by Kati Wilde
So he’s the one who’s going to threaten me. There’s a huge lump in my throat and I don’t want to look at Bull, but when his giant frame moves into my field of vision, I can’t help it. He leans back against the island in the center of the kitchen, inked arms crossed over his broad chest.
Concern fills the gaze that searches my face. His voice is low and gruff. “You all right?”
How does he think I am? I’m in a kitchen surrounded by four men who are here to scare me into falling in line. He’s here to bully me and yet he’s asking how I am?
Deliberately I look away from him and his bullshit concern, meeting the president’s eyes.
“I won’t say a word,” I say.
If the president’s surprised when I come right out with that, he doesn’t show it. Instead he leans back in the chair and gives me a considering look. “That’s what Bull told us. Said we don’t need to worry about you.”
Did he? I don’t really care.
Except I do. And my chest and stomach hurt so much, as if I’ve been drinking acid. I don’t say anything, though, because I’m sure he’s not done.
“I do worry, though,” he says, sitting forward and bracing his forearms on the table, fingers laced together like a businessman making a deal. “So let me tell you what’s going to happen.”
No deal, then. No negotiations. Just, he’ll talk and I’ll listen. Trying to ease the burning ache in my throat, I sip my iced tea and wait to see what he offers.
“You’re going to stay here with Bull a few days. When the business you heard about is done, you go home. And if you stay quiet about that business, we make sure you get those papers you want.”
Which sounds like a nice exchange except it’s also something illegal for them to hold over me.
Something illegal that Bull gave them to use.
The betrayal shouldn’t surprise me. It shouldn’t hurt. But it does and I can’t stop my gaze from shooting over to meet his again.
He doesn’t flinch under my accusing stare. He doesn’t look like he could flinch at all. His face and body are stone. He’s gripping the edge of the butcher block counter, every muscle in his arms so tight that I can see the throb of his pulse through the veins threaded beneath the inked skin of his forearms and biceps.
But I don’t know what I’ve got to lose by accepting the president’s offer. I already lost everything else I wanted when I heard Bull telling the asshole who kidnapped me that he was buying twenty thousand dollars’ worth of meth. And I need that fake identification.
“All right,” I agree in a voice that sounds stronger than I feel.
The president nods and lightly thumps the side of his fist on the table, as if pleased by my response, then holds out his hand. “All right, then.”
That’s it? I shake his hand, watching him warily. “No threats of bodily harm?”
He tilts his head, an amused and dangerous glint in his steely blue eyes. “You want me to say something like—if you break our agreement, then whatever that asshole you’re running from did to you won’t compare to what we’ll do?”
Bull makes a sound, a harsh indrawn breath. But I don’t look at him. Because he gave them that, too? Not that he really knew what he was giving them.
This time it’s easy to find the strength to match my voice, because there’s so much rage and pain behind it. “Considering that asshole burned down my parents’ house while my mother and father and grandmother were sleeping in it, I really don’t think you could do anything to me that compares.”
The president’s face abruptly stills, and beneath that hard mask I see something terrifyingly lethal.
Then an explosion of shattering glass makes me jump in my seat, tearing my hand from his to cover my ears, my panicked gaze sweeping the kitchen.
And landing on Bull. He’s stomping toward the deck, his back rigid, blood dripping from his hands. Glass crunches beneath his heavy boots.
As soon as he’s outside, he throws back his head and roars, a sound unlike anything I’ve heard from any man before—but one I’ve felt. It’s rage and pain and I know that sound even if I’ve never made it.
My heart pounding so hard it’s echoing in my ears, I barely hear Pop’s voice, slightly winded as if he sprinted into the house at the first explosive sound.
“The hell, David! You gone fucking crazy, boy?”
Back rigid, Bull hangs his head. His barrel of a chest expands on huge, ragged breaths and his answer is a rough growl. “I’ll clean it up, Pop.”
