"We better get out of here," I mention as I glance around me. We appear to be stopped at some sort of weigh station, but I don't see anyone else around operating it. Lane pats down the unconscious body of our driver, divests him of the handgun she finds holstered in the seat of his pants, then drags him into the shadow of the truck. I watch with arms crossed, admiring her compassion; she rounds on me, glowering as if she can read my mind.
"The cabin," she suggests. "Check it for water. Then let's get the hell out of here."
I walk around the broadside of the truck, as instructed, and leverage myself up into the driver's seat to check out the situation. There’s nothing to be found except empty fast-food bags and Styrofoam cups of stale rest-stop coffee. I pull a face, before snooping in the back where the bunks are. I manage to find two one-liter bottles of water, unrefrigerated, but I'm so beyond giving a shit that the temperature of the water doesn't even register. I guzzle half of mine, before pocketing it and bringing the other unopened out to Lane.
I watch her throat work as she drinks; then she pulls her full, wetted lips free with a gasp. My stomach lurches, and I can feel myself growing hard again already. I initiated sex with her because I knew it might be my only chance to have her; now, I can see that one session will never be enough. Officer Lane is sex on legs, and the glare she fixes on me only makes me harder. I want to take her issues with me and help her work them out in the bedroom, again and again and again, until she figures out that she's crazy about me. At least, that's how I hope this story will end.
"Start walking," she instructs. I snort, but it's in my best interest to comply. Judging by the location of the sun in the sky, it doesn't intend to set any time soon. The only immediate relief we might find from it involves finding shelter, and I'm not especially keen to remain at a seemingly abandoned weigh station that is likely Devil’s Bastards' territory.
My suspicions are confirmed as Lane and I start walking, and I notice their sigil spray-painted onto the side of the building facing away from the road. I keep an eye out for signs after that, and I'm the first to find one along the road as we walk.
"Tijuana," I mutter. Lane makes a wordless noise of desperation in her throat, almost as if someone is strangling her. I turn back to her, but she clearly doesn't share my enthusiasm at the realization of where we are. "We're in Mexico!" I exclaim.
"Oh, God." She stops walking long enough to drop her head into her hands. I approach her to take her by the shoulders, meaning to comfort her, or at least shake her from her doldrums. She pulls away, mistrustful eyes analyzing me, as if she expects me to have an ulterior motive for touching her.
"This is good news, Laney. This is great news," I emphasize, as her eyes flicker warily from my grinning face and back again to the sign. "We'll just stop off in the city, grab a bite, and maybe stay overnight if we run out of time. El Chaparral is where we can cross back over to the border."
"You've been here before," she notes.
"Hell yeah, I have. It's a nice town. You'll like it."
"No," she interjects suddenly as we start walking again. She hurries to catch up with my longer strides. I turn my head in surprise, raising an eyebrow at her denial. "No, you don't get to do that," she states. "You don't get to pretend you know what I like now: my personality, my preferences...none of it!" She makes an 'X' with her arms and cleaves downward. "You don't know a thing about me, Wolf. If that even is your real name."
"Wolf Larson," I confirm. Then, because I can't help myself: "Sounded real enough when you were screaming it ten minutes ago."
"What...that's...!" Lane splutters. She looks adorable on the rare occasion she's reduced to speechlessness. I think privately that I should ensure it happens more often. "I was dehydrated, okay? I was delirious. Whatever...that was..." She gestures back down the road behind us with her hand. "...it won't happen again."
"Whatever you say." Let her insist as much as she wants if it puts her mind at ease, but I have plans for us as soon as we hit the city limit. I'm going to wine and dine her, and see to lodgings, no expenses spared. I'm going to treat her exactly how a woman of her caliber deserves to be treated. I'm going to make her fall for me before we leave Tijuana.
"Put a shirt on," she mutters. We continue walking together in silence. After a long moment, I reach out to drape my shirt over her head like a shawl to keep the sun off. She doesn't protest, just fishes her water bottle out of her pocket to douse a little water on the shirt.
