my actions. I move jerkily, a puppet being pulled along by strings. I stagger away from Holly and the strobing lights of the first responders. If I were brave, or maybe stupid, I'd walk past the barrier of vehicles and into the fire that has claimed them both.

  Instead, I walk toward the opposite curb, tripping over it in my daze. I'm standing in someone's yard, but no one chases me away. Probably too busy watching the spectacle unfold across the road. I trip again on an uneven paving slab and this time I do fall. Pain explodes across both knees, and warm wetness runs along my leg. How badly have I skinned it?

  Holly tries to come after me, but I shelter behind an oak, shrouding myself in shadow to keep myself from her pitying gaze. I can't stand to look at her, the envy is too great. Her husband is safe. Her baby is safe inside of her. She is shielded from this horror. I hide at the base of its trunk, knees clutched to my chest.

  Someone finds me anyway. I don't look up from the patch of sodden grass beneath my feet. If the first responders want to take me away, they'll have to drag me. Finally, a pair of booted feet enter my field of vision. I drag my unwilling eyes up to find the face of the man, and my blood chills.

  The light of the fire throws Trent's face into terrifying relief. The craggy face splits into a wide, malicious grin as he stares down at me.

  "I hoped that you'd be in the house when I set the fire, but this works out."

  I don't have time to react before his foot lashes out, connecting with my side. I'm knocked from my unsteady crouch and topple over sideways, raising my hands to shield my head. Pain spiderwebs through my body as he rains blows down onto me. I catch at least a few on my ribs, and wheeze out a breathless scream. N
o one will hear me until it's too late. I barely have time to breathe before the next blow comes.

  Hot tears squeeze from the corners of my eyes. I'm going to die here, stomped to death by the man who stole my entire future.

  And then a massive, bear-like shape knocks Trent off his feet, sending him sprawling into the grass. The shape lets out a savage sound that I didn't know human throats could make. He bashes Trent's head against the ground.

  "Don't you ever fucking touch her!"

  I'm still reeling, sobbing from the pain, but the sound of that voice has hope thrumming through me, dulling the ache for just a second. Ryker. He's alive! Does that mean that Bryan escaped too? It has to, right? There's no way that Ryker left my little boy behind in a burning building. So they're alive. If I somehow make it through the day, everything might go back to the way it was.

  Well, unless Ryker ends up serving twenty to life for murdering Trent right in front of the cops.

  It takes all the strength I have left to lift myself up onto my elbows and crawl toward the pair of men. Trent's face resembles pulp by the time I reach him. I drag his elbow back. He freezes for just a second, fist poised to strike Trent in the face again. He glances toward me and blanches. I'm not sure what my face looks like, but if it looks as bad as it feels, it's probably a patchwork of blood and bruises.

  "Stop," I beg. "Ryker, you have to stop."

  "I'm not letting this fucker live," he hisses.

  "Please," I repeat. "He's down. You can't kill him in front of the cops."

  It seems to finally register on his face that other people are watching. A pair of officers are already running toward us. Ryker climbs off of Trent, hauling him up my one shoulder. He tosses the limp man toward the waiting arms of an officer. The balding, middle-aged man barely catches Trent before his face hits the pavement.

  "Take him," he huffs. "Before I change my mind."

  Ryker kneels beside me and much more gently lifts me off the ground. I go limp with relief and don't struggle as he guides me to the back of an ambulance. I'm embarrassed to need one so often in the course of a month. His pretty blonde partner is perched in the back, cradling Bryan in her arms. I let out another half-sob at the sight of him. He's safe. He doesn't even appear hurt. He's screaming bloody murder, but at least that I can take.

  "Give him to me, please."

  "Not yet, Cleo. You're still hurt," Ryker says, climbing into the back. He deposits me with care on the stretcher. All traces of anger have fled, leaving in its place the professional EMT I've always known. He examines the damage to my face and scowls.

  "Your nose is broken, he split your lip and I think you'll need stitches for the head lac. They should also check you for a concussion."

  "Jesus," the woman breathes. "What happened out there?"

  "Arson and attempted murder," Ryker says. "And I'll testify to it in court if I have to."

  "Is he gone? Really gone?"

  Ryker sits on the bench seat next to me and, after strapping me in, takes Bryan into his arms. With his free hand, he takes mine and gives it a squeeze.

  "He's gone. He's not coming back from this, I swear."

  All the anxiety, the pain, the terror, it all crashes over me in a wave and it's a struggle to keep my eyes open.

  "Sleep," Ryker orders. "You need it."

  "You'll be there when I wake up?"

  He smiles. "Forever and ever babe."

  "It's a yes, by the way," I croak.

  "To what?"

  "Yes, I'll marry you." I choke on a laugh. "Whenever my face gets pretty again."

  "It's already beautiful," he says, stroking a hand down one cheek. "But please sleep, Cleo. You have a lot of healing to do."

  I nod and let my eyes slide shut. It wasn't the end to the evening I feared and expected. Ryker was alive. Bryan was unhappy but still with us. I would be okay...eventually. And Trent was off the streets for good.

  All in all, it wasn't bad for one night's work, was it?

