by Lynda Bailey
“Vacation.”
*
The week passed in a bored haze for Lynch. He’d been out of prison for two weeks…funny how one monotonous schedule could be so easily replaced with another.
Every morning, he took his mom to her salon then spent the day hanging at the clubhouse with the hope of garnering some tangible information about any future “pharmaceutical” shipments. A hope that faded more with each day.
He was treated like a pariah. Correction. He’d be lucky to be treated as well as a pariah.
No one talked to him about anything more substantial than the weather. And whenever he got within five feet of a group, the discussion abruptly ended. The only bright spots were the facts he’d gotten back some of his skills at the pool table and Jarvis wouldn’t be back in Stardust for another week. But once she did return, she’d want a report. A report that, with the current circumstances, would be mighty thin.
The nine ball sank into the closest corner pocket after Lynch banked it off the far rail. He chalked his stick and rounded the table, looking for his next shot. At just before noon on a Sunday, only a few Streeters populated the clubhouse, and none wanted to challenge him to a game. He lined up the cue ball behind the two when his cell buzzed.
Hez.
Smiling, Lynch flipped open the phone, put it on speaker then bent back over the table. With all the crap he’d been going through, it was a relief to have his best friend back. “Yo, brother.”
“Where are you?”
The hushed urgency in Hez’s voice snapped Lynch upright. He grabbed his cell and put it to his ear. “Clubhouse. What’s wrong?”
“Junkyard plans to nab Shasta as payback against the sheriff.”
Lynch’s stomach dropped through the floor as a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. “When?”
“Now. They’ve watched her since Albright hauled you in, but she’s under twenty-four—seven police protection. Except her old man left—with the deputy. And she just headed out for a run.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I’m one of the guys keeping an eye on her. You know…kinda like spying on the spies.”
Lynch hurried from the clubhouse. Later, he’d thank Hez for his brilliance in keeping watch over Shasta, but right now, he needed to get to her before anyone else. “You with Junkyard now?”
“Yeah…him and Bowyer and a couple others. We’re over at Mert’s Diner waiting on a text from Spunky who’s following her. Once she leaves the town limits, we’re riding.”
“So you think she’ll take the Miner Trail into the desert?”
“Yeah.”
Shit.
The outside, muggy air felt like a brick wall. Lightning lit up the western sky. Lynch threw his leg over his Harley seat. “Is Rolo there?”
“Nah. Haven’t seen him all day. I don’t think he knows.
“Any chance you can stall?”
“Doubtful. Junkyard’s got a real mean glint in his eye. Once he hears from Spunky, not much is gonna stop him.”
“Just five minutes.” Lynch’s bike roared to life. “That’s all I need.”
“I’ll try. But you better hurry, bro.”
Lynch disconnected the call and sped from the parking lot. He didn’t need to be told to hurry because he knew exactly what was at stake. Shasta’s life.
He’d been stupid to think Junkyard would take revenge on Albright himself. No…the VP didn’t have the stones for something like that. He’d want an easier target. A softer one.
Shasta.
Lynch’s gut clenched. He didn’t doubt that Junkyard would kill her, but first she’d be raped. Probably multiple times by multiple men. His insides twisted harder. Egged on by terror, Lynch gunned the motor and rode faster through the streets toward the north side of town.
The Miner Trail…an ambusher’s wet dream. Tall, sandy berms lined the path which made for countless spots perfect for getting the drop on an unwary jogger. But maybe Junkyard didn’t want to work that hard. The BLM had constructed a small picnic and rest area in the shade of several Ponderosa Pine trees where the trail branched off into dozens of others. With its easy access for motorcycles, perhaps that’s where he intended to nab Shasta.
Or perhaps not.
Perhaps Junkyard already had her at his mercy.
Heart in his throat, he prayed that wasn’t the case…
*
Perspiration trickled down Shasta’s forehead and cheeks. She’d been jogging at an easy tempo, but the overcast, humid weather had her sweating profusely. A few fat raindrops splashed her shoulder as she sucked in a deep breath of sweet air.
