Focused on whatever was happening outside—she could only imagine and hope what that could be—he didn’t turn when she scooped up the bottle. Holding it away from her body, she opened it and splashed the pungent-smelling liquid on the rag, forcing back a gag as she made her way to stand behind him. Outside the window, a dozen bikes had pulled up in an uneven row, faces covered with bandanas of varying colors.
Even with the bottom half of Wildman’s face hidden behind the fabric, Justine easily picked him out of the lineup. I’d know him anywhere. His hand lifted to point at the window where she stood behind the man, and she stared at the pistol aimed directly at her. Jesus, no. With no time to hesitate, she lunged upwards and clapped her hand over the man’s mouth and nose, wrapping her other arm around his neck to gain leverage. She had to work hard to hold the rag in place as, with muffled shouts, he tore at her fingers, his movements driven by an urgent strength. That ebbed, though, faster than she’d expected, his dexterity waning, and he wavered on his feet.
Outside, Wildman’s gun was now aimed up at the dark sky, and she locked gazes with him. Her pulse raced, pounding faster in response to the expression of pride she read in his eyes, and she swallowed hard to keep back the tears.
He’d come for her, with nothing more than one night between them. He came for me. The body in front of her tilted, and she wrestled with his weight, deflecting him away from the window and letting him fall with a crash to the floor. Justine went down next to him on one knee and held the rag in place for another few seconds for good measure.
The door burst open, and Wildman was the first in, coming directly to where she crouched while other men flanked him, spreading out through the house, shouts coming back every few seconds promising safety as they found only empty rooms.
Wildman stooped until his eyes were level with hers, a question in them that somehow gained an answer in her silence, the lines in his face easing. Then his hands were on her arms, thumbs brushing gentle strokes over her skin as he stood, lifting her with him. An instant later, his arms were around her, and she leaned into him, letting the fear wash over her finally, fingers clutching his shirt, face buried against his chest between the front flaps of his vest as he smoothed her hair, holding her close.
“There’s another man somewhere close. He spoke to him on the phone.” Wildman had to know, just in case this wasn’t done.
“Yeah, we clocked the asshole as we rolled in. Caught him before he sounded a warning. It’s all good. He’s tied up tight for transport, just like this asshole will be in half a minute.” Justine pulled in the first easy breath she’d had since waking. His arms tightened around her. “You wearin’ my shirt, woman?” His voice rumbled under her ear, the pounding of his heart outing the ease in his voice as a lie. “Damn, we ain’t even a thing yet, and you’re already stealin’ my favorite tees?”
She sniffed and rocked her forehead against him, trying to keep the quaver from her voice when she retorted, “Seemed the thing to do at the time.” When he’d left as part of a huge pack, the roaring of the bikes had woken the whole clubhouse. After staring out the window until she couldn’t see any of the bikes anymore, she’d taken a minute to tug on her panties and his discarded shirt before lying back down. That had seemed a precipitous decision she was glad of now, since they were all the clothing she wore.
He took a slow, deep, even breath. “Mason says hello.”
Goose bumps raced up her arms. That name in Wildman’s mouth said he had to know exactly who she was. Grief welled tears in her eyes, but Justine brushed them away. Maybe he knew who I was and came after me anyway.
“He’s not a bad dude.” Wildman’s voice gained a tiny thread of humor as he continued speaking. “Not a good one, either, but he ain’t bad.”
Davis Mason. Her long-lost brother, recently reunited, was the founder of a notorious one-percent club based out of the northern half of the States. A competitive counterpart to the Incoherent patch Wildman wore so proudly. Wildman learning about the relationship between her and Mason meant no matter how it had felt like coming home to be underneath him last night, them together wouldn’t be something he’d ever consider continuing. That blood connection paired with my job? Justine allowed herself a single, final sniff, followed by a deep breath in, trying to imprint on her memory all that was Wildman, then shook her head and prepared to pull away. His arms tightened around her, and she froze.
