Tracked by the Bear

by Adele Niles

  “I got your nature, baby,” he sneers. “Right here.”

  He moves like he’s going to put that rotten tongue on my face. I back up, not bothering to hide my disgust.

  I fish around in my messenger bag and find my phone. I know dialing 911 won’t help because the nearest law enforcement is the highway patrol, and they are many miles and mountains away. But maybe if they see me talking to someone, they’ll think I’m not completely alone and they’ll back off.

  But as I look down at my phone, I can see that’s not going to work. There is no signal. None.

  Okay. They don’t need to know I don’t have signal. I’ll just talk to the phone like I’m connected to the fucking FBI.

  I hit my mother’s speed dial. “Hey,” I say to my phone. “I’m out here by the bar at the farthest end of the main street and you’re going to have to speak up because there’s a lot of motorcycles here, and…”

  “Lost, little lady?” A big man in black leathers walks up to me with a slow, swaggering stride and shit-eating grin. He pulls black riding gloves off his hands.

  I tip back my head too and stick out my chin. “Nope. I’m just talking to my mother to let her know where I am.”

  He nods and turns down some nasty looking lips. “Really? That’s amazing, because the nearest cell tower is on the other side of that mountain. There’s no way you could be getting a signal.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I just grip my phone tighter in my hand.

  He steps closer to me. “You must be using that—what you call it? Mental telepathy stuff. You do that?”

  “Ah,” I say. “That’s why we were breaking up.” I shove the phone in my bag and turn to leave. “Guess I’ll just have to go tell her in person.”

  “Now why would you want to do that?” He steps in front of me, blocking my path. “Especially since we just got here.”

  I hear laughter from the bikers behind me.

  “We were getting ready to have a party,” one of them yells.

  “Yeah,” the other one barks. “Tell her, E. J. We could have some fun!”

  The one they called E. J. edges closer to me.

  I back away. This can’t be happening. I’ve seen this kind of story in the news. It never ends well. “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Well,” he says, “I do think so.”

  He puts out his hand and wraps it around my upper arm.

  It closes down like a vise.

  Chapter 6

  Belinda

  E. J.’s got my forearm and he’s dragging me toward the bar. It’s pretty clear he doesn’t intend to buy me a drink and get to know me.

  As soon as he lessens his grip just slightly when we reach the door, I slip my arm out of my overshirt and leave him holding air.

  I sprint for the road.

  One of the other guys kicks his bike to life and chases me down. He grabs me by my waist. I’m kicking so hard, he nearly lays the bike down. But he manages to half carry me, half drag me back. He throws me on the dirt in front of the bar.

  I scramble to my feet.

  The second guy comes up behind me and pins my arms behind my back. He pushes me toward E. J. and the bar door. When I get within a leg’s length of E. J., I throw a hard kick at his nuts.

  He blocks the blow and grabs me by the throat. “That wasn’t very nice.”

  He throws me against the wall of the bar.

  “You think you’re slick, little lady?” He tries to grab my crotch but I twist away hard.

  He laughs a nasty laugh.

  “You’re not helpin’ your cause, missy. I like them when they fight.” He growls and snaps his teeth at me.

  I let a look of fear and horror come over my face. He grins and relaxes—and misses my knee coming up to finish the job on his balls.

  He grunts and doubles over.

  I take off, legs pumping, my eyes set on the trail ahead.

  This time it takes both filthy minions to haul me back.

  When they get me back to E. J., I can tell he’s done playing around. He rips open my top and shoves me against the wall of the bar. Rough siding bites into my skin. The other two are giggling and pushing at him, egging him on.

  A large shape catches my eye, just at the tree line. My eyes go wide again, but E.J. laughs in my face.

  “Not going for that one again, honey,” he spits out.

  The thing is, this time I’m not faking. For one crazy second, I thought I saw a huge black bear. I open my mouth to tell him, but no sound comes out. I’m grateful, because it wasn’t a black bear after all, but my URSA Viking. And his face is contorted in possessive rage.

  He lays one massive hand on E. J.’s collar and jerks him back. Then he whips around, planting himself between me and my attacker.

  Now it’s his expansive back that has me pinned against the wall. But this time I don’t mind.

  This time, it feels right.

  I put my hands against the cords of muscles of his back and feel protection.

  A sound comes from his chest, like an angry animal growl. I drop my hands and press back against the wall.

  I hear his heavy breathing,

  “You,” he says, his voice glacier cold. “We told you to get the hell out of our territory.”

  E.J. tries to say something, but his words are cut off and broken, like my Viking is shaking him.

  “Not here,” the Viking says. “Not now. And not this woman.”

  I stop breathing. Why is he talking about me like that? As far as I know, he’s only seen me once. I don’t understand.

  But I like it.

  The rumble builds in his chest again. Then the roar.

  I press as close to the wall as I can.

  I hear a thud—like something hitting the ground—hard.

  Chapter 7

  Drake

  I don’t want her to know I’m following her so I don’t want to interfere if I don’t have to. But I’m pissed the Howlers think they can come this close to town and take what’s mine.

