"Nah. I feel fine, actually. How are you?" Houdini sounds maddeningly perky beneath whatever electronic device he uses to disguise his voice. I attempted to research what technology he might be using after our first discourse a few nights earlier, but I came up empty. Admitting that I needed research help would only lead to admitting I had actually met and been close enough to the biker to arrest him, so I had refrained from taking my research to anyone else in the department. I had settled for a dead end.
But I'm not going to settle for one now. I growl as I push my sleeves back; strands of blond hair dangle down in my face from where my ponytail has come loose. I pause to tie it back, fingers fumbling in the dark.
To my surprise, a light flips on suddenly, it's white glare directed right at me. I lift a hand to shield my eyes. The glowing light originates from Houdini, and I can see now that he has a light mounted on the side of his helmet.
"...thanks," I say thanklessly, as I bend back to the task of trying to pry the lid off the crate in front of me. "What is that, a Swiss Army Helmet? I have never heard of anything like that being on the market. I'm betting it can do a lot of things."
"Not telling," Houdini says. "How's it going over there?"
I wipe a hand across my forehead. Control your temper, Lane. You need him to get out of here, even if all you want to do at the end of the day is wring his stupid neck for pulling one last moronic stunt.
"Fine, no thanks to you," I allow myself to say as I stoop to try again.
"It's all drugs, officer," Houdini states. "What exactly is it that you're looking for?"
"Drugs are all we've managed to find…so far," I correct him. Behind me lies a mountain of stacked bags and parcels filled with strange, fine powder. The powder itself is a dark, almost seaweed green. It looks almost as if it used to be cannabis, once upon a time, but it smells unlike anything I've ever encountered before. Thankfully, the weird synthetic smell isn't overpowering unless you hover right over it, hence why I piled it in a far corner away from us.
"But I think we stand a real chance of finding food supplies, or even water," I say. The lid of the crate finally rips off in my hands, and I lean in breathlessly to look. Nothing: just more and more bags of the weird drug. I don't even bother taking these out of their shipping container. I growl and attempt to kick it to the side, but it's too heavily packed with the Devil’s Bastards’ weird product to go anywhere, and I just wind up hurting myself.
A machine-like chuckle betrays Houdini's mirth at my optimism. "See, this is why I like you. You're no-nonsense, but you're also positive. Like a ray of sunshine."
The truck bucks suddenly beneath us, and I lose my footing. I've just mentally primed myself for falling back on the mountain of drugs, possibly bursting a few bags beneath my weight and sending the unknown substance into the air to suffocate us, when I feel a hand shoot out and grab my wrist. I don't know how he managed it, but Houdini managed to get to his feet and get to me before gravity did. He pulls me back, and the truck hits another pothole in the road.
Somethings rolls around in the darkness. I can hear it, and I hear something more, something that makes my heart soar…the slosh of water.
"Water bottle!" I hiss. Houdini, whom I suspect has been looking at me this whole time, now turns away to light the area with a sweep of his helmet. My heart soars again, and I all but pounce on the clear plastic water bottle I see in the corner. "One of the movers must have left it," I say as I hold it up.
I knew water was important, but I hadn't been as aware of my own thirst until this moment. Watching the crystalline, clear fluid glisten beneath the light of Houdini's headlamp feels a little like having a perp choke you out while they punch you in the stomach. I want nothing more than to unscrew the cap and guzzle it down, but I know whatever I'm feeling right now that passes for intense thirst will be nothing compared to how I feel in a few hours. We have to conserve, and we're going to have to ration and portion it out until we locate another water source. Hopefully we'll be out of the truck by then, and dealing with a whole other slew of problems other than basic survival.
"All yours," Houdini says as he retreats back to his corner.
I blink. I don't know if he's being chivalrous or just plain stupid. Maybe he just doesn't want to take the helmet off.
"Look," I say as I settle down on the floor, leaning my back against the crate across from him, "we have absolutely no idea how long we'll be in here. Our best hope is that someone discovers us in the next twenty-four hours, even that isn't what I would consider an ideal situation. We have to find a way to arm ourselves for when the driver finally decides to stop and open the door, sure, but we also have to find ways to keep our strength up. We have to maintain communication. We have to try and get along."
"What?" Houdini lifts his hands. "This is totally me getting along with you. I'm giving you space to do your cop thing."
"You're giving me space because you don't want me getting too close to you," I accuse.
"That's not what I want at all."
His remark stuns me. I blink. After a moment, he lowers his head slightly out of courtesy so that the headlamp doesn't shine directly on me. I appreciate the gesture—between the constant glare and the strange direction our conversation has just taken, I was starting to feel like a deer in the headlights.
"Look, I know we have a weird history together." That's an understatement. I hadn't even talked to him directly until the first time a few days ago. "But you can trust me. If you don't want the helmet off, I promise I won't try anything."
"Shouldn't you be demanding the same from me?"
Another surprising comment. It hadn't even occurred to me that I'm trapped in here with a man who could potentially overpower me. If I'm being honest with myself, it's a thought that hasn't occurred to me in a long time.
