by Nicole James
“Come on, man. She’s got nothing to do with this.”
“Get me the money or you’ll both regret it.” With that he reaches behind him, and taps his knuckle on the divider.
The limousine swerves to the shoulder, and comes to a stop. Goon number one opens the door and climbs out, yanking me out by the collar and tossing me to the ground. Pain radiates up my hip. The goon climbs back in, and the limo peels out, its red taillights disappearing rapidly into the night. I stagger to my feet, and begin the mile long walk back to my motel, limping along the gravel shoulder.
With every stab of pain, all I can think about is that I’ve put Lola in a shit-ton of danger.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Lola—
I lean over the pool table to line up my shot. My gaze flicks up, and I catch Utah checking out my ass. I can’t help the grin that steals across my face. It feels good to be up at the clubhouse, having fun, and not thinking about Memphis or what that psychic said for a change. I sink my ball in the corner pocket, and straighten.
Utah stands, feet spread, his arms crossed, his eyes following me around the table as I move into position for my next shot. I pick up the little blue chalk square, and rub the tip of my stick, tormenting him for another minute. Then I reach over to the high-top table, and grab the shot glass full of Fireball, downing it.
I may not be able to knock back Tequila like the guys, but I love this stuff. It goes down smooth and easy, and warms all the way to my belly.
“Finish me off, Lola,” Utah growls with a lift of one brow.
I grin. “I’m workin’ on it. What’s your rush?”
He rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth pulls up.
As I bend over the table, stretching to make the final shot, I hear him telling the prospect to bring the bottle of Fireball.
When I run the rest of the table and sink the eight ball, I straighten to find Utah refilling my glass. I stroll over, catching his eyes on my hips and bare midriff. He’s drinking a beer, and raises the bottle to his lips, those eyes still on my body. I chuckle, and hold out my hand.
“Pay up, Utah.”
He pulls a twenty out of his hip pocket, and tucks the bill in the chest pocket of the sleeveless blouse that’s tied up under my breasts.
My brows rise. “Watch it, old man.”
“I ain’t that old, Lola.”
I chuckle, and down the shot, my eyes suddenly drawn to the door of the clubhouse. Memphis stands there, eyes scanning the room. He spots me, and our eyes hold for a long moment.
My mouth goes dry, and I feel butterflies in my stomach. Or maybe it’s all the Fireball. I suddenly feel lightheaded. The smile fades from my face, and I feel Utah’s presence next to me, shift. He moves to partially block my view, but he follows my gaze, twisting to look over his shoulder toward the door.
He grabs my chin, and brings my eyes to his. “He’s a Nomad, Lola. That spells nothin’ but heartache for you.”
I pull my chin back from his grasp, and nod. “I know.”
“Stay away from him.”
I can’t let that slide, so I stare him down. “I’ve already got a father, and you’re not him.”
His chin pulls to the side. “Not tryin’ to be your father, princess. Just lookin’ out for you.”
“I appreciate it, Utah. Really, I do.” I pat his cheek. “But you don’t have to worry about me.” With that I strut through the crowd toward the hall to the bathrooms. I spot Memphis, now sitting at the bar with Darko and T-Bone, but his eyes follow me. I barely give him a glance, thrusting my chin in the air. Fuck him and the Harley he rode in on. How dare he show up here again after all this time without a word? If he thinks he’s going to just pick up where he left off, he’s got another thing coming.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Memphis—
The sound of Lola’s laughter drifts to me, reminding me of the soft tinkle of wind chimes. I wonder what the Durango Enforcer said to make her laugh. With an effort, I pull my gaze from the doorway where she’s gone, probably to the restroom to freshen up.
After making the long ride here, only to find her with him, has me edgy and irritable. I wait a few minutes, downing a shot, then grab my longneck, and wander through the crowd to position myself near the back hall. I take a swig of beer, and soon spot her approaching out of the corner of my eye. Twisting, I set the bottle down on a nearby table.