It wasn’t the grimy, oily smell of precipitation on asphalt streets. This was the cleaner, fresher scent of rain in the desert. Add in the fragrant perfume of the sagebrush, and it all worked to assuage her guilt at having lied to her husband.
With Graham receiving a call about an emergency meeting in Vegas first thing Monday morning, one of the deputies assigned to them needed to drive him to the airport. The other officer had accompanied Wyatt to a classmate’s birthday party. Rather than have her brother called in on his day off, Shasta promised to stay in the house until the deputy returned, but hadn’t. She couldn’t give up the chance to go for a run. It had been weeks since she felt this kind of freedom.
But she vowed to make it a quickie. She had to. Wyatt was due home at three. Plus she couldn’t chance Dell discovering her defiance.
A jagged bolt of lightning gashed the darkening sky. Seconds later, thunder rumbled in the not-too-far distance. Suddenly the sky opened up, releasing a deluge of rain. Typical Nevada weather…one second a few splatters, the next a freaking downpour.
Instead of turning back, she increased her pace determined to get a run in, albeit a short one. The rest stop was just around the next bend. She’d take cover there until the cloudburst ended which shouldn’t be too long.
Another clap of thunder sounded, closer this time. A blur whizzed past her on the right. She turned just as a hand covered her mouth and a muscled arm circled her waist. The whiff of damp leather teased her senses right before she was yanked backwards against something rock-hard.
Then her feet no longer touched the ground.
Her instincts kicked in. She wrestled for escape, but her assailant easily carted her behind an enormous clump of sagebrush and dropped her onto the wet dirt. She rolled away only to have a heavy weight pin her face down.
Despite the terror gripping her, she forced herself to think. To remember her self-defense lessons. She took shallow breaths through her nose. She needed to fight just enough to convince whomever was on top of her she was trying to get away. Then she’d feign passing out. Hopefully he’d drop his guard, allowing her to run.
She diminished her resistance and after a long moment, the heaviness holding her captive lessened a bit. She trundled onto her side and drove her knee upwards. It connected with something pliable. A pained grunt penetrated the thrashing in her ears.
She tucked her arms to her chest and rolled three more times, then surged to her feet. A powerful grasp cut short her freedom. Again, she was tossed to the soggy ground. The impact whooshed oxygen from her lungs. She continued to twist and torque, scratch and kick anything and everything as she somersaulted with her attacker.
“Goddamn it, Shaly,” a gruff male voice hissed low. “Settle down.”
She landed on her back and strong hands gripped her upper arms, shaking her…hard.
“Shaly—I said to settle down.”
Shasta ceased her struggles. No one called her Shaly except…
She swiped rain off her face and stared into hypnotic, smoky blue eyes. A tiny squeak slipped past her lips.
Lynch.
Anger overrode her confusion. She slapped his chest and shoulders. “What the fu—”
He again covered her mouth with his hand as he pulled a handgun from the back of his waist. She felt her eyes widened, but he held the barrel to his lips.
That�
��s when she heard men arguing—and they were very, very close…
“So where the fuck’s that Dupree bitch?” one demanded.
Horror shafted Shasta’s chest. Panic must have shown on her face because Lynch gathered her close, shielding her.
The feel of his hard body pressing into hers peaked her nipples and swirled heat through her belly.
Good God. What the hell was wrong with her? She coerced herself to concentrate on the conversation rather than her innate reaction to Lynch.
“Think she turned around because of the rain?” a second man grumbled.
“Hell if I know,” the first voice griped.
“Maybe one of the others grabbed her.”
“Yeah…maybe. Fuck. I ain’t got no goddamn signal out here. Jesus…Junkyard’s gonna be pissed if we missed her. He wanted her on the shipment to Vegas next week.”
“Should we look for her?”
Lynch tensed, his gun poised.
“Look where? Anyone’d be crazy to be out in this shit. I’m soaked through. Don’t know why Junkyard wants her in the first place. She’s old and has a kid, for crissakes. No money to be made with her.”
