by Franca Storm
I’m so out of control, so caught up in the moment and the fact that I’m finally hurting him, that I miss his hands grabbing hold of me. He pushes me back hard. A second later, he’s on me, driving me into the wall.
He snarls at me like the animal he is as his hands pin me to the wall, just like they did once before when he tried to rape me. Last time, John had saved me. But this time, I will save me. John and I have been over this a thousand times. I know exactly what to do.
“You idiot,” I spit at him.
***
I drive one of the guys into the brick wall. See how you like it, asshole. He spins around, but I’m there, my fist at the ready.
“Stop!” he begs, holding his hands up. His face is already bloodied thanks to me. His buddy is also out of the fight, whimpering on the ground, clutching his broken arm.
My fist hovers in front of the guy’s face. I can feel the heat; the beast wanting to break free to finish it. I’ve been so worried about not being able to hold back, not being able to control my temper.
But just the thought of Nicki needing me has me lowering my fist and stepping back.
I’m not that guy anymore. Not now she’s with me.
The guy breathes a sigh of relief and slides down the wall trying to catch his breath.
I turn and bolt towards the gym entrance, my only thoughts of Nicki in there alone with that bastard. Shit!
“John!”
I spin around in surprise to see the last person I ever expected to see. Rita. Nicki’s mom.
“What are you—?”
“Let’s go,” she says, cutting me off as she hurries towards me.
I don’t hesitate. I push through the gym doors with her right behind me.
What I see when we make it through to the gym floor, shocks me.
Greg is lying in a heap on the floor and Nicki is leaning against the wall talking on her cell phone. I watch her shove it into the pocket of her jeans.
“Nicki.”
Her gaze snaps to mine and she pushes off the wall.
And then I hear a gun cock. A gun? What the hell?
“No, Mom!” Nicki screams, seeing what I can’t because I have my back to Rita.
I turn around to see Rita standing there, a pistol aimed Greg’s way. Her hand shakes with indecision. Before I can stop her, Nicki steps into the path of the gun, between Rita and her target, Greg.
“Nicki,” Rita says. “Move.”
Nicki shakes her head. “No.”
“I should’ve done this a long time ago. I should’ve protected my daughter,” Rita says, crying.
“This is not the way. Please, Mom. You’ll go to jail. I’ve already called the cops. They’ll be here any minute.”
“Self-defense,” Rita argues.
“It’s not. He’s already down. I put him down.”
“I don’t care. I’ll go to jail if I have to. You’ll be safe.”
“He’ll rot in jail for this. I’ll already be safe with that, Mom.” She steps closer to Rita and smiles, “Besides, how are we gonna rebuild things between us if you’re in jail?”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Rita lowers the gun then and starts crying hard. She flips the safety back on and stows it back inside her jacket pocket.
“I’m so sorry for everything, Nicki.”
“I know you are, Mom. I know,” Nicki says, taking her mom’s hand.
She settles her onto a bench in the corner and takes a moment to calm her down and comfort her.
And then she turns to me. She breathes a massive sigh of relief. I close the distance between us and wrap my arms around her.
She looks up at me, her eyes wide. Her hand traces a cut on my right cheek. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Let me look at you.”
She shakes her head. “No need.”
“What?”
She smiles. “He couldn’t hurt me, John.”
“Baby, I’m sorry I wasn’t here like I promised. I’m sorry he got that close to you after I—”
“It had to be me, John. I had to know I could deal with it; that I’m no longer the victim that he made me into all those years ago. And now I know I’m not. I’m not that girl anymore. What happened then doesn’t define me. I finally get that now.”
I pull her closer. “I understand.”
I hear sirens in the distance and tell Rita, “You’d better get out of here.” She has a gun on her for fuck’s sake and I’m willing to bet she doesn’t have the papers for it.
She hesitates and Nicki tells her, “Go, Mom. We’ll talk later.”
She wipes her tears and murmurs, “I love you, darling.”
Nicki smiles and nods as Rita hightails it out of the gym. She’s not ready to say it back yet. It’ll take a long time for her and her mom to fix things between them. Their relationship has been broken for so long.
“John.”
“Yeah, baby?”
“You’re squeezing the life out of me.”
I loosen my hold around her. “Sorry.”
She takes my face in her hands and tells me softly, “I’m fine. Perfectly fine. I told you I could take care of myself. I’m not some useless girly girl. You should know that by now.”
“Oh, trust me; I do,” I tell her, gesturing to the state of Greg on the gym floor.
But it sure as hell isn’t gonna stop me from trying to protect her at every turn.
This girl is everything to me. She has been for the last four years. She’s my fucking world.
“It’s over, John. It’s finally over.”
“I love you so much,” I breathe into her hair.
“I love you, too.”
Next in the series…
HARD TO LOVE
Coming Soon
Damaged Hearts Series
READY TO LOVE
HARD TO LOVE
NEED TO LOVE
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
RECKLESS. A Black Thorns Novel.