  20

  Ryker

  Cleo is released from the hospital a day and a half later. The head laceration required yet more stitches. The clumsy job I'd done on her thigh had to be sewn up again. Struggling with Trent had reopened the wound. She hadn't suffered a concussion, but the doctors had wanted to keep her under observation until they could rule out any internal bleeding from the beating she suffered.

  The bruises on her face looked worse as they had a chance to bloom and I once again wished I'd followed through on my attempt to kill him. Twenty years in a state pen would be worth it to end the man who had done this to Cleo.

  "You're thinking about it again," Cleo sighs.

  "Thinking about what?" I say innocently.

  "You're wishing you'd killed Trent. You always look so sour when you think about it."

  "It would have been worth it."

  Cleo shakes her head vehemently. "No, it wouldn't have. I need both my men here with me. I can't do this without you."

  I suspected she could. Cleo had shown strength negotiating with the Kings earlier in the week. She had more backbone than people gave her credit for. But a sense of pride swells in my chest. My men, she said. I'm finally hers.

  We park the car outside of a Super 8 and I duck inside to get our room keys. Cleo doesn't want to draw unwanted attention to us by parading around the lobby. She looks like she's gone a round or two with a boxer and lost. When I've paid for our room, she ducks her head and carries Bryan all the way to our room. I had to buy a new bassinet, as the fire had claimed the first one.

  This Super 8 will be our home for the next month or two until the insurance kicks in and I can have the place rebuilt. Or I could buy a new place.

  Cleo spends the better part of an hour trying to get Bryan to sleep. After she deposits him in the bassinet, she comes to curl up beside me on the hotel bed. She draws her feet beneath her and leans her head on my chest. I breathe in the warm cinnamon scent of her, bask in her warmth. There's a lot to be furious about, but at the moment, I'm just glad she's out of Trent's reach. Perhaps now she can heal. Not just from her injuries, but all reminders of what was done to her by the McNeils.

  "Did you really mean it? That you'll marry me?" I ask. "It wasn't delirium induced by smoke inhalation?"

  Her soft laugh vibrates through my chest. "No, Ryker. You weren't dreaming. I said yes."

  "Are you sure?" I tilt her face up so I can look into her dark, smoldering eyes. The sight of her face makes me wince. I should have killed Trent.

  "Dead sure," she says.

  "You don't have to do it out of a sense of obligation. I won't be hurt if you said--"

  "I want you Ryker. I want you so badly I can taste it. But I think we should wait. Let this thing with the gangs shake out. Maybe Trent's death will stop things. You know? Cut the head off the snake so to speak."

  "Or it could make it worse," Ryker mutters. "It could be the last straw."

  "Do you really think it'll happen?"

  "It could. And I need to be there for Cruz if it does. We'll have a long, hard fight on our hands."

  She wraps a dainty hand around my forearm and squeezes. Her smile is tinged with sadness at the edges. "It'll all work out, you'll see."

  How it would work out, I couldn't fathom. But I want to believe in the brighter world that Cleo sees for herself and her son.

  I clear my throat, voice thick and unsure when I ask the question that's been weighing on my mind since she brought Bryan home.

  "I want to be a dad," I blurt.

  Cleo blinks up at me. "What do you mean?"

  "Bryan's dad. If we marry, I want to adopt him. I don't want to just be his stepdad. I want to be a father. Do you think we can make that happen?"

  Cleo's eyes brim with tears and her only response is to throw her arms around my shoulders, burying her face in my neck.

  "Oh Ryker, I'd love that. We can be a family, the three of us."

  Or four of us. Or five, six, seven or more. I want the future with Cl
eo. I want to give her everything I can, everything that she's ever dreamed of.

  I roll her onto her back, tugging at the hem of her shirt. She surrenders with a soft, breathy moan and tangles her hands in my hair. We would be a family. I would be a dad.

  And tonight, we'd try for kid number two.

  "Breathe, Ryker," Cruz says with a chuckle. He knocks me in the ribs lightly with his elbow but doesn't take his eyes away from the doors of the chapel. Mine have been glued there since the start of the service. The music swells around us and my heart thumps double-time.

  "Don't go passing out on Cleo," Cruz continues. "It's not exactly a show of strength you know."

  I sober instantly, despite the happy occasion. It's a reminder of just how dicey things have gotten in the last few months. Trent's capture had mollified the Kings enough to keep the casualty rate between their two MCs down. However, it hadn't stopped the splinter group from leaving the Spades. The Hellion MC was setting up shop and gathering followers even now. It was getting more difficult to keep the working girls safe and off the smack they were peddling now.

  There's a war brewing, and we're smack in the middle of it. I sometimes wonder if it wouldn't be smarter to send Cleo away until the baby can be born.

  Then the doors open and all thought is wiped from my mind. Penny and Holly enter first, wearing matching lilac dresses. I bet Holly and Cleo had to wrestle Penny into her gown. It's the dressiest I've seen her since her Quinceañera. I bet she'll strip it off the moment she gets the chance.

  They take their places at the other side of the altar, and my searching eyes finally make her out, haloed in the doorway leading to the chapel. She looks so goddamn beautiful that it makes my head spin. The ivory dress is strapless and clings to her like a second skin. It can't disguise the gentle swell of her belly. She's self-conscious about it, convinced that we're just tempting fate by having two within a year of each other. But I can't bring myself to care about the sleepless nights still to come. She's pregnant with my baby.