I grab her arm as she swings past with her nose in the air, attempting to ignore me, but I’m not about to let her. I pull her back down the dark hall, and hem her in against the wall. “Don’t fucking pretend I don’t exist, babe.”
“You don’t,” she snaps back.
“Bullshit. I can see the rapid pulse beating in your neck.” I grab her jaw, and kiss her, then pull back to mutter, “You want me as much as I want you. Tried to walk away, but can’t fucking get you outta my head, woman.”
She lets me kiss her at first, and I feel her lips softening beneath mine, but then she rears back and shoves me off.
I grab her arm as she spins to leave, catching her off guard. I yank her roughly against me.
In a few seconds, I have her virtually immobilized, and at my mercy. But the heavy impulses driving me have no mercy. My mouth saws across her lips with bruising intensity, forcing them open. I know I’m venting all my pent up frustration on her, using her roughly, and liking the fight she gives me. In a war of strength, I am unquestionably the winner. No matter how she strains, she can’t avoid the hard thrust of my hips. I can feel her weakening, her body reluctantly relaxing against mine. I ease the pressure, discovering the warm softness of her full lips.
I’ve longed for this, for the comfort I found in her long woman’s body, and her surrender. I have a raging hunger, a driving need for it.
In the short lull with no resistance, Lola gathers her strength and will, violently shoving out of my arms. Breathing hard, she backs up, eying me warily.
“Don’t ever put your hands on me again. You have no right.” Her voice is hoarse and angry, rough with the raging hurt I’ve caused. Her words crack across me like a whip. They stop me, stunning me.
Lola backs up against the wall, her hands gliding along toward the doorway.
“You have no claim on me.” She’s trembling. “Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking I’m some sweet-butt you can have for the taking.”
“Lola, that’s the last thing I think.”
T-Bone pushes through the door, drawing both our attention. He stops cold, trying to read the situation.
“You better go, Memphis,” Lola says.
T-Bone straightens taller, the line of his mouth turning grim. “You heard her.”
I shove through the door and push through the crowd back to the bar. If she wants to play this game, it’s fine with me. I order a shot, down it and order another.
A few minutes later, I see her walk out the clubhouse door with Utah, her purse over her shoulder. I watch through the window as they move to her car. The headlights flash across the glass as the two of them pull out. Maybe its what I deserve. I rub my hand across my face, agitated and troubled.
The blue smoke of a cigar drifts lazily toward me. Glancing to the end of the bar, I see Darko watching me, and I know he caught the flare of reaction I carelessly revealed when Lola walked out.
“Don’t make a rash decision, Memphis. Things aren’t always what they seem.”
I give him a forbidding look, “Stay out of it.”
He chuckles. “You’ve got it bad, brother.”
“I think I’ll go outside and get some air.” I push away from the bar. Maybe I should have known better than to come back.
On the wide porch, I pause to light a cigarette, then wander to the edge, and lean against a tall pine post. The black sky is alive with stars. To the west, a full moon gleams like a pearl.
A warm breeze carries the scent of the surrounding pines. Lola is like these mountains, full of mystery and elusive beauty. She’s the essen
ce of any man’s dream, feminine and alluring, as seductive as the night, but hellfire when her back’s up.
Taking a last drag on my cigarette, I flip it into the air, and watch the crimson trail it makes arcing into the darkness. The front door opens, but I don’t turn.
Darko comes to stand and stare out into the sky. He lifts the cigar to his mouth and takes a puff, blowing it to the heavens. “Some of us are going up the road to Rita’s place. Want to come along?”
“Rita’s place? What’s that?”
“Roadhouse dive, but the drinks are cheap, and the food is good.”
“Sure. Why not.”
More of my brothers shuffle out, their boots scuffing on the wooden boards. Five of us mount up, engines roaring to life. It’s a short ride down the road and around the bend.
The lot is gravel, and we park in a line by the door.
