by Nicole Fox
People shrieked. The bouncer charged his way forward. I think they were finally beginning to sense that the kitchen was the only way out. Distantly, I heard the sounds of sirens outside.
We burst through the swinging kitchen door. A chef shrieked, dropped the pizza he was holding, and fled the room. I heard a door swing just out of sight as he disappeared.
“There!” I called. “Behind the stove! An exit!”
Connor did not need to be told twice. Hell, he probably did not need to be told once. Still holding me viciously by the arm, we dashed towards the back door, our only unblocked exit, hope pounding in our hearts.
But then:
Cops! Ringing outside the door! At least a half dozen, guns drawn, about to burst inside!
A scream erupted from my throat. I could not help it. It was like lightning.
And yet Connor was quicker.
A split second after seeing the cops his free hand clamped over my mouth, silencing my fear, and we stumbled back, out of view.
I looked frantically around, using both hands to wrench his hand off my face.
“What do we do?” I demanded. Both ways out of the kitchen were blocked. The bouncer would be bursting in from the bar side any second, and the cops outside the back exit were about to come in. Connor’s eyes darted around, scrutinizing the situation. I saw him reach out and seize the handle of a great cooking knife.
Part of me felt faint. Part of me wanted to tell him not to be an idiot. And part of me— that dark part, somewhere below my belly button— flared with warmth at the sight of him.
That was when I noticed, just behind him, another door.
“There! I think that’s the basement!” I cried, this time seizing his hand and dashing towards the final door. It was so crusted with dirt and age that it had blended in exactly with the scarred wall of the kitchen, so we hadn’t noticed it at first. That, and because there was only darkness behind it. We thrust it open and fled down the slimy concrete stairs that waited below.
We were in pitch darkness. There’d been no time to find a light switch. I heard a scuffling of fingers on leather, and then Connor’s lighter flickered into existence. It revealed towering piles of boxes, shelves of old filing papers, and, in the far corner, two very old, very rusty looking walk-in freezers.
“Search the place!” a voice echoed from the kitchen. “She could be hiding somewhere!” The sound of it made me freeze. Where have I heard that voice before …
Connor looked to me, nodded to the freezers, and then back at me. I nodded, too. What choice did we have?
We fled to the farthest one, wrenched open the door, and whisked inside. The door thumped close behind us, and just in time, for, as we were sealed in, light flooded the basement.
Someone was coming down the stairs.
Guided only by the meager flame of Connor’s lighter, we surveyed the scope of the freezer. Dead meat—red, frosted, and sealed in plastic—towered in piles taller than us. I stifled a scream as I turned and found myself face to face with a pig’s head.
“What the hell are they doing with that?” I gasped, but Connor shushed me. He was glancing around.
“There!” he said, pointing at some large form suspended from the ceiling. I swallowed. It looked to me like the rest of the fucking pig.
Without waiting for me to respond, he grabbed me, thrust the pair of us behind it, and doused his lighter. In absolute darkness we waited, huddled in this tiny corner and shielded by a hunk of meat. In the silence, I was aware of the cold already creeping into my ears and my fingertips, but I ignored it. The smell, too, made me nauseous. Half was horrible: the furry, dusty smell of dried blood. And yet the other half was quite nice. Pine needles and cigarettes. Wood smoke and leather. I realized with a pang that I was smelling Connor.
The sound of footsteps outside the door. It opened, and a man stepped in, swinging a flashlight lazily across the piles of meat. We stiffened, shrinking as far as we could into our little corner. Another man ambled in behind him, his flashlight landing on the pig's head.
“Huh-huh, look,” he grunted, jutting his arm forward and sticking it in the pig’s nostril. He did not look or sound like a cop. He sounded like a thug.
“Stop fooling around!” the first man scolded. “The boss already thinks we’re not taking this seriously!”
The second man soured, offering a face that looked strangely like the pig’s. “Well, why should we?” he complained. “He’s off his fucking rocker, going nuts looking for this girl.”
Oh, no, I thought, as fear—a deeper fear than anything I had felt so far on this strange fucking night—flooded through me. The freezer was already icy cold, but I felt as if the temperature had dropped another thirty degrees. You see, a suspicion was growing in my mind: who the men were that were looking for me. And why.
“Come on,” said the first. “Let’s go. We’re freezing our balls off in here.”
The second grunted in agreement, and together they shambled out of the freezer. The door clicked behind them, and once more we were alone in darkness.
A cruel voice came from the shadows, suspicious and knowing. “So,” Connor said. “Is there anything you wish to share, Farrah Michaels?”
Chapter Six
Connor
She stiffened against me at my words. It was funny. She could hear the menace in my voice. I knew those men were either crooked cops or not cops at all. Someone powerful was after her. And I certainly did not like jumping into situations without knowing what the hell was going on. She heard the threat, and yet, we still clung together.
Because we were hiding. And it was cold.
But that didn’t stop me from feeling, quite firmly, the outline of her breasts against my chest.
She shivered, and I wrapped my arms around her, warming her. It was automatic. I did not think about it. I suppose you throw any man and a hot, sexy woman together in a freezer, and any guy with a proper set of balls would have his arms around her.
Gentlemanly, my ass. I wanted to feel the sexy curve of her waist and creep down to the warm swell of her butt.
Focus, Connor, I told myself. I waited for her to answer my question. After a long minute (when my hands had slunk several more inches down her waist) she still hadn’t responded, so I asked again.
“What’s going on, Farrah?” I demanded. “I’m in here. I’m helping you out. What the fuck is going on?”
“I don’t know!” She burst at last. “I was just coming home to visit my Aunt Venus—”
“Aunt Venus?” I interrupted. “Anna Venus Michaels? Christ, I know her.”