I push my lower lip around with my finger, considering. Houdini groans quietly to himself. I'm not sure why, but I retract my finger anyway; the thoughtful habit of mine seems to be making him uncomfortable.
"I…don't think you will try anything." I don't exactly sound confident, but at least I sound sincere. Houdini turns his head away and looks off into a dark corner.
"I've been trying. For three years. I thought having your attention was enough."
"I've been paying attention."
"I'm not so sure about that recently."
His cryptic comments are starting to grate on my nerves. What is he trying to say? And why do I feel as if I'm hanging on his every word? I wish it didn't feel as though I were talking to a robot rather than a real person.
Our shared prison lapses into silence as the truck trundles along. I wish I had some idea of where we were headed, and what our ultimate destination might be. I'm not even certain if we're driving north or south. We're headed to one of the borders, so an easterly route isn't an option, and if we go west we'll drive right into the ocean.
I try to ignore the ice-cold chill this last thought gives me. I've heard about drug runners dumping everything into the ocean before, although I've always thought their conduct amounted to just that—rumors. What if the Devil’s Bastard driving this rig lodges the gas pedal down with a brick and lets it accelerate over a cliff with us inside? Would death come swiftly, or would it be slow, agonizing suffocation as we sink to the bottom of the sound?
I have to tear my thoughts away from the subject. It's only making me fidget, and I get the feeling that Houdini is still watching my every move intently.
"What are you thinking?" he asks me quietly.
"Going over scenarios." I shake my head.
"They're not going to dump all this product," he states. "You saw what happened to the last Bastard who got spooked and took initiative. A significant slice of their profit went up in flames, and he earned himself a bullet through the back of his skull. In light of that, they're definitely going to want to hold onto what they have left."
"Sometimes it feels like you're tuned into some frequency inside my head," I say ir
onically. "That was exactly what I was thinking, but you're right. I can't believe I didn't consider that first. Thanks."
The muscular biker looks like he wants to scratch his head, but of course he can't with the helmet in the way. He sighs and draws back without completing the move. He must be at least as thirsty as I am, but I can't detect any change in his voice with that stupid helmet on him.
"Whatever direction we're going, we may be here a while,” he mentions. "They don't call the Pacific Coast Highway 'the King of Roads' for nothing. It's long. I should know: I've driven it for years."
"And I suppose you consider yourself the King of the King of Roads," I remark.
"Something like that." I hear him laugh. And I find myself wishing, desperately, that I could hear his real voice. But I made a promise to him.
As the truck rolls on, we sit together in silence, until eventually Houdini's headlamp flickers and dies.
#
I'm starting to strongly suspect that when we overheard the men at the compound talking about moving product over the border, they weren't talking about Canada.
I have no way of knowing how much time has passed. We've been locked inside this container for at least half a day, maybe more. I managed to nod off at some point, but I wake feeling groggy and unrested, and with a much more confused concept of how much time has passed.
The first thing I did when I woke up was offer Houdini water. He declined. I portioned a sip out into the lid and wetted my tongue, hating myself for wanting it, knowing I needed it when the civilian charge I was supposed to be taking care of was acting far more fortified.
It hit me, then, that his seeming uselessness might be serving a purpose after all. Maybe Houdini wasn't helping, or even moving, because he was trying to conserve his energy so he wouldn't require the water. He could be holding out and holding himself back for me.
For whatever reason, the thought makes me furious. If he's going to insist on being gallant, then I'm going to insist on being the one to help us find a way out of here. I rise and start banging around, kicking crates, relishing in even a little violence against our situation as I try to sort the unpacked ones from the ones that still require my attention.
"Mexico." It's the only word I can remember Houdini speaking in the last few hours I've been up and moving about. I turn to look at him, before turning away once more.
"Mmm hmm." I take a leaf out of his book, saying little, but his confirmation of my own suspicion doesn't bode well for us. If what he says is true, then I doubt it matters how much energy either of us succeeds in conserving.
We're heading south. And if we don't stop, it's about to get very, very hot in here.
Houdini doesn't speak again for a long time. I find myself missing our conversation—or whatever passes for conversation between us. Clever quips and retorts, I guess, with the occasional threat of arrest on my end. I prowl through the boxes, pushing and pulling them into groups, listening for the heavy slide of drug parcels so I know which ones to not waste my time with. All the while, I'm certain I can feel the heat of his gaze on me, like a hand pressing against me between my shoulders…stroking up and down until my whole spine tingles with awareness of him…
"Can you stop staring?" I gripe as I pull open another box. I'm starving, and it's making me cranky. I even wish I had eaten one of those stupid donuts.
"You don't know that I'm staring."
"Men always stare at me." It's not my egotism rearing its head—it's a statement of fact, and something I've had to put up with since I was a teenager.
"I can believe that."
"Granted, you're not like most men," I mutter as I sort through the crate's contents. "I wasn't even sure you were a man for a while. You would always come out at night to drive circles around us, so I couldn't see you well… I actually got into an argument once with Rodney about why the whole department just assumed you were a man. I feel pretty stupid about it in hindsight; I guess when they accuse me of having a chip on my shoulder about my gender, they aren't always wrong."
