CRASH: An Evil Dead MC Story (The Outlaw Series)

by James, Nicole

  “If you’re going, let’s go. I’ve got shit to do.”

  Still she stood there glaring at him, and he got the feeling she thought if she could outlast him, she’d get her way. Wrong. “Princess, I’ll say it one more time. You going or staying? Makes no difference to me. I ain’t the one with the crazy ex stalking me.”

  At his words, he watched her eyes quickly lift to the street, her gaze darting around almost as if she expected the dude to pop out somewhere. A feeling of protectiveness snaked through him. His eyes skated down the street and then back to her. And then he whispered in a low voice, “You’re really fucking scared of this guy, aren’t you?”

  Her eyes met his, and her hands dropped from her hips. Without saying a word she took a hesitant step toward the bike. He slid his shades on and nodded toward her bag. “Put on your sunglasses. They suck for riding, but they’re something.”

  She dug through her bag, coming up with the designer shades, she slipped them on. He watched as she hiked the hem of her dress up a bit and slid onto the fender. She put her feet where he told her and slipped the strap of her bag over her head, tucking it between them.

  “Hold on tight,” he instructed, his eyes meeting hers over his shoulder. He waited until he felt her hands slid around his waist, and then with a twist of the throttle, he gunned the bike out onto the street. He felt her tuck up against him, her arms tightening around him, and he smiled.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Shannon hung on for dear life. It was terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. She’d been on a bike only once before. That day years ago when Cole and his group of guys had pulled her out of that van. She’d been too scared that day to remember much about it or to have enjoyed it at all.

  Now she took the time to really take it all in. The wind in her face, the vibration of the bike, the roar of the engine. She smiled. It was actually fun. Sitting on the fender really wasn’t all that uncomfortable, except when he hit a bump. She’d been afraid she was going to slide right off, but she stayed on rather easily. Of course she was holding on to him.

  Him.

  Crash. What kind of a name was that? Dear God, she hoped it wasn’t indicative of his riding skills. Surely Cole wouldn’t have left her with this man, if he didn’t trust him. Right?

  Of course, Cole hadn’t seemed too pleased with her. She supposed she’d given him cause, bringing Angel into this and all. But she’d had no choice. Surely he could understand that. If only she could have stayed with Cole and not this guy. Cole was scary in his own right, but this man, he hit a nerve with her. The way he grinned at her like she was some kind of a joke. She’d never been treated like that before, and it stung. More than she cared to admit.

  Shannon knew her looks got her a lot in life, especially when it came to men. They were all too easy to manipulate to do her bidding. But she had a feeling those tactics weren’t going to work with a man like Crash. She was out of her element. Way out of it. And she didn’t have a clue what to do about it.

  He took a corner, and her hands tightened over his hard abs. She could feel his muscles moving under her palms, as well as his back muscles that were flush against her front as she clung tightly to him. She could smell the leather of his vest under her cheek. Coming out of the corner, he straightened the bike up and slowed at a traffic light. She relaxed back, loosening her hold. He braked, setting his boots on the ground to hold the bike up as they waited for the red light to change.

  Looking over to her right, she noticed a woman in a minivan look over at her on the back of the bike. She wondered what the woman was thinking. No matter that her outfit cost almost a grand and that her handbag cost three times that, she was sure that to that woman, her sitting on the back of this bike with her skirt inching up, revealing a good amount of leg, that she looked every bit a tramp. Shannon lifted her chin. Let her judge, sitting in her boring minivan, probably on her way to pick up her kids from soccer practice.

  The light changed, and they pulled off. A few minutes later, Crash was getting on I-880 heading north. The sun was sinking low, and the lights of the city were flashing by them. It was almost a half hour before Crash exited and took several more turns before finally slowing in front of a small two-story brick building that looked like some type of abandoned manufacturing company. In old peeling paint on the side of the building were the words Amalgamated Machine Works, and below it in smaller script were the words, Machining Since 1885.

