Runner: Book II of The Chosen

by Roh Morgon

  No way.

  But as I start to pull back, he shouts over his shoulder again.

  “Stay put. I need you to lean with me when I lean, and I don’t like your weight jerking this bike all over the road every time I change speed.”

  That makes sense.

  “All right.” I squeeze my arms around him to show I get it.

  “Good. As long as I can feel those tits in my back, we’ll get along fine.”

  Asshole. I relax my grip a little, but not too much. He might try to dump me off just to prove his point.

  Taz turns on the headlight, throws the bike into gear, and we ease up the driveway, tires crunching against the cement. I glance back at Redd, his bike’s light weaving back and forth in the darkness as we slowly make our way to the county road.

  When we get onto the asphalt, Taz twists the throttle and my body jerks in spite of my hold on his waist. I reluctantly grip him tighter, and he shifts into higher gear again and again, the Harley loudly proclaiming its ownership of the black road stretching before us.

  CHAPTER 42

  Taz was right about hanging on. Instead of being scared to death like last night, I feel secure enough I might actually enjoy the ride—if I wasn’t also feeling guilty. Embracing his thick, muscular waist feels strange, so different from Nicolas’s trim form. But moving and leaning with him in rhythm to the curves has a familiar sensuality to it, and as wonderful as it feels, it also feels wrong to be doing this with him.

  Bloodtears threaten to well up as I think about Nicolas and holding his powerful, catlike body, and him holding mine, and how well we fit and move together. I miss his sharp kisses, his deep growls of desire, the feel of him taking my blood as I take his, the way his emerald eyes peer into my soul.

  I press against the broad, leather-covered back, blindly seeking comfort. God, I have to find Nicolas. Don’t know what to do if I don’t.

  The bike slows and the yellow glare from a stoplight just ahead penetrates my visit to memory hell.

  “Everything okay back there?” Taz asks as he brings the bike to a stop.

  “Yeah. Fine.” I relax my grasp on his waist and ease back to rub the wind-dried bloodtears from my face.

  But I’m not fine. I won’t be until Nicolas is the one in my arms.

  The light turns green and I take hold again as the bike shifts into gear. Buildings from the ’40s and ’50s line the street of an older downtown area, sheltering businesses closed for the night. We pass one that’s not, a corner liquor store with brightly lit windows, then slowly cruise by a row of motorcycles parked rear wheels to the curb in front of a neon-signed bar.

  Great. A biker bar. This just gets better and better. Wonder if they’re also Chosen.

  Taz pulls past an empty space and, stopping, drops his feet to the ground and pushes the bike backward into the spot. Redd backs in beside him, revving his motor before shutting it off. Taz kills his a second later. The sudden silence hurts my ears.

  Rock and roll booms through the bar door as it opens. Taz takes off his helmet, then taps the side of my leg.

  Though I’m sure he’s just signaling me to get off the bike, it feels as if he now thinks he has the right to touch me. I bite back a growl and waste no time dismounting.

  Taz dismounts as well and hangs his helmet on the handlebar. I hand him mine and glance over at Redd and Chia as they climb off.

  A rough thumb wipes across my temple, startling me. I jerk back and glare at Taz.

  “Keep your hands off me.” I curl my lip.

  “You have blood on your face.”

  I scrub it with my fingertips.

  “Better?” I turn my head side to side.

  He puts the tip of his thumb in his mouth and nods, looking thoughtful.

  “Couple things before we go in,” he says.

  “Okay.”

  “Act human. No fangs. Got it?”

  Really? I’m not that stupid.

  “Yeah. Got it.”

  “And, unless you want horny scooter trash crawling up your ass all night, you might want to consider acting like you’re with me.”

  “I think I can handle myself.”

  “That’s the problem. When some H.A. grabs your pretty tit and you rip out his throat, it’s going to bring us some unwanted attention. We don’t want that kind of attention.”

  Grabs my what? H.A.?

  “What’s an H.A.?”

  “Hells Angel.”

