by Celia Loren
“So…wouldn’t they want you to lose?”
Dominic grins at me over his shoulder before pulling on his helmet. My belly does a backflip. The giant man named Stout appears at the edge of the driveway and whips a revolver out of his vest.
“Gentlemen, pillions, and drinkers!” Stout shouts over the engines. “I suggest we get this party started. Let’s get fucked up! Three, two, bang!”
He fires a shot into the air and there’s a sudden burst of acceleration as Dominic unleashes us from the starting line. It feels like we go from zero to three hundred, and with a squeal I find myself digging in and squeezing on to Dominic with all my strength. My body fits onto his like a glove, tight and sleek, as the dark night air whips around us like a solar flare. All I can hear is the roar of our bike and the wind in my ears.
We are going so freaking fast, and in spite of myself I feel a wicked grin splitting my face. God, this feels awesome. I can feel the buzz of the engine between my legs and up through my skull, and something more—another buzz like wine-sweetened adrenaline, sweet and heady and primal. There’s a man I’ve always loved between my legs, the smell of the forest and his skin around me, the wind in my face.
For a minute I can forget that he hates me, forget he’s a murderer, and even forget the ten aching years that have passed since I was happy. My eyes flicker shut, but then open with a jolt as the bike shifts dramatically to the side.
We’re in the mountains, and the road we’re on has bent upon itself in a sharp, sharp curve.
And Dominic isn’t slowing down.
“Dominic!” I squeal.
“Hold on,” he shouts, unnecessarily.
I thought I was gripping him tight before. Now I’m on him like white on rice. The angle of the turn throws my body a little to the side, and I feel Dominic’s weight shift between my legs. Holy shit. It gives me an excuse to adjust my grip, bringing it lower towards his waist. My head fits just against his shoulder.
It’s not like before, when he dragged me out of Vegas. Now it feels like I am holding him, and he’s holding me. The speed and the whipping wind heighten this odd feeling that our bodies are one, our skins merging, the heat from the bike radiating between our legs and searing us together.
The curve eases up and Dominic shifts the bike upright, giving us another burst of speed until another curve takes us. My arms tighten around his waist, tighter. Then another curve, and another; the road is like a sidewinder, each twist pulling our centers closer together and teaching me the way Dominic’s body moves. The motorcycle is like an extension of him: fast, furious, and fucking elegant.
The heat building between my legs isn’t just from the engine combustion.
We loop to the top of the hill and back, flashes of forest and rocky cliff zipping past our headlights like a movie montage. Before I know it, we’ve wound back down the mountain and back to the lodge.
Dominic brings the bike to a squealing stop in the driveway, spinning in a 180 and shooting gravel like bullets from the tires. By the time we grind to a halt, I can see that we’re the first ones back.
He’s won!
Dirty, the quiet guy who had been guarding me all night, lumbers up and claps Dominic on the bag. “Nice riding Prez,” he rumbles with what is probably his version of a smile. “Now I can switch back to beer. Thank god.”
Dirty holds up a mug for Dominic, clanking it on his helmet. Dominic laughs and rips off his helmet, shaking his hair out and grabbing Dirty’s mug. He takes a long swig as the other racers spill in, their faces fresh and happy.
Stout is standing on the porch and fires another shot into the sky, silencing the crowd for a hot second. “Let’s hear it for President Dominic Thorne and the Sons of Lucifer, Night Ride champions! The rest of you assholes, keep drinking!”
“He did have an unfair advantage,” yells someone, who I recognize as Lance Bogart. “He had the prettiest pillion in the game. And the only one with boobs.”
“What about me,” jokes the guy who was riding behind him, clutching at his chest trying to make cleavage. “Aren’t I pretty?”
I rip off my helmet too, letting it drop to the ground as I try to will my legs to stop buzzing with excitement. It’s a futile attempt. Even though the engine has stopped, I can feel the rush of the crazy midnight bike race through all my bones.
“Let’s see a kiss, champ!” Bogie shouts.