His voice was quiet, pitched for her ears only, when he said, “See, here’s the thing. I don’t give a fuck who your kin is, or whatever you’ve done. Your job, that’s gonna be a sticker, but if you want this, we can figure out a way to get over that too. You just gotta want this with me.”
Bikes rumbled outside, engines revving high and loud, the multitude of exhaust pipes setting up echoes through the house. He turned her to look through the window, and she was stunned to find even more bikes, seeing back patches from a number of clubs.
Making mental notes, she made out IMC, to be expected since this was their war against the cartel. CoBos were next, and that could have been predicted, too, given the way the two clubs had become intertwined over the past years and their involvement along the way. Bama Bastards held part of the line, and when the rider carefully studying the house flipped his trademark long hair, she knew it had to be Retro, their president. Next was Sparks, the president of the Jailbreakers, out of her hometown in Florida. More goose bumps made her shiver when she recognized the final patch, one she hadn’t expected to see in Louisiana. Strong arms tightened around her, and Justine allowed herself to lean back against the wall of his chest. Maybe especially with Wildman’s words, she was shocked to her core that the man seated on that bike, one who shared her grey eyes and dark hair, wasn’t in here tearing her a new asshole. That was Davy Mason, the brother who made her life far more complicated because he was bossy and straddled the line of legal more than she liked, but she was glad to see him nonetheless. Five clubs had thrown away the rule books and jointly ridden to her rescue, called together by the man standing at her back.
She twisted her neck to look up at Wildman and waited, because something in her said he wasn’t finished, not by a long shot. He turned her again, and she braced her forearms against his chest, hands flat over the top of his shoulders. The bandana he’d worn to ride was still tied around his neck, but she could see the way he forced himself to swallow, feeling that same trepidation in her gut.
“I’m going to have to leave you here, baby. Have to. Do not fuckin’ want to do this, but your brother had a powerful argument. There’s a lot that could change, and not in a good way, if I take you back with me today.” The look on Wildman’s face said he wasn’t happy about it, but she understood. “There’s going to be a phone left outside. It’s clean. Use it to make your calls. Do it immediately. Don’t wait on us to get far, Jussie. Just do it. Take care of you. Make your calls and get your people here. Then, later, if you—” His voice cracked, and he stopped, taking in a deep breath as she pressed closer to him. “If you want to find me, I suspect you can.”
She held her tongue, not speaking the words she wanted, because there was nothing else she could do. No pretty promises, no assurances. Just his offer, neither accepted nor rejected, and she knew leaving him in limbo was shitty, but just as he had to leave her here, she couldn’t offer him anything more. Not now. He pushed her away, hands on her arms until she was steady on her feet, his gaze never leaving hers. Not yet. Then he gave her another thing, the gift of her name in his mouth. “Be well, Justine.”
***
Wildman
“Don’t know if I can, man.” Wildman didn’t lift his head, keeping his gaze fixed on shoving his sweaty fingers into the gloves he wore for riding. He was adjusting the same seam for the third time when the fingers on his shoulder clamped hard, pain forcing his head up with a snarled oath. “Motherfucker.”
“Call me what you want, man, but you know we’ve got to roll.” The look Retro gave him was a mix of sympathy and f
rustration, something Wildman entirely understood. “She can’t call for help until we’re past the tree line, and we can’t get past the tree line until you’re KSU and rollin’.” His fingers dug into that bundle of nerves behind Wildman’s collarbone again, hard and harsh, painful enough to get his point across and then some. “I can’t get home to my family until you’re KSU and rollin’, and we hit the clubhouse to fully debrief. Come on, man. I get it’s hard. I do, more than you know right now. I get how tough it is and that you want to walk back in there and make it okay for her. I see it in your face, brother, and I feel you deep.” Retro’s fingers relaxed marginally, easing off on the pain. “But you can’t. Not and keep everything you want. Keeping her safe is letting her control this as she needs. Keeping your club safe is believing she’ll be okay and rolling your ass up that damned road. The only gift you can give her is your confidence she can do this. That she can handle herself, come what may. We can’t even leave men in the woods to ward her, because the Feds’ll roll in heavy with drones before they risk a man, and those bastards’ll spot our men a mile away. Wild, brother, you saw her take down that son of a bitch. You know she’s got what it takes.”