  The bear in me is raging. He wants to protect her. He’s got this woman figured as his own. They’re messing with her and he wants to fuck up these assholes right here and now.

  I remind him John Law don’t look kindly on fucking people up, even if they’re assholes.

  But the bear doesn’t care.

  I remind him the plan was to go careful with this woman and just watch and wait.

  But the bear doesn’t care.

  He wants to tear up some Howler meat and crunch on some Howler bones.

  I hold him back—and it’s costing me—but when E. J. comes on full throttle, I decide enough is enough.

  I snap E. J. up by his pencil neck and shake a little sense into him before throwing him to the dirt where he belongs.

  His buddies think they ought to do something about that, and I see one go for his piece.

  Somebody should have told him a bear can move fast.

  I backhand him so hard, the gun goes flying. When he dives for it, I connect my boot hard enough to send him into a stump.

  I hear his head crack wood, and that’s good ’cause I’m already busy with the other one.

  The guy stands in a crouch, looking at me, then makes a break for his bike like he has some kind of weapon there—or he’s getting ready to bail on his bros. I do a roundhouse kick that catches him in a kidney and he goes down.

  E. J.’s struggling to get up, so I give him a punch in the face and he’s out cold. The quick exit artist catches his wind and looks like he’s gonna give it another try. He stands up, but I sideswipe his knee and he goes down again. He’s gonna have to get his old lady to kickstart his bike for a while.

  I look over at the cause of it all. My woman. She’s fixed her clothes that E. J. ripped, got herself plastered against the building, and she’s trying to scoot away from my direction. She’s looking at me like she’s pretty sure I’m the fox and she’s the chicken.

  I hold up my hands, palms out.

 
; “It’s okay, sweetie,” I say. “I’m done here. I just didn’t like those guys giving you a bad time.”

  I start backing away to show I mean what I say.

  She cuts me a look through narrowed eyes. She looks at the road and then back at me. She straightens. And lifts her chin.

  I see a messenger bag lying on the ground. I assume she dropped it in the scuffle.

  I walk over carefully, like I’d approach a puppy, and hold the bag out toward her. She keeps an eye on me but doesn’t run.

  When I get close enough, she snatches the bag.

  I stretch out my right hand and sweep my left toward the path, showing her the way is clear.

  She hesitates, but then, instead of brushing past me, she fits her tiny hand neatly into my own. I help her step over the Howler bodies still twitching on the ground, and then lead her to the road.

  Chapter 8

  Belinda

  I sneak a peek at my benefactor. He’s marching along, holding my hand, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

  He must sense my attention because he looks down at me and smiles.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  He shrugs. “Anytime.”

  I probably should tell him he can let go of my hand now. But I don’t want to.

  “How did you find me?” I ask. “I left you at the church and didn’t see you behind me…”

  He grins. “Hate to tell you, honey, but a lady from the city walking through these woods is about as sneaky as a tornado.”

  I stop in my tracks.

  “But why were you tracking me?”

  He stops and looks down at me. “Honestly? I don’t know.” He pulls me forward. “Guess I thought a little lady like you might need some help in the woods.”

  Oh, figures. He’s one of those guys who thinks women are incapable of taking care of themselves. “That’s pretty damned presumptuous of you.”

  He laughs. “Unfortunately, I was right, wasn’t I?”

  I like his laugh. Even though it is at my expense. It is a rich, deep laugh. He’s a big scary guy, but I’m glad he’s on my side.

  I tug on his hand. “Here’s a stupid question: Do you live around here?”

  He throws back his head and that wonderful laugh comes out again.

  “I live around this whole county. But our headquarters are in Maiden’s Fork, if that’s what you mean.”

  “The headquarters for the URSA MC?” I ask, keeping my voice casual.

  He jerks to a halt and turns to face me. “Sounds like you’ve been tracking me.”

  I pull him forward to continue our trek and he lets me do it.

  “Not really,” I say. “It’s just the journalist in me.”

  He looks down at me curiously.

  “Back home, I’m a photographer. I saw the URSA insignia on your jackets and thought the clubhouse in the old church might make an interesting story—”

  “Back home?” I hear that low grumble in his throat again. “This is your home. Here. With me.”

  I lean away from him. What the heck did he mean by that? Was I too quick to judge him sane? He damn near killed three men back there, and I’m walking along holding hands with him like he’s a Boy Scout who just won a merit badge.

  “So…” I begin, trying to bring the conversation back to reality. “Why did you choose the bear as the symbol for your motorcycle gang—er…I mean—club?”

  He doesn’t break stride. “Because that’s who we are.”

  Is he kidding? I look up in his face. Nothing but calm.

  “That’s not much of an answer,” I say.

  “Why are you a photographer?” he asks.

  “Oh,” I say. “I see what you mean.”

  This still doesn’t sort out whether this guy’s nuts or not, but I’ll have to say he’s smart.

  And strong.

  And really good looking.

  We come back on the other side of the mountain and hit paved road.

  “Well,” I say. “Thanks again. I’ll be able to get back to my Jeep from here.”

  “Why?” he says.

  “Why? Why do I want to get back to my Jeep? Well, it’s been kind of a long, stressful day.”