The city skyline shimmers into view. Another half hour and we're inside the metropolis, strolling down the main trafficked corridor. Lane offers my shirt back to me; I'm half-inclined to decline, considering most of the male tourists we pass are going shirtless, but it occurs to me that the "no shirts" rule probably applies across the border as it does in the US. I pull the damp cotton fabric over my head and settle it on my frame; then I hold my hands out, inviting Lane's inspection, and immediately thinking this is probably a mistake.
She takes me in with her cool blue eyes, and I swear I feel some of the heat relent beneath her gaze. The cold line of her mouth twitches, and she steps forward; to my surprise, she reaches up to run her fingers through my unkempt locks, feather-light in her touch. She rearranges them until the reflection off a nearby shop window shows that I'm looking more respectable than I can ever remember appearing. My eyes aren't for my own improved looks, though; I fasten them on the woman before me, grinning approvingly down at her. She snorts quietly through her nose and takes a step back. We both keep silent, knowing the choreography of the banter that would normally go here, knowing that it's useless. The push-and-pull isn't getting us anywhere anymore. Someone's gotta give, and it sure as hell isn't going to be me.
"Where are we?" Lane asks as she turns to assess the shops nearby. "You seem like you know where you're going. Then again..."
"Just around the corner." I cut her off before she has time to complete what I'm sure is an insult. "I need to stop by a garage."
"Garage?" she asks curiously as she follows me. "Shouldn't we be worried about more pressing things, like food and water?"
"We've entered the country illegally. And I assume, like me, you're without a passport," I remind her as we round the corner. "We're going to need to get out again as stealthily as possible."
"And you think this is stealthy?" she deadpans when she sees the shopfront of the cycle shop.
I grin. "Wait here." I push through the door. The man at the front desk greets me in Spanish; I manage to speak the language passably well, enough for him to realize exactly who I am and what I require.
Less than five minutes later I exit the store.
"That was fast." Lane sounds genuinely surprised. She leans in the shadow of the awning with her brown arms crossed; I can see she's already getting a deeper tan than she had before, and it looks damn good on her. It's not the first time I find myself wondering how a girl that looks like that came to be a cop in the soggy realms of the Pacific Northwest.
"What can I say?" I reply as we started walking again. "I'm a fast guy."
"I noticed."
I wince. I totally gave her that opening, and I can't resent her for taking it. Still, to a guy like me, that sounds an awful lot like a challenge. I measure her with a stealthy look out the corner of my eye, but her expression doesn't make it immediately obvious to me what she's thinking. She's not wearing the usual cold mask I'm used to; she looks tired, sure, but almost like she's close to enjoying her unexpected vacation.
"Let's grab lunch," I suggest. "I know a place. Then we'll figure out what our next move is."
"I need to get ahold of the chief," Lane says to herself as we cross a busy intersection. "Today was supposed to be my day off."
"Didn't know you ever took one."
"What I'm trying to say is they won't notice I'm gone until Monday," Lane says in exasperation.
"Right. I follow you," I say. "And the boys in blue at the precinct are really going to miss their donut errand girl."
"Oh, get bent, Houdini," she snaps. "Need I remind you, the whole reason I'm in the doghouse at all is because of the little stunt you pulled with my firearm. So thanks for that."
"Hey, didn't know if you might shoot me," I reply. "How was I to know you were looking for something a little more crass and enjoyable?" Lane glares at me, harder than she was glaring before. I didn't know it was possible, but she's definitely not a woman you want to get caught underestimating. "Anyway, we're in Tijuana now! You want a piece to carry? Look no further!" I throw my hands up at the expansive city, frightening a nearby mother and her child; she shields the little girl and they hastily turn into a nearby store.
"Let me guess, you know a guy?" she quips.
"I know several."