My fingers roll across something at the bottom of the crate, and it shuts me up, which is probably a good thing. I'm yammering too much, using words to erect a shield between me and the all-too-male presence I don't want to admit my attraction to. I mean, I don't even know what he looks like! I have no business feeling this way.
It's the heat. It's got to be.
I pull my ponytail back behind my sweat-soaked shoulder blade and plunge back into the box, easily relocating what I'm certain I've found. I grope a bit before pulling out one of the long red cylinders.
"Flares," I mutter. I rock back on my heels and sit for a minute, racking my brain for what I could possibly use them for. There's no doubt in my mind that they will prove useful, I just have to think…and the oppressive heat is starting to make that feel like a Herculean effort.
I cast my eyes to the water bottle, but I hold myself back.
"Houdini?" I say. "I hate to do this to you, but I'm not drinking until you drink. Just a little and I'll quit hounding you about it for at least another few hours, I promise."
No response.
I rotate around onto my haunches, but it's hard to see that far back into the shadows. Thankfully, my eyes had adjusted since his headlight went out, and I can see his body slumped oddly against the wall.
Shit.
I get to my feet and hurry into the back. I can hear the biker breathing shallowly, raggedly. I reach out for him, pausing for a split second. My hand hovers above one of his broad, bowed shoulders.
"Houdini!" I whisper ferociously. "Come on! I need you to respond!"
Nothing.
"You idiot." I can feel small tears of desperation threatening to leak out the corners of my eyes. I don't know when the last time I actually cried was, but I’m not going to break the streak now. I'm frustrated and helpless, and for all I know, this man I'm supposed to look after—even if he does belong behind bars—is expiring right in front of me.
"You idiot!" I repeat. "You must be roasting in that thing. Come on. I need you to take the helmet off. Don't make me break my promise."
Don't leave me alone here.
My private plea settles things. This man has certainly been dishonest in his life more than once, so I can afford to breach a little trust now. I reach up to unsecure the inner clasp of his helmet, my fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar workings. Houdini shifts beneath me, almost as if he wants to put up a protest, but it's too late. Things are already in motion. I hear a click; I lift the helmet off his head; and…
It's all I can do to keep from braining him against the floor of the truck bed.
"Surprise," Wolf Larson croaks.
I back away from him, momentarily forgetting the whole reason why I accosted him in the first place. It's dark. It's possible I'm not seeing the face in front of me correctly. I whirl around, hands skittering across the floor until I locate one of the flares. I strike it and look again.
Wolf doesn't even shield his eyes from the rude red light; he just turns his head away and blinks rapidly. It's all there, every infuriating, dangerously attractive detail: strong jaw, intelligent furrowed brows, dark curls matted in slick spirals and plastered to his flushed face. At least, I imagine it must be flushed—I am looking at him through a red light, after all.
"You… You're Houdini?" I demand. I try to stay angry, which is easy enough, considering how furious I am at myself for not figuring it out sooner. Meeting Wolf correlated exactly with heightened activity from my biker nemesis. They don't even act that differently.
I really cannot believe how stupid I've been this entire time.
Wolf's chin hangs down to his chest, which I think is meant to be a nod, although he doesn't raise it back up. "Guess the cat's out of the bag. Definitely never thought it would happen like this. So, how about that water?"
I bring him the water, approaching as warily as I did the first time. I slide down beside him and offer him the bottle. When it looks like it migh
t require more effort than I want to see him expend to lift his arms, I press the opening of the bottle against his lips.
He drinks. I watch his Adam's apple bob: once, twice, three times. I would let him keep going, but with his revitalized energy he puts a hand up to push the bottle away. I withdraw.
"Feel better?" I ask him. My heart thuds. Why can't I look at him directly? Is it embarrassment? Embarrassment that I didn't figure it out sooner? Or is the way his untamed helmet hair makes it appear as if he's been up to other activities?
He nods in answer to my question, and a dark corkscrew curl of his hair falls between his eyes.
"Good. Now. Do you think I'm an idiot?" I exclaim as I set the bottle aside. "Is that why you decided to, what? Spy on me, figure out when I was going undercover, and follow me out to the bar? Was it some kind of sport to you, trying to pick me up at Mal's Dive, knowing you were distracting me from work?"
"I knew I wasn't going to succeed," Wolf replies. He flexes a weak copy of his lopsided grin at me, and my heart clenches to see it. I try to offer him the bottle again, but he puts a hand out to push it away. "No. Now you," he says.
I take as long a drink as I'll allow myself, meditating on my next question before asking: "What makes you think you weren't going to succeed?"
Patient gray eyes meet mine. "Because I know you, Lane."
I shake my head. "How? How the hell can you say you know me? We hadn't even spoken before..."
"I don't know how to say it and not sound like some idiot biker, so I think I'm just going to say it," Wolf determines. "You can tell a lot by the way a person drives. How they perceive the world; what their opinion of themselves is, and their opinion of the people around them. You can tell their insecurities by how many patches or chains or bumper stickers they decide to plaster on themselves and their property; or by how long and how far they drive to pursue the thing they want."
His eyes burn into mine. I didn't know that light eyes could burn so brilliantly, but Wolf's eyes are like molten silver in his head.
BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books Page 34