Copyright © Franca Storm (2015). All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.
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A jaded biker on a mission.
A strong woman who hates bikers.
When these two lost souls collide, all bets are off.
Chapter 1
~Roxana~
The place is trashed.
Tables overturned. Food all over the floor. Plates and glasses shattered behind the counter forming a dangerous carpet of jagged glass and china. Sarah’s sobs just serve to fuel my already seething anger. My fingers instinctively brush the butt of the glock holstered at my right hip, concealed beneath my leather jacket. It’s an instinctive stress reaction. I always do it when something riles me up. It helps to ground me; to bring me out of that haze of red and back to the immediate situation.
I drop my hand after a few seconds and cross to the cash register. The drawer is hanging open at an abnormal angle, telling me that it’s another thing those fuckers broke. As I peer inside, sure enough, it’s bare. Greedy bastards. It’s not like they need the money. This was just the work of a temper tantrum.
Fucking bikers.
The Devil’s Mavericks, to be more precise.
“Rox!” Sarah cries, rushing over to me and throwing her
arms around me.
Sarah Hughes is the owner of this diner. It’s a local hot spot in this part of the City of Brockford. She’s about my age. Early thirties. When she’d first set foot in Brockford a few years ago, she was in a bad state. She’d just escaped a bad situation with her abusive ex and she’d come here to start over. But just like most naïve young things that come to this city, she got desperate really fast when the small amount of savings that she had started to dry up after a few weeks. I was on my way through one of the seedy strip clubs around here to shake down the asshole owner when I spotted her. She was there to start her first shift. I recognized that terror in her eyes, borne from being forced into a bad situation in order to survive. I’d stopped her and helped her open this diner. It turned out she had some mad skills in the kitchen. The place has been a huge success since.
And now it’s trashed.
“It’s okay,” I tell her, rubbing her back to comfort her. “You trust me, don’t you?”
“Yeah, of course,” she murmurs.
“We’ll fix this.”
“‘Til the next time,” a deep, gritty voice booms through the empty diner.
What the hell? I break from Sarah and spin around to see some asshole I don’t recognize walking in. He’s scanning the diner with intense interest, like he’s inspecting the place or something.
“Go upstairs to your apartment,” I tell Sarah.
She doesn’t argue. She recognizes my tone of voice instantly—no room for argument—and hurries away through the back.
I glare at the guy. “Who the fuck are you?”
The corner of his mouth turns up, like he’s amused by my question.
He’s built. All muscle. He has at least a foot on my five-foot and change height. He takes long strides towards me with a confident swagger. As he gets closer, I can make out the outline of his abs through the thin material of his black t-shirt. Wow. Solid muscle. My gaze dips a little lower to his jeans that look as though they’re straining to contain those muscled legs of his—and other things.
I cringe as I take in his leather cut. I see the 3-piece patch there, identifying him as a member of a MC. The name of the city on the bottom rocker lets me know which club right off the bat. REIRDON FALLS. Their territory. The town next door to my city. I take in the crest—thorns wrapping around a dagger. It’s the crest of the Black Thorns MC, a club I’m unfortunately more than a little familiar with. The V. President signifier doesn’t escape my notice either.
His silky black hair is a little overgrown. Perhaps a few months’ old crew cut that he couldn’t be bothered to maintain. And his eyes are a deep blue, just like mine. He’s young—younger than I’d imagined a VP would be. He can’t be more than thirty.
“Ax,” he says, stopping in front of me. Right in front of me.
He’s too close, but I can’t step back. That would be a sign of weakness. His eyes wander over me, taking their sweet ass time to evaluate every inch of me. My tank top and jeans. My steel-toe boots. He lingers a little longer on my leather jacket and his eyes flash briefly. He’s obviously registered that I’m packing.
“What’s a little thing like you doing with that?”
Little thing? “Keep talking like that and I’ll show you how good I am with it.”
He smirks and lifts the right side of his cut, giving me a glimpse of a Desert Eagle there. “You show me yours, I show you mine.”
“Overcompensating, are you?” I ask, commenting on the size of the damn thing versus my glock.
He leans down, his eyes burning into mine as he growls, “You asking for a demonstration?”
Does this dickhead really think he can intimidate me? I’m used to dealing with guys like him, sporting major macho complexes. “You won’t be able to handle me, biker boy.”
His mouth twitches and he steps back. “You’ve got some attitude, woman.”
“Yeah, guys like you bring it out in me.”
“Guys like me?”
I screw up my face with distaste. “Bikers.”
He narrows his eyes. “That right?”
I brush past him roughly, putting my elbow into it for good measure. But it has no effect on him. Damn, it’s like he’s made of hard steel or something. I manage to extricate myself and I pull out my phone. “Yeah,” I mutter over my shoulder as I start keying in notes on my Task List app of what needs fixing as I walk around the diner surveying the damage. “Now, turn around and get out. As you can see, this place isn’t in any condition to serve anyone right now. Hop back on your bike, ride back to your clubhouse and command one of your women to feed you. That’s what they’re there for, right? To serve you? Your stomach and your dick?”