  Hells Angel? Great. Sounds like we’re walking onto some kind of Hollywood movie set.

  His mouth tugs to one side as he studies me.

  “And try to downplay how much you hate me. Otherwise, it’ll just be an advertisement that you’re shopping for a new old man.”

  “I… I don’t hate you.”

  He snorts.

  Redd steps up beside Taz and clears his throat.

  “You lovers ready?”

  The big Indian frowns and shakes his head, and together they start for the entrance. Chia is already there, waiting. I take a deep breath and follow them.

  Taz opens the door and holds it while Chia and Redd pass. He looks at me and I walk on in ahead of him.

  A quick glance around the bar reveals everyone is human. Except for us, of course. And the biker garb is real—no Halloween costumes here. My ears, just now recovering from the roar of the motorcycles, are freshly assaulted by the din from dozens of conversations, booming laughter, clacking pool balls, and Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird” blaring from the jukebox. I pause a moment, overwhelmed, and search the crowd for Redd and Chia. Taz presses against me from behind, and growling under my breath, I quickly step forward. The bar noise lessens to a muted hum, and I can feel the quiet, respectful stares as we walk past.

  The little bit of clove oil still clinging to my skin from last night barely mutes the blood scent floating through the air. I focus on staying calm.

  Catching sight of Redd’s wild hair, I cross the room to a small round table he’s claimed against the wall, Taz on my heels. Just as we walk up, Chia plants a kiss on Redd’s cheek and heads toward the bar. The conversations around us pick back up again, but at a lower volume than before.

  I look at Redd, surprised at her display of affection, the first I’ve seen, but he ignores me. In fact, his usual jovial expression has been replaced with a scowl that somehow also looks right at home on his bearded face.

  Taz, still behind me, puts his hand on my shoulder, but before I can shrug away from him, he leans down and mutters in my ear.

  “Try to make it look real.”

  Frowning, I glance around the room and realize we are still on center stage. My muscles tighten at the sea of human faces, mostly male, looking in our direction, lingering over me.

  Maybe he’s right.

  I nod in agreement.

  He strolls around in front of me, then reaches into his back pocket and takes out his wallet, its thick chain anchored to a belt loop. He pulls out a twenty.

  “Why don’t you go get us some beers.”

  Biting my lip at yet another order, I take the money. As I start to move off, his arm drifts out and he squeezes my ass.

  I freeze. As casual as possible, I turn around and reach up as though to hug him. He leans down and I whisper into his ear.

  “You do that again and I’ll tear off your hand, human witnesses or not. Are we clear?”

  I lean back and lift a corner of my lip and stare directly into those golden eyes.

  He sucks air in through his teeth, his gaze drifting downward and resting on my chest.

  “You want a piece of me, you’re gonna have to wait until we get home.” A smile flits across his face as he looks back up. “Honey.”

  Oh, he is such an ass.

  I whirl around and stalk to the bar. Spotting a gap between a couple of bikers, I lean in and rest my hand on the bar, the folded bill between my fingers like a raised flag. The barkeep, talking with someone at the other end of the bar, looks over at me. He continues talki
ng.

  Great. Recalling my own bartending days, I decide to cut him some slack and settle in to wait.

  “Hey, sweetcheeks. Why don’t you let me buy your drink.”

  The voice is from the guy to my left—early twenties, medium height and build, wearing a denim cutoff vest over a white T-shirt. His dark blond hair is to the base of his neck and curled behind his ears. He’s kind of cute, in a rogue, puppyish way. But the scar on his face and those on his knuckles reveal his puppyhood was left behind long ago.

  The hunger stirs at the blood scent rising from the kid’s skin. My gums pulse.

  “No, I don’t think so. My… my old man wouldn’t like it.” I half-turn and look at Taz, who’s staring intently at us. The kid glances over his shoulder, looks back at me, and shrugs. He takes a drink, but not before I notice the alarm flickering in his blue eyes.

  “Offer’s open if you want to trade up.”

  His juvenile bravado, though somewhat charming, makes me laugh, and I turn back to the bar in time to see the bartender finally wandering in my direction.