There are cheers and jeers. Dominic chuckles, steps off his bike, and in one fluid motion yanks me off by my waist. His hands are huge and rough and I can feel his calluses rub my skin through my blouse.
I stare up at him, suddenly frozen. “Dominic…”
The sensory overload pushes to overdrive when without warning he obeys the crowd’s demand and his lips cover mine, not waiting for permission. He’s an animal, ravaging me with his lips, capturing me with his arms. So warm, so soft—I’m suddenly standing in that lake, ten years ago. The crushing weight of time and heartbreak lifts, and our bodies quake to life together. His lips are velvet soft, the stubble on his chin prickly with danger. There’s suddenly no distance between us.
But it doesn’t last. Dominic’s body stiffens and his lips retreat too soon, leaving me breathless, dazed, and confused. I stare at him in consternation and fear, a single tear spilling down my cheek. He raises a hand to my face and brushes it aside.
“See what I mean?” he murmurs. “Team-building exercise.”
“What?” I stutter. “Oh, the, yeah, the motorcycle thing.”
He smirks, his lips twisting like my insides. “Yeah. The motorcycle thing.”
What is happening? Can I just freeze this moment in amber, please, and never have to think again?
Before my brain can process Dominic’s quip or his shocking kiss, there’s another roar of an engine and the crowd parts to let a new rider in to the driveway.
Someone shouts, “Straggler!”
Another, “Loser!” And there are a few sniggers, but Dominic’s face has gone wooden and he walks quickly away from me, toward the newcomer.
“Grindhouse,” Dominic shouts. “What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at the safe-house.”
The newcomer jumps off his bike, rips off his helmet and sprints toward Dominic with urgency. “Prez, you’re not gonna like this. There is no safe house. Not long after you left, we got a call from River to divert the rescues from the Depraved Club somewhere else—somewhere safe. I said, what the fuck do you mean safe, that’s why we have the safe house? Then River says, you had a safe house. The safe house is gone. So I sent the van to the clubhouse and went to investigate. It’s burned to the ground, Prez. The safe-house is burned to the fucking ground. Somehow Colt found it and showed up with a handful of thugs and Molotov cocktails.”
Dominic’s face blanches. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he growls. “How the fuck is that possible? How’d he find out about the safe house? That’s a completely civilian operation.”
“I don’t know,” Grindhouse gasps. “No fucking clue. But Prez, we gotta get back. Right now.”
“Yeah no shit.” Dominic turns and squints toward the porch, where Stout is watching us with crossed arms. “Stout,” Dominic shouts, his voice cutting above the crowd, “Thanks for your hospitality.”
Stout nods. “Don’t mention it.”
Dominic turns and sweeps his gaze over the crowd. “Brothers, you heard what Grindhouse just told me and this proves my point. Leviathan just burned down our safe house, something we’ve been funding secretly on the side but has nothing to do with MC profits. They’re striking at our heart, again, and no territory is safe. First Heath and now this—it’s only a matter of time before it happens to you all. I’ve got to cut the summit short and go protect my fucking home. I hope this will only strengthen the words we’ve spoken tonight into a resolve to stick together and kill these motherfuckers dead. The Depraved Club cannot be ignored. Our way of life must survive. Sons of Lucifer, saddle up!”
The laughter and lightness o
f the race are gone. Sober faced men raise their fists in the air, or toast with their mugs of moonshine. But the whole group is silent as Dominic and the familiar faces of the men that came with us from Las Vegas walk to their bikes.
Though part of me wants to melt and disappear into the crowd and hide from everyone, the larger part of me walks toward Dominic.
He doesn’t even need to grab my wrist this time. For some reason, I hop on the back of his bike of my own free will.
Chapter Seven
Harper
By the time we get back to the city, deep, weary exhaustion is sinking into my bones and the yellow winter sun is beginning to rise. It’s cold now, but soon it will be hot. The desert is harsh, all times of the year. Still, I feel myself clinging closer to Dominic for warmth.
I’ve been awake for god knows how long, riding a Harley back and forth on highways all night clinging on for dear life to a frightening, angry-as-hell Dominic Thorne.