"Ugh. I don't want to hear about this." She pinches the bridge of her nose. "This is out of my jurisdiction. Out of my jurisdiction," she mutters to herself. I can imagine the mental anguish she must be going through. The fact that she's forced to keep company with someone like me—who flouts the law and believes in a kind of justice a lot more dubious than hers—must be making her crazy. Best to vent some of that tension between the sheets, but I know better than to suggest as much.
I hail a cab, and we shuttle a few blocks north. "Close to El Chaparral, and the border," I lean across the backseat to whisper to her. Lane nods, arms crossed and eyes trained forward. I'm afraid that the more time I give her to stew in hunger, the less likely I am to find another opening with her.
I pay the driver in cash, and together we pile out of the cab. Lane manages to raise one of her fine eyebrows in question, but I hold my hand out, inviting her to enter the hotel and restaurant ahead of me.
"We have accommodations, as well as a reservation," I note as we make our way to the restaurant. "Want a drink?"
"Water," Lane says, effortlessly seating herself at the bar. I take a moment to admire the way she fills her stool, like a queen astride her throne. She's a woman completely out of her element in every way—a woman who has been through a harrowing, days-long ordeal, a woman who was as recently as a few hours ago fucked sideways by me in the back of a truck—yet, on the outside, she appears fully in control of her situation.
I study her for a long moment, before signaling the bartender for two waters. He complies, passing them both to me. Lane is looking off into the bar, beholding the faux gold fixtures, the stucco walls, and the wide and sloping entries.
"You're rich," she states as I pass her water to her. "You can't hide the obvious. So what is it? Gambling? Drugs?"
"Sorry to disappoint you, but I was born into it," I reply as I take a sip of my own drink. I watch as she takes a long draw from her glass. Good girl. "My parents died when I was young. I've been on my own with their money ever since. Kind of like Batman."
"I'm sorry," she replies. Then, after a moment, "But you haven't been on your own, have you?"
"What makes you say that?"
"I used to think you were a lone biker, acting as a self-operating agent and serving your own self-interests. Now I'm not so sure there isn't some secret MC somewhere you're a part of." She draws back fully from her glass and raises an eyebrow. "Am I warm yet?"
"You tell me," I deflect, setting my glass down on the bar. "You're the precious little Pacific Northwest flower here. I'm a jetsetter, baby. I've travelled all over the globe, growing up a citizen of the world."
"You know, if you're not just pulling my leg, and my instinct about your deep pockets is true, then why the hell would you choose the Pacific Northwest as your place of residence?" Lane demands. "You couldn't be in… I don't know, Hawaii or somewhere."
"The highway," I state, after a long moment of contemplating whether or not it's a good idea to let her in my head. She's there already—might as well make it official. "The longest highway in the United States. It can change from scenic to treacherous in a second, depending on the weather. It's gorgeous. It's beautiful. One of a kind."
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Lane asks quietly. My eyes are locked with hers. Without taking my gaze from her, I reach back to the bar and down my drink. She does the same.
The next thing I know, we're practically falling out of the elevator on the top floor of the hotel, ripping at each other's clothes in a frantic effort to get them off. Thankfully, the whole floor is effectively mine—the penthouse takes up the entire two top stories, as well as granting me exclusive access to the members-only bar on the roof.
"I wasn't expecting this," I manage to get out as I scrabble for the keycard. Wait, was it pocketed in one of the articles of clothing Lane has already managed to strip off me? The blonde stares hard at me as I hunt for it, her rumpled hair cascading in a teased waterfall and sticking out slightly from the heat. We've been on the road for days, and we look it, but neither of us wants a shower at the moment—I can tell you that much.
"All right, a quickie," I concede as I let her into the apartment. She strides in first, grabbing me by the collar and dragging me after her. She wastes no time taking in the expansive quarters: the plush furnishings and the bubbling fountain installed dead center in the living room. She gazes toward the curtains drawn across the window, facing her body away from me; then, she lets her T-shirt fall down one shoulder, exposing the brown hill of one shoulder. Oh fuck. I bite my lower lip to keep from making my arousal at the sight of her audible. Already I can feel myself growing hard against the barrier of my pants. I strip them down, as Lane continues to strip herself, one slow movement at a time.