  “What’ll ya have, sweetheart?” he asks, as though he’s doing me a favor by even talking to me.

  God, is this how all bikers speak to women? I’d love to show him just how much of a sweetheart I really am, fangs and all.

  “Four Coronas.”

  He steps away without a word, presumably to get the beers.

  Jerk.

  While I’m waiting, I look down the bar and notice Chia sitting on a stool chatting with some biker chick, a brunette. They laugh, but Chia’s eyes hold a predatory glow in them that I recognize.

  It’s the seductive fire of a Chosen on the hunt.

  An aching spasm in my upper jaw releases my fangs and they descend as excitement prickles throughout my body. Everything turns pink.

  Shit.

  I slam my eyes closed and rub my mouth, trying to retract the damn fangs while fighting to maintain control.

  “That’ll be eighteen bucks.”

  I hand the bartender the twenty without looking at him.

  “Keep the change,” I mutter through my hand. I take a chance and, opening my eyes, stare at the floor. At least my vision is clear now. But I can still feel the sharp points of my hunting teeth. Stupid things.

  I look back at Chia, but she’s gone. And so is the brunette.

  That only makes things worse. I stare at the four bottles of Corona, green wedges of lime poking out of their tall necks, my teeth aching and my mind spinning.

  Get your shit together, girl. This is not the place to lose it.

  Remembering my necklace, I pull it from beneath the T-shirt and clutch it under my nose. The sharp clove scent sears my nostrils and the tension in my gums eases. The fangs slide back into place.

  God, this sucks. Being around these other Chosen who feed on humans is pushing me way too close to the edge.

  I wrap my fingers around the bottles, turn, and weave through the crowd back to our table. Taz’s golden-eyed stare accompanies me the whole way.

  As I set the bottles on the table and let out my breath, I notice Redd is gone.

  “You havin’ a moment over there? I wasn’t sure if you were gonna eat that punk kid or gut the bartender.” Taz’s low voice doesn’t hide its sharp disdain. “We can’t afford any problems.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good.” Taz picks up a beer and takes a small swig, then grins. “Your old man, huh? There’s a nice dark alley out back if you—”

  “You need to get over yourself. Where’s Redd and Chia?”

  “That’s not your concern.”

  But as he answers, I spot Redd standing outside the women’s bathroom.

  I see no sign of Chia. Or the brunette.

  A chill runs across my scalp. God, I hope she’s not killing that girl.

  My gut twisting, I cross the room and grab the bathroom door handle.

  “I wouldn’t go in there if I was you, lassie.”

  I ignore Redd and pull the door open.

  Chia is sitting on the counter, her arms and legs wrapped around the brunette standing before her, teeth buried in the girl’s throat. They’re both moaning. Chia’s scarlet eyes fly open to glare at me. She releases her bite hold and hisses, her mouth and fangs dripping blood down the girl’s leather jacket.

  My own fangs drop again and violent hunger surges in my belly. Redd pushes the door shut, mercifully shutting off my reddened view of the tiny Chosen and her prey.

  “Just to warn you, she doesn’t share. For such a wee thing, she has a monstrous appetite.” He grins, pink highlighting his pupils.

  “She’s not going to kill her, is she?”

  “Would it bother you if she did, lass?” The edge in his voice sobers me right up.

  I hesitate, searching for the answer least likely to get me dead. As in really dead.

  “It’s… it’s none of my business.” I drop my gaze to the floor in submission, then turn my back on him and head to the table.

  Feeling battered by the repeated assaults on my control, I ignore Taz and take a seat. The clamor and bustle of the packed room seem distant, unreal.

  Running with killers. Great. Don’t know why I’m surprised. Taz was right—I am dumb.

  I just want to find Nicolas. And if it means playing this out with Taz and his buddies, so be it.

  Welcome to The Game, Sunny.