“She shouldn’t have to.” Wildman gripped his handlebars, tightening and loosening his fingers, anxious and feeling as if that tangible connection was the only thing keeping him on the bike. “You know I should be here.”
“You explain it to her?” Retro’s hand fell away, and Wildman stared up at the man. He’d always respected Retro, believed in the innate sense of honesty and rightness that bled from the man. He gave Retro a short, brusque nod, which Retro returned. “Good, brother. You paid lip service to your belief in her. Now you gotta show her. Come on, let’s roll.” He knocked knuckles against Wildman’s helmet, then turned and straddled his own bike, looking over his shoulder at Wildman. “Drinks on me tonight. I have a feelin’ you’re gonna need someone to tell you when enough is enough.” Retro started his bike, then looked pointedly at Wildman’s, still leaning on the kickstand.
Slowly Wildman righted the bike, pushing at the metal rod with his heel until the kickstand flipped up into the lock position alongside the bike frame. He glanced at the window, catching a quick glimpse of Justine as she lifted a hand, then faded from view.
Makin’ it as easy on me as she can.
He settled his bandana into place and pushed the ignition button, then gave Retro a thumbs-up, walking his bike into position behind the man. Less recklessly than they’d ridden into the clearing, which had been all slip-sliding sideways on pine needles and sand, the column straightened and rolled up the two-track dirt drive, dodging potholes instead of launching across them. At the highway, he didn’t hesitate and picked up a gear as soon as the rear wheel hit the asphalt, then another as he tucked in closely behind Retro, working his way up through the rest of the gears until they were all rolling at highway speed.
Chapter Thirteen
Justine
Justine watched as all but one of the bikes disappeared, leaving her alone in the tiny shack in the middle of the Louisiana country wilderness. She wasn’t concerned, not for her own safety, but as she sank to the floor, back propped against a wall, she glanced around the room at everything she could and would not be able to explain.
The shakes hit then, a drop in adrenaline she should have expected but hadn’t. With a curious detachment, she watched her hands tremble at the end of her wrists, propped on each knee.
A scuff of boot leather to the side was followed by a huffed out laugh, the following clearing of a masculine throat familiar and comforting. Mason slid down the wall next to her, bumping her shoulder with his once he was seated.
She’d seen him wave his men onwards, watched as they argued with him, but then her attention had been captured by Retro’s lecture to Wildman, their conversation entirely lost to her, but Wildman’s reactions had telegraphed his unwillingness to leave, his final capitulation, and a last glimpse of his face before he hid from the world. No way could she have focused on anything except his unerring strength, back straight as he manhandled his bike up the sand-and-shell drive.
Still, it didn’t shock her that Mason would want a word.
Private-like.
It’s what their father would have done in his place. And no matter they’d each hated him, for similar and yet very different reasons, they were both products of their raising, strange as it all seemed.
“You okay, Justine?”
Mason’s voice was pitched low but with ample volume for her to hear him seated so closely. It held a vibrating timbre of regret or longing; she wasn’t sure which. She leaned her head against his shoulder and held that position. “Yeah, I’m good. No permanent damage.”
“Goddammit, Justine.”
There we are. That’s more like what I expected. The weight of his anger rolled over her, and she took it, letting it settle in the room, hoping he’d see how ridiculous it was to be upset over something she’d done to herself.
“I’m fine, Davy.” She rocked her head back to catch a glimpse of the side of his face. Tanned, sun and smile lines carved into the corners of his eyes and mouth, with his grizzled beard and hair, he was still handsome. “How’s that pretty wife of yours?”
“Willa’s fine, and you ain’t gonna change the subject on me that easily.” He huffed out another laugh.