Because somehow he shattered the glass faces of an entire bank of kitchen cabinets. Throwing something. Or maybe just smashing them with his fists. Blood is dripping from his clenched fingers onto the boards of the deck.
Still seated, the president is regarding Bull with a steady, thoughtful gaze. After a moment, he turns that gaze toward one of the bikers behind me. “You want to look into that?”
“I will,” the other man says.
But I’m barely following along. Because I can’t stop staring at Bull. The tension in his big body is that of a man rigidly contained, yet when he rakes his bloody hands through his hair and suddenly looks back at me, nothing about him seems under control. There’s just sheer primitive fury and his own blood is the warpaint.
With long strides he stalks away off the side of the deck, disappearing from my sight. All at once I can breathe again, but it doesn’t feel as if I am. My chest hurts and I’m tired. So tired.
The Hellfire Riders’ president stands. “You want us to get someone in here to replace those cabinet doors, Will?”
Bull’s father shakes his head. “He’ll be doing it.”
“Then you feel free to give us the bill for the new glass.”
“No. He’ll be paying for it, too.”
With a glance at me, the president says, “I think he already is.”
7
Bull
I’ve got so much shame clogging my throat, it’s like I’ve got a fist shoved in there. And no amount of roaring or screaming will clear it out.
It won’t clear the shame—or the rage. Rage at the fucker who killed her family and made her flee across the country. Rage at myself, for adding to her hurt. For adding so much to it.
A man couldn’t mistake the look she gave me when the four of us Riders walked into that kitchen. She knew exactly what was about to go down. The prez went easy on her, like he promised. He went real easy. And I knew the prez wasn’t going to hurt her, even if she didn’t agree to what he offered. That doesn’t change how I stood behind him while he made her believe we would.
Made her believe we’d do worse than what some fucker did to her family.
I’m outside by the woodpile again when the brothers leave the house. Working alone as Pop and I often do, we can’t be too careful, so we keep bandages and a First Aid kit handy wherever we’re swinging axes or working with blades. Right now I’m sitting on the deck chair, taping up the bleeding gashes in my hands.
Blowback heads for the Caddy. He’ll drive it out to the clubhouse on the ranch, where they’ll be keeping Woodridge until the meetup with Osprey. The prez and Thorne stop by the woodpile but don’t sit.
The prez asks, “You got a name for that old boyfriend?”
Tightly I shake my head.
“Blowback’ll dig it up. If you want it.”
“Yeah.” My voice is pure gravel. “I want it.”
“All right. He’ll be back for his bike in a bit, probably ask a few questions.”
“Ask me or Sara?” If it’s the latter, I don’t imagine I’ll allow that. We’ve hurt her enough without Blowback scaring her just by looking at her with that empty, dead gaze of his.
As if he heard me thinking that, the prez’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “You, I figure.”
Blowback can probably find everything with nothing but her name. But I can give him more info and a better place to start.
I nod my agreement before glancing to Thorne. “You all right with me calling in sic
k the next couple of days?”
“We’ll make do,” he says. “What about her? Anyone going to report her missing?”
Maybe tomorrow. “I’ll have her call in sick, too. But her days off are Wednesday and Thursday. I can’t imagine anyone’ll get suspicious when she’s gone those days.”
We should have Osprey by Thursday night and she’ll be back to work like regular on Friday morning. So this won’t be jeopardizing her job, most likely. I don’t know what the hell I’d do if this business with Osprey took that from her, too.
“Have her use a burner when she calls in,” the prez says.
Something that can’t be traced back to me. I’m still not worried about her filing any kidnapping charges, but it’s the prez’s job to worry about the brothers. To protect the club.
It’s my job, too. And any charge against me might implicate them in this shit. So we’ll use a burner.
I nod again and they leave me to my bandaging and my shame. After this, I’ve got to head back inside, clean up the mess I made.
But I don’t know how I’ll clean up the mess with Sara. Or how I’ll look her in the eyes again.