One minute, I’m thinking of the odd moment after the midnight motorcycle race where his lips touched mine and awakened all the feelings and important words I left unsaid ten years ago. That moment didn’t feel wrong, and neither did his kiss.
How the hell is that possible?
Because the next minute, I’m remembering that Dominic’s in charge of the biker gang that I saw kill a bunch of people at the Depraved Club—including Danny. Sure, the people they killed there were definitely bad people: sex traffickers, criminals, and pedophiles. The Depraved Club they ransacked was dark and sinister, something that should be destroyed…something evil.
But then, wasn’t Dominic’s violence just as bad? Isn’t it wrong to kill—no matter what?
My world is totally, completely upside-down. I don’t understand how this is has all happened: how my safe, pampered, predictable life has suddenly derailed and left me helpless in Dominic’s hands. Big, rough hands. Hands that I stare at over his shoulders, gripped around the bike handles. Hands I want to feel on my skin, in my hair. Hands that make me tremble.
My body hurts. My brain hurts. My heart hurts. But now, I’m just too damn tired to be scared or in shock anymore.
I just really, really want to sleep.
But as Dominic pulls the motorcycle to a stop at the curb of a business block, I realize sleep is probably a long, long way away.
The corner we’ve pulled up to obviously once housed a building, but now it looks like an empty lot filled with debris—something like the pictures I’ve seen of bombings in Iraq. There’s nothing here but the blackened, smoking remains of what looks like it was a pretty big building on the corner, and sand. Lots of sand. For a second, in my tired state, I’m confused.
Are we back at the D.C. club?
Dominic parks the bike and stands slowly, walking towards the wreckage like a man in a daze. His habit of holding on to me by the wrist is back, and I trail quietly behind him like a shadow until something crunching under my heels makes me jump and look down.
It’s shattered glass, from blown-out windows? And it’s all over the sidewalk, spilling over into the street. That’s odd. If firefighters had broken any windows trying to put out the flames, the glass would have fallen in or around the walls. But it’s everywhere, as if scattered by an explosion. And there’s no sign of any windows—or walls—left.
“What happened here?” I breathe, staring at the violent scar of the building.
“Colt,” Dominic rumbles. The name is like a curse on his lips. “That’s what happened. Fucking Colt from the fucking Depraved Club, trying to annihilate me, the Sons, and everything we hold dear.”
I remember the name Colt for some reason. He was who the bikers were looking for when they raided the Depraved Club yesterday, when Danny got killed and my life was destroyed.
“Payback for what you did to his club?” I ask, my brain reaching for understanding like a receding ocean tide.
“No, this had to be pre-planned. We both seem to have come to the conclusion that this town isn’t big enough for the both of us at the same time. He wants us crippled and dead just as much as we want him out of town.”
Dominic crouches down, gingerly picking up what’s left of a melted and warped purple vinyl pub sign. On it are the words, “The Thunders,” and a picture of what looks like a Native American warrior with wings, holding bolts of lightning.
Dominic sighs and rubs his face. “They were always my favorites growing up,” he grunts. “The thunder people. Seemed like the right name for my own business, when I finally got it off the ground. It was a miracle, just like something out of the myths my mother used to tell me.” He stands erect, staring balefully at the demolished corner. “Almost too good to be true. Obviously too good to last.”
Surprised by this personal tone, I clear my throat. “Your business?” I ask. “You own a bar?”
He nods, his face as heavy as a storm. “Not just a bar. The whole building.”
And he’s moving again, dragging me along behind. Caution tape is strung around the perimeter of the burned-out corner, but Dominic ignores it and tugs me over what would have been the front door until we’re wading through piles of debris.
“Whoa,” I say, tottering on my 4-inch heels in the uneven, dangerous new terrain. “Slow down, having trouble walking in this mess.”
Dominic stares grumpily at me, down at my shoes, and back to my face with a wry grin. “How do you survive in this world? Seriously. High heels, expensive jewelry. You’re totally helpless.”