  Shannon’s eyes dropped to the steel rolling garage door that looked strangely new compared to the rest of the building. It began to raise up as Crash rolled the bike slowly off the street and pulled under it, stopping just inside. As the door began to slowly roll back down, she noticed that the inside of the building was much cooler than outside. There were no windows, just a couple metal lights hanging down that had been left burning. There were iron beams in the ceiling overhead, a cement floor, an old sixties era pickup truck towards the back and not much else.

  “Get off,” Crash ordered over his shoulder as he shut off the bike. She immediately dismounted, moaning as she felt the muscles in her ass and thighs protest. Mmm, she was going to feel that tomorrow.

  Crash lowered the bike to its kickstand and swung his leg over, standing up. He pulled his helmet off, and then reached up and removed hers, hanging them both on the bike. She noticed the smile on his face as his eyes slid to the hand she was rubbing her backside with. “Sore, Princess?”

  “A little.” She raised her chin, wishing he’d wipe that smirk off his face. “Your driving skills leave much to be desired. Seems if there was a pothole between San Jose and Oakland, you found it.”

  She watched him move off toward what looked like some type of security alarm control panel. He began punching in a code, rearming it and said over his shoulder, “My driving skills are just fine, babe. Hit every one of ‘em, didn’t I?”

  Her mouth dropped open. “You mean you were trying to hit them?”

  He grinned.

  “You’re insufferable!”

  Not missing a beat, Crash fired right back, “You’re arrogant.”

  “You’re infuriating!”

  “You’re stuck-up.”

  “Neanderthal!”

  “Spoiled brat!”

  “Bastard!”

  “Bitch.”

  “Arrgg!”

  He grinned. “I can do this all day, babe.”

  She stomped her foot. “What did I ever do to you? Why are you being such as ass to me?”

  “You walked in the room with your nose in the air. Askin’ for help, and the whole time, there you were, lookin’ down at us like the scum you just scrapped off your shoe,” he replied, moving slowly toward her, and she couldn’t help but take a step back.

  “I did not,” she insisted, but looked away, pretty sure that was exactly what she had done.

  “Right. Come on.”

  She looked back at him, but he was already moving away. “What is this place?” she asked, looking around at the mostly dark interior. “Why did we come here?” When he didn’t answer she saw him stepping inside what looked like an old metal freight elevator.

  “You comin’, Blondie? Or would you rather stay down here? In the dark. With the rats.” She twisted her head, her eyes searching frantically, practically wanting to jump out of her skin. Rats? She moved quickly toward him, only to find him standing there, one hand on some type of ancient metal lever, waiting and watching her with a grin. He was probably making the whole thing up. Her eyes glanced around again. Was that movement she saw in the corner? Suddenly she felt his hand clamp around her wrist and tug her onto the elevator. She’d barely cleared the entrance before he was slamming closed some type of metal gate, and then the elevator began its ascent, rocking under her feet.

  She watched as he leaned back against the interior wall of the elevator, one hand on the lever, the other resting on a bar at his hip, and their eyes met. The elevator shook and rocked. Almost losing her balance in her high-heeled pum
ps, Shannon grabbed the bar and hung on, her eyes lifting to the rough bricks that slid by, visible through the iron bars of the elevator. “Is this thing safe?”

  When he didn’t answer, her eyes moved to him. He grinned and shrugged. “Don’t know. I’m no elevator inspector, darlin’.”

  The elevator shuddered, the gears squeaking and creaking. “Oh, God,” she murmured. A moment later Crash threw the lever, it jarred to a stop, and Shannon was flung sideways into him. He caught her, his hand landing on the small of her back, clutching her up against him. She felt his hard muscled chest pressed up to the softness of her breasts. He was a tall man, taller than her by a head, even with her four-inch heels. Her eyes skated up him, past his neck, his strong jaw covered with a close cut beard, finally to his eyes. They were a smoky-grey, not really green, not really blue, and up-close they were mesmerizing. And right now they were boring into hers, and she could swear she saw something flare to life in them.