She didn’t want me to hunt down her old boyfriend, even though he murdered her family. So I don’t figure she’ll be real receptive to the reasons the Hellfire Riders are hunting down Osprey.
I’m not the kind of man who’ll hide away from responsibility, though—or the kind who’ll shy away from accepting the consequences of my actions. And the simple truth is that the choices I’ve made fucked up any chance I had with Sara.
I can’t even say I’d make different choices. I’d do anything to hold her in my arms, to kiss her again. But there’s a little boy dead. I’ve got a brother who might never wake up. And I’ve got a responsibility as a Rider and as a friend to make sure the shitstain who fired those bullets gets what’s coming to him.
But I can’t blame Osprey for making Sara so afraid of me. I can’t blame bad timing or even Woodridge’s stupid ass. They weren’t the ones who slammed a blade through a trunk lid or got up behind the prez to intimidate her into silence.
This shit’s on me. There’s nothing to do but man up and accept the consequences. Doesn’t mean those consequences don’t hurt, though. Like a knife through my ribs. Like a razor in my throat.
I just can’t believe that on the same fucking day I got her, I lost her.
With my heart feeling like a hot, heavy ball of lead in my chest, I finish taping my hands and return to the kitchen.
Sara’s not there. Just my pop, sitting at the table, working on his second beer, and wearing an expression that tells me he’s good and pissed.
“You better grab that broom, boy,” he says.
I was already heading for it. “Where’s Sara?”
“You telling me you give a shit?”
I turn my burning eyes his way and let him see how much of a shit I give.
He softens a bit. “She looked beat. And that ride in a trunk, sweating up a storm sure as hell didn’t do her any good. So I took her up to the third bedroom, dug up some clothes for her to change into. The shower was running a bit ago but I figure she’s napping now. You better grab that little hand broom and get those counters first.”
Stopping in the middle of the kitchen with the push broom, I survey the damage. And yeah—I better get the hand broom first or I’ll just have to sweep the floor again. Most of the glass ended up on the floor but there’s shards all over the granite countertops.
“How’s your knuckles?” he asks.
“About as bad as I deserve.”
“Probably not that bad.”
“Not even near as bad,” I agree and start in on the counters.
The clinking is so loud as I sweep the shattered glass into the dustpan that I don’t hear Sara’s light tread. Don’t realize she’s there until my dad says, “I figured you’d take a nap.”
Jerking my head around, I see her standing in the doorway to the kitchen. And, Christ. Jesus Christ. This is what I lost.
I’d be bawling if I wasn’t staring.
I’ve only seen her dark hair in a braid and for months now, I’ve been dreaming of how those thick curls might look down. But I should have been dreaming of how it’d look up in a messy roll on the top of her head, imagining the way all that poofy weight frames her beautiful face and makes her neck seem so elegant and the line of her shoulders so pretty.
And she looks so damn fragile. Maybe because my pop gave her one of my button-up shirts to wear. Although the edge of an undershirt peeks beneath the collar and she’d have been well covered if she’d left the shirt open, all the buttons but one are fastened and her generous curves are swallowed up by the thin cotton. The tails hang to mid-thigh—and God help me, her smooth brown thighs are sweetly muscled and look as if they could wrap me up so tight.
I’ve never seen so much of her skin. She wears short sleeves often enough, maybe it just never occurred to me that I’ve never seen her legs. I’ve only seen her in jeans and leggings.
Just like I never thought much about her feet. She usually wears full-cover shoes because she works in food service. She’s not wandering around the café in sandals any more than I’d wander around the construction site in bare feet.
But hers are bare now. Her toenails are painted bright red and it’s the sexiest damn thing I’ve ever seen.
As if she’s nervous, she’s got one foot rubbing over the top of the other. The toes of her bottom foot are curling against the smooth wood floor as she stands there, biting her lush bottom lip. In her hands she holds a wad of clothes—her sweat-soaked clothes, I realize.