"A quickie?" I'm almost sure I hear a pout in her voice as she echoes me. "What's your hurry, Houdini? You got places to be?"
"Come here." I cross the room and capture her in my arms, pulling her naked body in close against mine. "You don't have to do this to thank me," I murmur between voracious kisses as we touch each other all over. Her lithe fingers fall to my turgid cock, taking it in hand, the same moment I palm one of her incredible breasts and roll it in my own hand.
"What…do I have…to thank you for…?" Lane pants as I hustle her toward the bedroom. "You're the one who got me into this."
"You got yourself into this," I growl, as I slam the door closed needlessly behind us. "Just how do you intend to get out?"
"By seducing the man standing in my way," she says, ice-blue eyes hardening in challenge. Oh, I can play this game. I can definitely play this game.
I grab little Laney around her womanly waist and toss her down into the bed. She lands with a thrilled utterance of protest, and before she can so much as think to move, I'm on her, straddling her as if I intend to ride her until the odometer spins out. Soon we're moving together, thrusting, and soaking the expensive, clean sheets with our sweat and fluid evidence. I thrill her until she's wet enough to penetrate, then I slip inside; I fuck her back into the bed, hard enough to make the frame squeak in protest, as her moans mount to cries of pleasure, and then to the eventual, ecstatic screaming of my name.
I fuck Officer Elizabeth Lane as I've never fucked any woman in my life before: thoroughly, knowing she can take it, knowing that any roughness only arouses her to her breaking point. I lay claim to that space between her legs, that tight pussy, losing myself in the sensation of filling her completely, until I have her begging for release—exactly as we both knew she would. When we come, we come together, that fabled shared shudder racking our exhausted bodies as we both shimmer over the edge, crying out and grabbing hold of anything within reach. I've never felt anything like it before.
But all the while, I can't shake the thought in the back of my mind: the thought that we're running out of time. I'm the fastest man on the Pacific Coast Highway, but even I can't outrace the inevitability of the destruction that's pawing at my heels.
#
I rear up out of bed, blinking blearily into the darkness of the room.
"I can't believe I passed out…" I mutter as I bring a hand up to cradle my forehead. "I must've let Lane fuck my brains out without meaning to."
Then it hits me
. Lane. My plan. I wasn't supposed to be passed out, not even for a second.
And there are flashing lights outside the hotel window facing the front of the street.
I freeze. Then, I slip out of bed and pad to the window, twitching the curtains aside to look.
The cops. Right outside my door.
I turn my head. An officer of the law, right in my bed where I left her. She's snoring quietly, the way I imagine something cute, like a mouse, might sound in sleep. One of her lean arms is thrown over the pillow where my head previously rested. I cross to the bed and lift it, letting it fall back limp to the bed once more.
The drug I slipped into her drink is in full effect. Originally, I had just intended to leave Lane here, with a glass of water and more than enough money to help her clear her head in the morning. I was supposed to ride out of here, and out of her life, taking everything I know about the Devil’s Bastards and the Mexican cartel along with me. She would be safer that way—without me. I had been so caught up in my infatuation with her that I'd failed to see it before. I have all the money in the world, and I've been desensitized for years to everything that doesn't involve a certain amount of risk. But over dinner, I realized I couldn't risk her, this woman I love.
And now I'm seeing the line clearly again.
The red lights flashe outside, muted by the curtains. Lane has betrayed me. She's done her duty and caught the bad guy, even if she had a very unorthodox way of going about it. Can I blame her? Would I want her any other way? I've already shaken her world so much by entering it.
Now, quietly, I exit out the hotel door, pulling my helmet on as I leave the woman I love behind me. I punch the door to the fire escape open and descend into the night.
I'm on my way back to America, and to the life I was always meant to live. I can't let myself want any more. I'm the guy who has everything, except the one thing that matters most…
…and a relationship with Lane is something I can never have.
BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books Page 37