  Their eyes held a moment, his fingers tightening on her waist, and then he was setting her away from him, and the spell was broken. He unlatched the gate and shoved it open. She followed him out, only too happy to be off the thing. He threw a switch off to his right, and lights came on, and she took in her surroundings, her mouth falling open. She was staring at what could be as fine an upscale industrial loft as she’d ever seen. Except for the eclectic way it was decorated, that is. The walls were brick, the ceilings were very high – a good thirty feet, with exposed iron beams and skylights staggered between them at intervals. The floor was a polished concrete.

  There was a pool table to the left, a light hanging low over it. Beyond that was an open kitchen with a huge island with a higher bar-top on one side and three barstools. The countertops were granite and the appliances stainless-steel. Funky industrial pendant lights hung over the island. Across, off to the right was a large U-shaped sectional sofa, a coffee table and a couple of overstuffed chairs grouped around a thick brightly colored area rug that gave the place some color.

  Beyond the kitchen and living area, Shannon could see an area sectioned off by what reminded her of a beaded curtain, but appeared to be hundreds of strands of some type of shiny, silver, metal chain hanging down from a metal rod that was suspended horizontally from the I-beams. Each length of chain was about as big around as a dog leash. Shannon had to admit, it really made for quite an unusual, yet stunning room divider. She’d never seen anything like it. Beyond that, Shannon could just glimpse the most amazing, huge four-poster bed she had ever seen. Its massive carved posts were as big around as dinner plates.

  Crash pointed around the place, drawing her attention from the bed. “Kitchen,” he gestured, “living room, bedroom, bathroom beyond there.” He pointed to the other side of the short end of the L-shaped kitchen, across from the bedroom.

  “Is that it?” she asked.

  “Is it not grand enough for you, Princess?”

  “That’s not what I meant.” When he just stared at her, she clarified, “One bed. Is that all you have?”

  She watched him grin. “Isn’t one bed generally enough?”

  “Not when there are two of us.” Her eyebrows shot up, and her hand went to her hip.

  His grin deepened, and she could tell he was enjoying this. “Well, it’s a really big bed, sweetheart.”

  “Yes. It’s massive, honey! But I won’t be sharing it with you.”

  “In your dreams, Princess.”

  “In my…Oh, you’re insufferable!”

  He chuckled. “Believe you told me that already. Settle down, darlin’, I’ll take the couch.”

  “Well for five grand, I should hope so.”

  He moved to the refrigerator and pulled out two bottles of beer. He twisted the top off one and held it out to her. “Truce?”

  She took it, watching as he twisted the top off his own and tipped it up for a drink. Her eyes fell to his throat, watching the muscles move as he swallowed. Clearing her throat, she looked away. “And where do those stairs lead?” she asked, noting a set of about six metal steps on the far side of the loft that led up to a metal door.

  “Up to the side roof,” he replied. “It’s got a real nice view of the bay and downtown. Especially at night when you can see the lights of the cars crossing Bay Bridge and the planes landing at the airport.”

  Setting her purse down on the island, she took a sip of beer and looked toward the clutter scattered around the walls near the elevator and pool table. There was something big standing to the far corner, opposite the pool table. It was covered with a drop cloth. Next to it there was a punching bag hanging from one of the I-beams and imbedded into the wall was a bar used for chin-ups. Her eyes traveled around the rest of the walls. All kinds of eclectic stuff decorated the place. Old metal signs, old tools, handlebars, a bison’s head, snowshoes, there was even an old motorcycle suspended from the ceiling. “You have a lot of junk,” she commented looking up at it all.

  “Sorry if all you see is junk. I think of it as Americana.”

  Her eyes fell to him. Obviously, he’d taken it the wrong way. “I didn’t mean-”

  “I know what you meant. I know the accommodations aren’t up to your standards, Princess, but you’re just gonna have to suck it up.”

  Choosing to ignore his combative comments, which were contrary to the so-called truce he’d just called for, she walked around, looking at things, sipping her beer. On the brick wall, over near the pool table was a large framed black and white photograph of a line of six guys sitting on motorcycles with what looked like the Teton Mountains behind them.