  CHAPTER 43

  I’m still lost in my thoughts, staring across the crowded bar without actually seeing it, when Taz’s chair scraping beside mine jolts me back to reality. He stands and I look up as Redd approaches the table. He stops halfway across the room and his beard twitches beneath a fleeting smile.

  Taz touches my shoulder.

  “Stay here.”

  I nod without looking at him, and then his lips are against my ear.

  “We will hunt you down if you run. That’s what we do, and we’re very good at it.”

  Icy fear flashes through me at his chilling words, and it finally sinks in that I might not stand a chance against this seasoned trio.

  “Got it.” I keep my voice neutral.

  “Good.”

  Taz straightens and walks across the room toward Redd, that black braid swinging against his leather jacket. The gaze of nearly every woman in his path fastens hungrily on him as he passes and I chuckle at the glowering expressions of their male companions.

  He is pretty hot, for an asshole. But then, I haven’t encountered any Chosen who weren’t alluring in some way to humans. Even Redd earns appreciative glances as the two of them make their way through the pool table room in the back and outside to the smoking area.

  They disappear and I can almost hear a collective sigh from the women. Shaking my head, I slowly study the room, noting that most of the bikers are in their thirties or older. They orbit around tables dotted with empty glasses and bottles, fresh drinks in hand, deep in conversations both serious and not. Their women shadow the men, sometimes as silent observers; in other circles, they’ve gravitated together to hold their own private discussions off to the side.

  A group in the far corner sparks my curiosity. They wear an intensity about them not unlike that of The Chosen, a mantle of natural power that places them above the rest. One of them leaves the others and heads to the bar, exposing the back of his black leather vest.

  Arching red letters on a white background spell out Hells Angels over a golden-winged skull and a small MC. The logo is cradled by Oakland in a reverse-arch at the bottom.

  Taz wasn’t kidding.

  As the Angel walks up to the bar, I notice Chia perched on a stool talking to the young blond biker who’d offered to buy me a drink. My eyes scan the other barstools, and some of my tension drains away at the sight of the brunette from the bathroom. She looks a bit pale after her encounter with the little Chosen, but otherwise healthy. Well, at least alive.

  Redd was right about Chia. She’s on the hunt again, and the young biker looks to be her next cour
se. She laughs at something he says, and as he leans toward her, she reaches out and rubs his crotch. His eyes widen and he grins as she slides off the barstool. She shoots him a backward glance and struts toward the front door. The puppy’s after her in a half second, and they’re both laughing as they walk outside. An image of their bodies writhing together, her fangs deep in his throat, leaps unbidden into my mind.

  My gums throb. And all around me—

  —human nectar pulses beneath fragile skin, beckoning, calling

  —dozens of hearts pound, pound, pound in a hypnotic rhythm

  —the rich, intoxicating scent of coppery-sweet blood caresses my face, my tongue, my soul

  Fiery craving detonates through every cell. Everywhere I look, exposed throats beam an invitation. The room before me turns red as the fangs slam into place, and the driving urge to bite robs me of all thought.

  I rush to the bathroom, not knowing where else to go.

  Turning on the faucet drowns out the sound, and the stink of bathroom and pungent soap masks the smell. I cram the clove necklace against my nose and try to focus on something, anything, besides the living current of blood on the other side of the door. But it doesn’t stop the craving.

  Mouth aching, a sense of desperation takes hold. I need to bite…

  I yank back my jacket sleeve and bury the damn fangs into my trembling forearm.

  Pain, along with revulsion at the taste of my own blood, puts an end to that solution. Disgusted with myself, I catch my reflection in the mirror. The red-eyed monster, lips and bared teeth stained with blood, horrifies me. I shove my face under the running water.

  The shock of the cold water does the trick. My gums spasm, then relax and the fangs slowly retract. I scrub my face a moment, turn off the water, and grab a paper towel. Drying off, I look back up into the mirror, exhausted. But my vision is clear and my teeth back in place.

  Damn. Haven’t felt like that—well, I’ve never felt quite like that. The beast and its violent urges always seemed separate from me, something I had to master and control through mental domination. Its rage was never mine.