She darts a gaze at me and looks away before I can read anything in her eyes. “I tried to sleep. But my head won’t settle.”
Keyed up because she’s been kidnapped by someone stupid and threatened by someone she trusted. Shame tightens my throat again but it doesn’t matter. I’ve got nothing to say that Sara wants to hear. Her dark gaze studiously avoids me.
My dad asks, “You want a whiskey to help smooth the edges?”
“No. Thank you, though,” she says.
“I don’t think she drinks alcohol, Pop,” I tell him quietly.
“I don’t,” she confirms but doesn’t look my way when she does. “Is it all right if I make dinner?”
Make dinner. Even though she’s basically a prisoner here and all of us know it.
We both just look at her.
She shifts her weight and begins rubbing the top of her left foot with the bottom of her right. “Cooking helps me settle,” she explains.
Pop purses his lips. “Well, I’m not about to refuse. You going to, David?”
“No.” I’d eat poison if she fed it to me.
“You got anything specific in mind to cook?” Pop asks. “You need any certain ingredients?”
She shakes her head. “I’ll make something out of whatever you have.”
Beer in hand, he gets up from the table. “All right. Run up and put your shoes on and I’ll show you what we’ve got. That your laundry there?”
“Yes.”
“Leave it for David, then. He’ll put it in the wash.”
She hesitates for just a moment before nodding and dropping the pile onto the kitchen table. Then she’s gone.
After giving me a long look, Pop heads out, too.
My heart thundering, I set the broom aside and head for the table. There’s a bit of white lace in that wadded bundle. Her bra with its generous cups and a matching pair of panties.
And here’s one more thing I ought to be ashamed of—because I pick up those panties and breathe deep, getting the sweet musky smell of her pussy as far into me as I can. I’d steal them if she had any others to wear over the next few days. Instead I stop by the bathroom and wrap my hand around my aching cock, picturing the hair on top of her head, her elegant neck, the damp curls at her nape that got wet during her shower. I picture matching curls between her thighs, curls that are even wetter and smelling of the
lace I’m practically inhaling.
I should be ashamed. I should be just fucking rolling in shame like a pig rolling in mud as I come, spurting into my hand and biting her lacy panties to stop the roar that’s built up in my chest.
But I’m not. Instead I’m haunted. By her smell. By her pretty painted toes and her smooth brown skin. By that kiss this morning and what could have been.
And haunted by the knowledge that she’ll be walking around my house without a stitch of underwear on.
If a man was ever tortured for the choices he’s made…I’m sure as hell going to pay for mine.
8
Sara
They’ve got a garden and a greenhouse.
When Pop said he’d show me what they have, I expected him to lead me to a pantry. And there is a pantry, somewhere. Apparently a big pantry, judging by what Pop’s saying about the vegetables and fruits he’s canned and put away. But I barely hear him, because I’ve got a basket under my arm and I’m walking along the side of the garden and taking in the incredible green glory of it all.
They’ve got a chicken coop, too. Oh those fresh, fresh eggs. And Pop’s grumbling that the hens lay well but Bull’s always skipping out to have breakfast in town, so instead of eating his share, he ends up giving away a couple of dozen to the biker widows every week.
“Just like he gave away most of Porky and Petunia a few weeks ago,” the old man says.
Crouching beside a row of parsnips, I glance up. “He gave away what?”
“The two hogs we raised and slaughtered last fall. Said we need to start eating healthier, replaced it all with chicken sausage and turkey bacon. Then said if the girl at Reggie’s can make that shit taste good, we can, too.” Scratching his bristled jaw, he eyes me accusingly then turns a baleful gaze on the parsnips I’ve pulled up. “You don’t want those. The woman at the seed store said they was tasty but I figure a potato got drunk and screwed a carrot to create that abomination. This was my first year planting them and will be my last, that’s for damn sure.”