“Yeah, I didn’t expect I could dislodge your bulldog grip on the topic.” She blinked slowly, then straightened just as slowly, settling her shoulder blades in an uncomfortable press against the hard wall behind her. A little pain should help me through this. Maybe he hadn’t actually talked to anyone back in Adken. White lies. “I saw a chance and took it. Simple as that. Those who needed to know were aware of where I was, and if I were missing too long, they’d follow the trail to find me.” She didn’t shrug, didn’t move, barely breathed as she tried not to give him anything to hang a hook into to pull her story apart. It’s true. Schooling a grimace, she flexed her bones backwards, digging into the wall a little more. Near enough for horseshoes, anyway.
“They didn’t even fuckin’ know you were gone.” Mason’s tone dropped an octave as he continued. “Greg Anderson expressed significant surprise you weren’t vacationing with family, as your last email to him indicated.” He cleared his throat, and she could feel the weight of those grey eyes she knew were focused on her. “With my appearance at your home and office, he allowed as perhaps you hadn’t been quite truthful. Seein’ as that family you were with was supposed to be me.”
Well, shit. “Are you kidding me right now? You went to my colleague to check up on me? You went to a coworker? What were you thinking, Davy?”
“No, Justine, what were you thinking? Forget it. You know what? Never mind that question. More to the point of what I need to know, what are you going to tell your people when you make that call Wildman told you to make?” Mason adjusted his position, easing one long leg out in front of him.
With his elbow propped on a bent knee, head angled so he could see her face, he looked so much like their father she nearly said so, stopping herself just before the words crossed her lips. Mason seemed intent on blending their families—once he’d found out about her, that was. But he did it without truly acknowledging the connection they held.
Especially once he’d eliminated the biggest threat that had ever existed to the two of them, shooting their father in a coffee shop directly across the road from her federal offices. And how he’d gotten out of that situation without anyone or any cameras catching sight of him was a wonder.
The official tale had Justice Morgan, their father, killing another son. Paternal filicide taking their half-brother John Morgan, Shooter, even as Shooter had lived up to his name earned in blood, committing patricide.
The truth settled somewhere in between the two different camps who’d been in the coffee shop. Patricide had been committed, as had fratricide, with Mason walking out the door head held high, his loyal brother Bones at his side.
“You know much about Wildman?” She licked her lips, then cursed herself for allowing that tiny tell, angling her gaze away from Mason and out the window, watching the tops of the pine trees sway in the breeze.
“Good guy.” He snorted and bumped her shoulder, then a second time until she twisted her neck to look at him. Mason’s crooked smile was soft and affectionate. “I mean that, Justine. He’s a real steady brother. Steady Eddie. Man has had shit luck in his life, and from what I heard, he seems settled into his evolving place with the IMC. He wasn’t always from Louisiana, though, was originally a Florida boy if you can believe that, but farther to the south than your current stompin’ grounds. He’s got a story to tell, that’s for sure. Question is, will you be ready to listen to it?” The pause wasn’t long, just enough for her to offer a nod, and Mason’s lips twisted into a smirk. “Do I know much about him? Yeah, once I heard whose bed you’d hit up, I had me a chat with Retro. Somehow, someway,” he drawled the words out long, sounding amused, “he had the very info I needed, right at his fingertips, seeming to pull it from the air. Makes me wonder who else’s been askin’ about the man.”
Justine’s skin prickled into gooseflesh, every hair on her arms standing alert. Attention, in Mason’s world as well as her own, was never a good thing. “You think he’s on someone’s radar? In a bad way?” Her fingers ached, and she looked down to see her hand had transferred to his arm, nails digging into his bicep in a way that had to be painful, yet Mason never flinched. Glancing up, she caught Mason’s features as they shifted from surprise to concern, then settled into the blankness she knew he gave the rest of the world. “I mean, that’s stupid. If Retro didn’t even have to take a minute to dig, it means he’s already been handed a shovel and hit paydirt. What matters is who it was.” She retracted her hand, clasping her fingers together as she pulled her legs into a crisscross, head angled down as she considered the tiny bits of truth she knew. “Retro wouldn’t tell you who else had been asking, would he?”
Tarnished Lies and Dead Ends Page 12