  “You said you came to see the URSA clubhouse. So why stop now?”

  I don’t have a good reason to give him. I can’t tell him I want to go home and dream about his protective arms, strong back, and deep blue eyes in private.

  So I say, “Okay. Show me.”

  A huge grin splits his face and he sweeps me up in his arms. He looks like he’s planning to carry me all the way to the clubhouse!

  It feels amazing to recline in his beefy arms, but I don’t want to send the wrong message.

  “I can walk,” I say sternly.

  He looks at my face, then tips his head and sets me down.

  “Okay,” he says, a teasing glint in his eye. “Then let’s walk.”

  I have to jog to keep up with his strides, and from the looks we get, I assume we make an interesting pair: Thor in a cutaway jacket with a prep girl trotting beside him.

  But we make it to the clubhouse in pretty short order. He stops outside the door and swoops me up in his arms again.

  “I assume this is because ‘no woman sets foot in this clubhouse,’ right?”

  “Okay,” he chuckles. “If it works for you, works for me.”

  But I slide from his arms once we enter the building. I’m too amazed to think about walking versus being carried. I guess I thought the church would be in bad shape like the outside. But the interior is beautiful.

  The pews have been removed to make space for the bikers, but they have been stacked carefully in the loft. The wood of the beams, walls, and other interior structures has been oiled and polished.

  I turn in a full circle, my mouth open.

  “This is beautiful,” I breathe.

  “Yeah,” says Drake. “The bros like working with their hands.”

  He comes up behind me and lays his hands on my arm.

  I swivel to face him.

  “And so do I,” he says.

  He bends down. I feel his mouth on mine—gentle at first—and then stronger. And harder. He tastes like the earth, the forest, and the hills.

  His fingers tangle in my hair. He pulls my head back. His tongue lashes the inside of my mouth. I can’t breathe. But I don’t want to.

  Finally, he releases me and pulls back to search my eyes.

  “Ever been kissed like that?” he whispers.

  I steady my breath. “I’ve hardly been kissed at all,” I say. “And nothing like that for sure.”

  He pulls back, frowning. “You’ve hardly been kissed at all?”

  I shake my head and push away from him, but he doesn’t let me go.

  “I—I’ve just seen a lot of things go badly with my friends, my family,” I say. “I’ve chosen abstinence…for now.”

  He suddenly pulls me to his chest. I can’t see his face. But I feel his heart thumping.

  Over my head, I hear him saying, “You’ve never been with a man?”

  I feel a strange calm come over me. I lean against his chest and rest my head on his arm.

  “No.” I say. “But I’ve just learned I like being kissed.”

  Then he’s on me. Kissing me again.

  I am savoring the kisses. Feeling his warm body on mine. Feeling, for the first time, the hardness of a cock as it presses into my belly.

  But then, abruptly, he pulls away. He’s got one eyebrow raised and his smile is crooked.

  “This is crazy,” he says. “I was just thanking the gods for putting you in my arms, and I didn’t have a name to call you.”

  “Belinda,” I say.

  His face clears of all expression. “That’s a beautiful name.”

  He starts to bend to kiss me again.

  “Wait a minute,” I say. “I told you mine, you tell me yours.”

  That huge smile is back.

  “Drake,” he says. “At your servi
ce.” He finds a lock of hair that’s strayed from my braid and pushes it back behind my ear. “Now, my beautiful Belinda, it’s time to get you home.”

  I jerk back in his arms. “Home? What the heck brought that up?”

  Drake kisses my forehead. “You were right when you said this has been a long stressful day.”

  “Yeah, but, what about more kissing?” I ask.

  “I want you,” he says, “I won’t lie. But I want you because you want me too. I don’t want you kissing me only because it’s been a long, stressful day.”

  I feel his arms forcing me to arm’s length. He seems to weaken for a moment, but then drops his hands and turns away.

  “Let’s get you to your Jeep,” he says.

  I feel confused. My emotions are a jumble. Relief? Regret? All that at the same time?

  He’s right. This isn’t a time for sorting out emotions. I thought it was the world’s greatest kiss—and immediately wondered what the rest of his lovemaking would be like—but he’s just saved me from being raped and who knows what else, so I have to admit there could be other feelings involved.

  I slowly nod. “You’re right. But do you think I could have your number? You know. In case I run into trouble again?”

  He laughs and turns back. “In case you get into trouble? Looks to me like trouble follows you around.”

  We exchange numbers. And one more long, hungry kiss.

  On the walk back to my Jeep we act like two kids—which is funny because this big bruising tattooed biker looks like he left childhood a long time ago. But he holds my hand and points out interesting old buildings and birds and beasts wandering in from the woods. The lack of constant traffic lets opossums, racoons, and even a fox to wander in and out of doorways of abandoned buildings and alleys.

  When we reach my Jeep, however, another type of disturbance keeps the wildlife away—my mother. She is pacing in the dirt beside my Jeep.

  “Mom?” I say. “What are you doing here?”

  At the sound of my voice, my mother jumps like she’s been poked with a cattle prod. “Belinda! Where have you been?”

  I pull in my chin. “Right here. In Maiden’s Fork.”