  “I’m sure I haven’t been half the places you’ve been,” she heard him say.

  Her eyes still on the photograph, she replied, “Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about you.” Her eyes turned to meet his, and she thought she saw something flare in them. She moved along, noting a large framed black and white of Marilyn Monroe. With a smile pulling at her mouth, she looked back at him. Typical man, but at least his choice of pin-up was excellent. And a lot classier than a poster of a bimbo on the back of a bike, which is what she would expect to find.

  He shrugged. “I have a thing for blondes. Shoot me.”

  Her eyes returned to the portrait. It was a lovely shot. She looked soft, natural, innocent...

  “She looks fragile, doesn’t she?” he observed.

  She turned to look at him, a strange warm feeling running through her. It had been exactly what she’d been thinking. Strange that he’d pick up on that. That that’s what he’d taken from the image. Most men would just see the sexy woman. She looked back at the photograph. His comment had hit a little too close to home. It was exactly how she felt inside.

  She took a sip of her beer and moved on. There was some low, black shelving with a lot of knickknacks on them. She noticed some military stuff. A helmet, a set of dog tags, a framed picture of two guys with their arms around each other. Picking it up, she studied it. One was obviously Crash, the other looked a lot like him. Her eyes moved up to the brick wall and the huge American flag stretched across it.

  She felt Crash move behind her, looking over her shoulder at the photo. “My brother. He was killed in Afghanistan last fall.”

  Her eyes dropped back to the photo, and then she turned to look over her shoulder at him. “I’m so sorry.”

  He lifted his chin to the huge, casket-sized flag. “Every time I looked at that tight little folded-up triangle it pissed me off. So, one day I took it out and hung it up. Now it doesn’t piss me off so much. Now I get it.”

  “Get what?”

  “Why he went. Why he served. How can you look at that flag and not understand?”

  She turned and stared up at it. She had to admit it was a grand flag, and it made her feel a sense of pride in her country. Setting the photo back down, she turned and spotted something. “You have a jukebox!” she exclaimed excitedly. She looked back at him, a huge smile on her face.

  He shook his head, chuckling. “Seriously, b
abe? You with access to a fortune, could have any toy you wanted, yet here you are, thrilled over a used jukebox I scavenged.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve just always loved them.”

  He nodded towards it. “Play something. It’s loaded with CDs.”

  She moved toward it and began pressing buttons, flipping through the selections. She felt him move away and turned to see him shrugging out of his leather cut and tossing it over the back of one of the barstools as he moved toward the kitchen. Turning back to the jukebox, she made a selection. The sounds of The Heavy’s “What Makes a Good Man” filled the space, and she glanced back over her shoulder to see Crash’s reaction to her choice. He was standing at the refrigerator, the door open. He glanced up, and their eyes met over the top of the door, his, crinkled at the corner with a grin.

  “That was my brother’s favorite song.” Returning his attention to the fridge, he asked, “You hungry?”

  “A little,” she replied, making a few more song selections and then moving toward the kitchen area. She sat on a barstool and watched as he took a frozen pizza out of the freezer. He opened it, slapped in on a pan and slid it in the oven.

  Turning back to her, he rested his hands on the island, leaning into it. “You cook?” he asked.

  “Do I cook?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Um, no. Not really.”

  “What’s ‘not really’?”

  “I know how to microwave stuff. Reheat take-out.”

  “So, you’re telling me what you make for dinner is reservations, huh?” he teased.

  She smiled. “Something like that.”

  He huffed out a laugh. “Exactly like that.”

  “Yes,” she admitted.

  “Well, I’m a shit cook. Frozen pizza is the extent of my culinary expertize. So you’re gonna learn.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I’m serious. Tomorrow’s dinner is on you.”

  “Can’t I just order out something?”

  “No, you can’t. I’m sick of take out. You’re gonna be here with nothing to do all day. Might as well cook something.”