“Yeah, but if Junkyard wants her, that’s all we need to know. C’mon, let’s go back. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find her ass.”
Sloppy footsteps trailed off, and Lynch slowly rose onto his knees. When she followed suit, he placed his hand on her shoulder and leaned close. “Stay put. I’ll make sure they’re gone.”
She shook her head. “No, I—”
His hand again covered her mouth, his gaze narrowing. “Do not argue,” he hissed. “Stay put.”
She glared back. She didn’t need him telling her what to do. But those men were looking for her. Specifically for her…so she remained on the wet ground.
Lynch shrugged off his cut and laid it over her. In a half-crouch and gun in hand, he prowled away to the right.
Shasta curled into Lynch’s jacket, her knees to her chest trying to get warm. She clamped her jaw tight to keep her teeth from clicking.
A monstrous clap of thunder rent the air. The ground shook. She pressed her hands to her ears and squeezed her eyes shut.
Why hadn’t she stayed home? Why had she insisted on going for a run? She was so stupid. God only knows what would have happened if Lynch hadn’t shown up. A thought that had bile burning her throat.
A hand gripped her shoulder.
She scuttled away, finding a good-sized rock in the process. She scrambled to her feet and spun around, prepared to bash in someone’s brains…but it was Lynch.
With his hair plastered to his head and his t-shirt clinging to his torso, he looked like hell. And she almost wept with relief.
“C’mon. Let’s go.”
If she weren’t cold and scared, she might question where exactly where they were going. As it was, she allowed him to lead her to his waiting Harley.
He retrieved a spare helmet from his pack, placed it on her head and fastened the buckle. He threw his leg over the seat, helped her mount up behind him then slowly rode down the jogging trail.
She huddled to him, working to calm her breathing and pulse.
She was safe. Lynch was taking her home. And she might not ever leave again.
Chapter Thirteen
DRIVING THROUGH THE sheets of rain, Lynch became increasingly concerned about the weather. Wiping out in the middle of nowhere during a ferocious thunderstorm with Junkyard’s goons after Shasta was not a good scenario.
He squinted, but barely saw anything past his bike’s front tire. The very real possibility of getting caught in a flash flood tightened his gut.
He veered west and headed in the direction of the Bentley ranch. It’d been abandoned since before he went to prison. With luck, parts of the outbuildings were still standing.
Wetness soaked him to his marrow, but he took comfort in Shasta’s body pressing into his. She was safe—thank God—but she was also shivering—bad. And not just from being wet and cold. Shock had to be setting in. He needed to get her someplace warm and dry, and soon.
At the derelict barn of the Bentley farm, he lowered the kickstand and cut the engine. He climbed off, but Shasta grabbed his sleeve. He leaned close to hear her over the storm.
“Why are we here?”
“Can’t ride in this.”
“But I need to get home.”
He shook his head. “Too dangerous.” He held out his hand. “C’mon.”
For a moment he thought she’d refuse, but she gripped his fingers and he helped her alight. He shoved his shoulder into the door to open it. She hurried inside while he muscled his Harley across the threshold. He hauled the door closed.
The smell of dank hay itched his nose as the rain pelted the roof. His clothes clung to him like a sopping second skin. He pulled off his half helmet and shook his head. Water droplets sailed everywhere.
Shasta shook so badly, she fumbled with the chinstrap. He brushed her fingers away, removed the helmet and set it on the bike seat.
Rain dripped from her face and hair. She looked like a kitten saved from drowning.
She wrapped her arms around her middle, visibly shaking. “Jesus…I’m cold.” Suddenly she groped at her waistband. “Shit…I lost my phone.” With her frantic movements, she almost toppled over. “Goddamn it.”
“Hey…” He steadied her. “We can’t do anything about your phone right now. Here…” He retrieved a dry shirt and zip-up sweatshirt from his pack. “Put these on. It’ll help warm you up.”
She shied from the offered clothes. “What about you?”
He quirked a grin. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got more meat on my bones than you.”