At his words, my hand flies protectively to the silver chain of the necklace I always wear, making sure it’s safely hidden under my neckline. It is.
“Excuse me if I didn’t know to dress for mass homicide, biker gangs, and arson,” I snap, suddenly feeling judged. “I was under the impression when I got ready for work yesterday morning that it was just going to be a normal, ho-hum day in the life of a woman who lives within the bounds of lawful society and never spends more than five minutes at a time outside. Or do bikers never bother with air conditioned cars?”
His grin fades instantly, replaced by sarcastic seriousness. “Can’t say that we do much. Do heiresses? Or do you pretty much stick with golden carriages and winged ponies?”
“For your information, I even sometimes take the bus to work,” I announce.
He grins lopsidedly. “Guess you like to see how the other half lives, make sure the proletariat is still there, slogging away to support the fat cats? Seems to be a habit of yours. Well, here’s a front-row view of the bottom, sweetheart: a workingman who’s just lost everything.” He sweeps his hand to indicate the burned-out scar we’re standing in. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to examining my decimated property.”
Mouth open to retort, I’m brought up short when he suddenly pulls my arm over his head and swings me up on top of his shoulders like a sack of potatoes.
“Hey!” I protest. “Put me down! I can walk!”
“Obviously not,” he mutters.
Embarrassed and overpowered, I’ve no option but to kick futilely as Dominic marches us deeper into what’s left of the charred building.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “There’s nothing left.” I swing helplessly in the air as Dominic mutters and kicks over pieces of wood and metal as if he’s searching for something. “Cocksucking motherfucker, I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him with my bare hands.”
“Him who? Colt? Why is he trying to get rid of you? What started it?” I ask.
But he isn’t really listening to me. Instead his body goes quickly tense and still at the sound of a sudden crash somewhere to the left.
“Shh,” he whispers, lowering me carefully to the ground. I crouch in a messy heap next to what looks like a burned, overturned booth.
“What is it?”
“Don’t move. Wait here.”
Dominic pulls his gun out of its holster and unlocks the safety. My heart instantly thunders with dread. More guns? Oh no.
“Be careful,” I plea, still not understandi
ng what’s going on.
Dominic nods curtly, then disappears to the other side of the booth. I squeeze my eyes shut. There’s the sound of a scuffle and a cry, then a thud like someone’s been smacked with something. I hear Dominic’s voice groan, “Shit!” and another thud, like a big man falling. I hear the sound of footsteps rushing in my direction.
My pulse is skyrocketing through the roof, if there was a roof, and without thinking I jump to my feet. Unfortunately, I’ve moved out of my hiding place just in time to crash right into a fast-moving shape that jerks around the cover of the booth at the wrong moment.
Chapter Eight
Harper
“Ahh!”
“Fuck!”
Suddenly I’m on the ground in a tangle of limps and wild eyes, as my assailant and I both desperately scramble to free our selves from each other. I take an elbow in the eye and one in the ribs, but think I manage to give as good as I get.
“Let go of me lady!” shouts my attacker, reaching their dirty fingers for a burned-out two-by-four.
“Shit!” I croak, trying to roll away. “Help!”
Behind us, I hear a cocking gun. A man’s shadow falls over us, obscuring the morning light.
“Nice work Harper,” says Dominic, rubbing his head with one hand and pointing the gun with the other. “Guess you’re not totally helpless after all. Now stand up, stranger, real slow. Hands up.”
My wrestling partner grudgingly obeys Dominic’s command, but as they rise to stand a random nail sticking out of the debris pulls down on their sweatshirt hood. Long black hair streaked with neon blue tumbles down, and a fierce pixie-petite face covered with piercings is revealed. There’s no mistaking the delicate features: it’s a teenager, a young one, and scared to death.
Dominic’s face registers even more surprise than mine, but the look quickly transfigures to joy. “River!” He sighs. “You’re ok! Thank god. What are you doing back here?”
“Dominic?” The teen’s voice is raspy with relief, and breaks into a sob. “I knew you’d come!”