The first person I see when we enter is Lola, seated at a table with Utah. She looks up, and meets my gaze for an instant, then responds to some remark he makes. I’m a step or two behind Darko and the others as they walk to the vacant end of the bar.
We order a round, and my brothers begin shooting the shit. I barely hear the conversation, my mind too filled with other things, mainly the image of Lola with Utah.
Not long after we order our second round, a rowdy bunch of college aged boys busts through the door, laughing and looking smugly too good for the place.
A jukebox near the door blasts out music.
I scan the room, my eyes falling on Lola; her chair is turned toward Utah’s, and her hand is on his arm. He reaches up, and cups her face. I thump my beer bottle down on the bar top, wanting to cross the room, and tear his head off for touching what’s mine, but knowing I’ve got no right. I down my beer, and set it forward, signaling for another.
Laughter permeates my jealous brain, and I glance over to see the college boys tormenting a teenage bus boy that looks like he may have a learning disability. They call him slow and stupid, and the boy’s face flames red.
I’m off my barstool before I’m even cognitive of kicking it over as I stand. I grab the kid that made the last remark by the scruff of his neck and drive his surprised face into the table. I hear his nose break with a crack. When I yank him upright, blood is gushing over his chin.
The other three of his buddies jump me, fists connecting with my cheekbone.
Seeing my MC cut, some of the locals rush in, thinking I’m picking on one of the local boys.
But with a Royal Bastard in the fight, my brothers come to my support. There are no more than half a dozen of us in the bar, badly outnumbered by the locals, but all of the townies seem to be drunker than us, and spoiling for a fight.
As chairs overturn and fists fly, Lola presses close to the wall next to the jukebox. I’m the center of the brawl, blood pouring from a cut near my eye.
I’m out of breath, and I can feel the pounding of my heart. My head is spinning and there’s a roaring in my ears, probably from the shots I downed back at the clubhouse. I check one blow from one of the college boys, but a second slams into my shoulder. It’s hard to see out of one eye, but I press the fight, smashing my ringed knuckles into some guy’s face and sending him sprawling to the floor.
With that attack repelled, I stagger slightly to see where the next one will come from. I shake my head, blinking in an effort to clear the blood streaming in my eye. There’s the shattering crash of a beer bottle being broken. I turn to find the man I just knocked down holding the jagged neck.
I back up from it, but throw my arms wide. “Come at me, punk.”
The fight has taken an ugly turn, no longer just a fistfight. I could easily pull a knife and end this, but that would get me arrested.
Some of the participants retreat to the sidelines, wanting nothing to do with this escalation. My brothers, still pounding punches, aren’t aware of my situation. My mouth goes dry, and I wet it as we start to slowly circle each other.
“Memphis!” Someone shouts my name above the loud music from the jukebox. “Catch!”
I see a brown bottle sail through the air toward me, and make a one-handed catch of it, glimpsing Lola on the edge of the crowd.
A blur comes at me, and I jump back, narrowly missing the slashing motion of the jagged weapon. I bring the body of the bottle down on the corner of a table with a hard swing, breaking it with a crash, then turn back to my opponent.
I drag in breaths and fight the tiredness in my arms.
“Break it up! Out of the way!” Cops rush in, barking the orders. “Break it up here!”
Uniformed men break through the readily dividing crowd, grabbing and seizing my opponent from behind. I straighten slowly, lowering my hands. My battered fingers loosen their grip on the bottle’s neck, letting it fall to the floor.
This isn’t my town, and I don’t know how much trouble this is. I wonder hazily if Rock’s got the law in his pocket. Right now, I hope so.
Distantly, I hear someone mutter my name.
“Memphis.”
Swaying slightly, I turn, seeking something to lean against before my legs give way. The roar is still in my ears.
“Memphis. You’re hurt.” Lola’s voice finally penetrates.
Impatiently, I brush aside the small hand that touches my cheek. “I’m all right.” My voice comes out harsh.
“You’re not all right,” she insists.