Not meeting his gaze, she slipped off his cut, took the t-shirt and pulled it over her head. She then donned the sweatshirt and zipped it to her neck. “Thanks.” She recrossed her arms, but she continued to tremble
Without conscious thought Lynch enclosed her in a hug and rubbed his hands along her back. His body immediately reacted to her nearness. To how her soft curves fit against his hard planes. To her spicy, musky scent.
He cleared his throat and eased her away. “Better?”
She nodded, her brown eyes staring up at him. Her pupils darkened and her gaze lowered to his mouth. She licked her lips. A groan lodged behind his breastbone. His cock swelled.
Against his better judgment he cupped her cheek. He couldn’t help himself. After years of having nothing but brutal harshness in his life, to touch something this supple, this beautiful was too tempting to ignore.
She leaned into his palm and her eyelids drifted shut. He traced his thumb under her chin. Her mouth opened on a silent moan.
Lynch needed no other enticement. He dipped his head.
One kiss, he told himself. That’s all. He wouldn’t take more. Just a chaste kiss to recall what he’d once had with this woman.
He lightly touched his lips against hers. He fought the primal urge to ravage her mouth. But like a man lost in the desert for seven years, the first sip of sweet water proved his downfall.
He crushed her to him, his palm behind her head holding her in place for his plundering tongue. He swept through the savory recesses of her mouth, over and over and over again.
If she’d protested in any way, shoved him back or turned her head, he would have stopped. But she didn’t. Her nails bit into his biceps and her gurgled moans rang in his ears. She seemed to crave this kiss as much as him…
His hands traveled down to her luscious ass and hoisted her up. A squeak vibrated deep in her throat then her sleek legs wound around his waist. Not relinquishing control of her mouth, Lynch knocked her helmet to the ground and perched her on the hammock seat.
He broke the kiss and grasped the pull tab of the sweatshirt zipper. With purposefully slowness, he lowered it. He bore his gaze into hers, giving her the chance to stop him. She just stared at him with eyes so huge, so round, he thought he’d die within their rich brown depths.
Once
the jacket hung open, he flicked it off her shoulders then skimmed the wet t-shirt up her torso. She lifted her arms and he pulled the shirt over her head.
He snagged her wrists. “Keep ‘em up, kay?”
Her delicate throat muscles labored as she nodded.
Lynch ghosted his palms over her sports bra then wormed his fingers under the bottom. Still holding her gaze, he tugged it up. She licked her lips and her arms quivered slightly, but didn’t lower. Within seconds, her breasts were bared. He devoured them with his gaze.
They were flawless. The perfect size with two perfectly pearled nipples.
He outlined one areola with his finger. Her body trembled. He shifted her position so she laid prone on the seat, her feet near the handlebars and her head resting on the passenger cushion.
He kissed her again. His balls ached and his cock pounded at twice his heart rate. His hand molded around one breast. The satiny feel sent another shaft of hunger through his blood.
He kissed her eyes closed before nipping his way to her ticklish earlobe. Goose bumps erupted across her skin and her body arched toward him. His mouth journeyed down her delectable flesh to lick the velvet hollow of her neck, then down farther to a rigid nipple. Her body went completely still—almost like she’d stopped breathing—as his lips closed over the puckered crest.
Lynch stroked his tongue over the peak while his hand skimmed across her flat belly to the snug waistband of her jogging shorts.
Shasta braced her heels on the handlebars and elevated her hips. Lynch pulled while she wiggled. At last, he peeled the offending garment off one leg then the other, along with her running shoes. He replaced her socked feet to the outside edge of the handgrips.
Air back up in his chest as he feasted on her spread before him in all her naked glory. Her skin held a slight rosy hue and her earthy, sexy scent filled his senses. Her nest of pussy hair tightened the knot in his belly. He never dreamed he’d see her like this again.
He again gently gripped her wrists and placed her hands on the passenger seat. “You best hold on, Shaly,” he croaked.
She swallowed again, her fingernails curling into the leather.