“Wow.”
“Go,” I reiterate. “In case you’re even dumber than I already took you for, I’ll spell it out. I’m busy here. Get out and leave me to it.”
“That’s gonna be a problem.”
Shit! He’s right behind me! He moves like a damn ghost. Quite a feat for such a beast of a man.
Thankfully, my body doesn’t betray me by flinching or anything. I’m not gonna turn around either. He’s already had too much of my attention.
I take a step away. He grabs me. His strong hand traps my shoulder in a vise-grip. My reaction is instantaneous. I move quickly, sweeping my leg at the back of his knee to destabilize him. His grip loosens in an automatic response and I take the opportunity to twist away, breaking his hold on me.
He holds up his hands quickly. “Calm down.”
“Calm down? You put your hands on me!”
“Sorry.”
Sorry? Since when do guys like him apologize? Like I care. “Apology not accepted. Now get out.”
“I’m looking for someone.”
God, how persistent is this guy? “Good for you.”
His jaw ticks and his body tenses at my rude dismissal. “Just to be clear, this shit here…” he gestures around the diner. “Ain’t got nothing to do with my club.”
“I’m well aware. The Devil’s Mavericks are responsible for this shit show.”
“It’s why I’m here.”
“What?” I snap.
“To put an end to this bullshit. So, instead of giving me grief, you might wanna start talking, babe. Help you and your partner out here?”
“My partner?”
“The girl who ran upstairs?”
“This is her diner, not mine.”
“Fine. Whatever,” he says, blowing out a breath. “The person I’m looking for is RJ. You know where he’s at?”
Adrenaline spikes through my body, putting me on high alert instantly.
“What do you want with him?
“Like I said: I’m here to help.”
“Your help isn’t needed.”
“Afraid it is, babe.”
“Run on home and tell Trigger to keep his nose out of my business,” I seethe.
Realization flashes in his eyes.
“That’s right. RJ is me. Roxana James. I go by Rox.”
“You know Trig? He never mentioned nothing.”
“Guess he was too ashamed.” Just referencing that controlling prick gets my blood boiling. I take an aggressive step forward, glaring up at him. “Or, maybe he just likes to keep his errand boys on a need-to-know. Either way, I don’t care.”
“Errand boy?” he seethes. “I’m VP.”
“Congratulations on that accomplishment,” I snicker.
He glares at me, pissed.
I’m done with this bullshit. “Look, I hate bikers. I hate your club almost as much as I hate the Mavs. There’s no way I would even consider doing business with you guys. Not after last time.”
“Last time?”
“Just go.”
“You need my help, woman.”
“The hell I do.”
I move away from him. I can’t stand another second being just a foot from him. Worryingly, it’s not just because I hate what he is. It’s…he’s affected me. When he touched me it was electric.
It’d sparked a fire in places that it shouldn’t have. Just a split second thing, but enough to unsettle me. And that kind of reaction to a biker, of all people, is the last thing I need. The sooner I get him out of here, the better.
As I make my way to the door, ready to send him on his merry way, he calls out, “Skinner.”
I stop in my tracks. An awful chill runs through me. It takes me a moment to get a grip and when I finally do manage it, my words come out as a pitiful squeak, “What about him?”
“I got intel that says he’s moving in here. Needs confirming and that’s why I’m here. But if he is, this mess here is the least of your problems.” He walks over to me. “You want my help now?”
Shit. This is bad, really bad. I take a breath and glare up at Ax. Dammit. I can’t believe I’m about to do what I am. But I need to know what this guy knows about Skinner supposedly coming here. I can’t let that happen, so I need to do anything I can to prevent it.
“Well?” he presses, impatiently.
I nod. “Let’s talk, biker boy.”
Chapter 2
~Ax~
Sitting on the couch, I scan her place quickly. A gut reaction in my line of work. Knowing shit ‘round you can mean the difference between staying alive and taking a bullet between the eyes.
When we’d first pulled up here, I’d figured she’d taken me to some sort of safe house. But now I’ve checked out the place, it looks like it’s her actual home. It ain’t barebones like most safe houses. It’s fully furnished. Decorated. And there’s a bunch of personal stuff lying ‘bout like the shoes and coats by the front door as well as photos and shit hanging on the walls.
She sits on the arm of the leather couch opposite me and folds her arms across her chest, a defensive action if I ever saw one. “So, talk, biker boy,” she orders.
Biker boy? That’s pissing me the fuck off. “Ax,” I seethe.
“A nickname. What’s your real name?”
Fair question seeing as though she told me hers. But hell if I’m gonna tell her mine. Telling me hers is her mistake. Nobody outside the club needs to know any personal stuff ‘bout me. And definitely not this ball-busting bitch. “Ax,” I repeat.