I look down at my torn shirt; my cut splattered with blood, but I don’t know whether it’s my blood or somebody else’s. I still feel a driving need for some kind of physical support. Suddenly, a voice takes charge of my problem.
“Come on. Let’s get him out of here. He’s bleeding bad, and he can’t see to ride.” The strong arms of two of my brothers go around my middle.
“You can’t leave,” an officer says, his hand up.
“They started it. Memphis was only defending Charlie. They were bullying him,” Lola firmly informs the officers and he drops his hand. She has a way of making men back down, and I grin.
“Rita, you want to press charges for any of this?” The cop asks, looking around at the mess we’ve made of the place.
“I don’t,” a woman’s voice carries from behind the bar.
“She changes her mind, you know where to find us,” Darko says.
Then I’m being helped out the door and all my concentration becomes centered on making my legs work. I’m loaded into the backseat of a car, and I fall across it, my head spinning, and then we’re moving.
What seems like moments later, we stop and more hands are reaching in to pull me out. With a brother on each side of me, my arms around them, they help me up the porch steps and into the clubhouse. I’m shuffled down a hall, and into Rock’s office. I’ve never been in this room, but I know this is it. Christ, he must be pissed.
I’m dropped into a chair.
The man himself shoulders into the room, pushing through the men to stand before me. I don’t look up, but I hear his voice boom above me.
“So, you dragged the whole club into a brawl in the middle of my favorite bar?”
I have a sudden feeling my name is dirt around here.
Lola pushes the men aside, setting a first aid kit on the desk in front of me. “Let me tend to his wounds. He’s bleeding all over your rug. You can yell at him later.”
The girl’s got guts; I’ll give her that. The men shuffle out.
Rock remains long enough to remind me, “This isn’t over, Memphis.”
Great.
Then he, too, exits, slamming the door, and I’m alone with Lola.
My body is beginning to react to the blows it’s taken. I let my head fall back, closing my eyes as throbbing pain wash over me.
There’s a sticky wetness on my face. I reach up tiredly to wipe it away from my eyes, and then stare down at the blood on my fingers. Shit.
Lola pulls supplies out of the kit and spreads them out on the desk.
I shut my eyes again, wanting only to rest.
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A damp cloth presses hard against the cut above my eye, and pain stabs through my head. I flinch, sucking in air through my teeth and swear. “Fuck.”
Lola takes my hand, and makes me hold the cloth against the cut. “Maintain the pressure,” she orders, then begins cleaning blood from my face. When she’s through, she lifts the cloth I’m pressing against my forehead and checks the wound.
“How’s it look?” I ask.
“Like it needs stitches,” she says calmly, her lips tight-pressed. She makes me apply pressure on the wound again and turns to the table to open some sterile-wrapped supplies.
She holds a sterilized needle and suture in her hand when she turns back to me. “Stay still. This is going to hurt.”
That’s an understatement. I break out in a nauseating cold sweat. No sound comes from my throat, though, hissing breaths that force their way through the tightly clamped teeth. Lola works rapidly and competently, showing no emotions.
Fortunately the cut is short, so she finishes before the pain becomes unbearable for me.
While she coolly attaches a bandage to the stitched-up wound, I feel the rigid stiffness drain from my muscles, and I exhale.
She motions to the front of my leather cut. “That’s going to stain.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I reply. “Not the first time blood’s been spilled on it.”
At the reminder of my violent life, she purses her lips, but says nothing.
I dig a pack of smokes out of my shirt pocket, then lean back to try to get at my lighter in the hip pocket of my jeans, groaning at the pain that shoots through me.
Lola leans across the desk and grabs a pack of matches. She strikes one, cupping it in her hand. I lean forward, sucking on the cigarette until it flares to life.
I slump back and meet her eyes through the smoke trailing up, and say around the filter, “Thanks.”
I drag hard on it again, then pull it from my mouth, blowing smoke to the ceiling.
“You’ve got a couple of more scratches on your face,” she says and reaches for a bottle, tilting it up over a cloth, then dabs the antiseptic on them.