“Everybody who’s anybody in this town knows her,” she said shortly, and I could hear the proud protectiveness in her voice.
“Anyway,” she continued, “all of a sudden, those fucking cops showed up, and she stuffed this weird envelope into my hand and told me to give it to the Devil’s Wings, and …”
All of a sudden she broke off. I could not see her in the darkness, but by the sudden hush I could tell she was worried about something. There was a scuffling sound over fabric, as if she was searching herself frantically.
“Oh, my God!” she whimpered. “It’s gone! It’s gone! And my aunt said it was so important …”
She trailed off, and I could hear, for the first time, tears in her voice.
“Honi has it,” she said at last. “I’m sure … yeah! She must have taken it to … to keep it safe!”
Even in the dark, without knowing this girl at all, I could tell that she was trying to comfort herself.
“Yeah,” I agreed, pulling her against me, feeling the warmth growing in my loins despite the chill of the freezer. “Yeah, that’s right.”
Her hair smelt like windswept fields and honey.
I thought about what it would be like to fuck her. If she really was Farrah Michaels, as she said, then she had one hell of a reputation. Not as a slut—which was the reputation most women got in a motorcycle club—but as a money laundering genius. T
he guys spoke of rumors of all the ways she’d helped her “Aunt Venus” make bank over the years, and how now she was even actually going to school for it. I could imagine the cold-eyed bitch in class, tearing down the other feeble students and then bringing her skills back for trickery and treachery.
The feeling of warmth between my thighs turned into a throb.
“Hey, Farrah,” I said conversationally. “I hear you’re a whiz with money. Is that right?”
She sighed, now trembling with cold against me, “I am.” she said.
Good. No false modesty. I liked that.
“Interesting,” I said. President Montengo was an idiot with money. He’d gotten to where he was with muscle and bullying. But he was costing the club hundreds of thousands of dollars with his stupid antics. And anytime someone tried to stop him, it just blew up into a massive cock-waving context, with Montengo grunting and posturing the loudest until the guy backed off. I think it threatened his manhood or something.
But if we got this pretty white bitch to do it … She could handle the finances, dressed like a slut, and then Montengo wouldn’t feel threatened at all. Hell, he’d probably get as much of a boner as I was at the thought. Smart bitch … Sexy bitch …
Smart bitch.
Just then, something occurred to me. She’d lied about her name the first time. She could be lying again. What would the real Farrah Michaels be doing at a skivvy bar like the one I’d found her in? What if she just saw that I was a Devil’s Wing and took a gamble, because she needed help? This girl was in trouble. That was obvious. And a conniving girl would do whatever it took to look after herself. I’d met enough meddling bitches to know that was true.
Hell, my humiliation that morning proved it. The raven-haired witch flipped her shit just because she thought I was cheating on her. I mean, flipped her fucking shit.
Maybe this girl could be doing the same. Always taking advantage, I thought.
Suddenly annoyed, I pushed away from her, leaving her trembling in the dark and the cold.
“D-do you think we can get out of here yet?” she asked. I could hear her shivering.
“No,” I said vindictively. “The ‘cops’ will be looking around for longer than this.”
“Yeah,” she sighed, then remained where she was. I could sense that she wanted to sit, or lean on something, but every surface surrounding her was icily, bitingly cold. The only warm things in this room was me.
Come get it, you slut, I thought. But she didn’t. She remained strong, and standing.
I had to, at least, respect her for that.
We waited an hour in silence, fighting the increasing cold. I felt my fingers and toes growing numb, but I ignored it. I was a biker. I could handle shit like this. Farrah—if that was really what her name was—was shivering uncontrollably. Finally, I relented.
“I think it’s safe now,” I muttered. She was stiff with cold, so it took her a minute to loosen her joints enough to walk to the freezer door. It let out a small hiss as she pushed it open.
Ah! The warmth! The wonderful, basement-smelling, heavenly warmth!
We stumbled out together, and in an instant my enmity was forgotten. How could I have been so sour and distrustful? In the leaping sense of joy I had at finally being warm again, I swept her up into a grand hug and almost kissed her.
Almost.
As I put her down, she laughed, and murmured into my ear, “Thank you for your help. I owe you one, Connor.”
Owes me one. Yes, that was it. I sensed some sort of plan forming in my mind: a way to save the club and restore my brothers’ respect for me. Using Farrah Michaels.
“You’re welcome,” I said. Then we looked around, remembering that we were in a basement, which was as dark and dreary as ever. “Now what?” I asked her.
“Now we need to find a way to get to the motorcycle club.”
“Perfect. My bike is parked nearby.”
She nodded in agreement, and we cautiously made our way up the stairs leading into the kitchen.
It was late. The bar had closed, and there was only one lone janitor, sweeping up by the tables. The window which Farrah’s friend had shattered glittered prettily in the moonlight, and, by being quick on our feet, we were able to silently slip out a side door without him noticing. Hell, he was probably listening to his headphones anyway.
We stood outside, breathing in the cool but comfortable night air and gazing up at the stars. We’d been trapped in that freezer for less than two hours, and yet the breeze on my face buoyed me in a way that made me feel like a little boy. Smiling broadly, I dug into my vest and grabbed a cigarette.
“Want one?” I offered Farrah, feeling magnanimous. She nodded.
I lit mine, then lit hers, and when I inhaled it was about the most beautiful drag I had ever taken in my life. She, too, was smiling, and I felt a sudden fondness for her.
Tonight was fun, I thought. It was the first ‘fun’ adventure I had had in a long time. It was like how the motorcycle club used to be, before Montengo took over and turned everything into a source of constant stress and fucking things up.
“My bike’s over there,” I said, pointing down the road. I always parked far away at bars—I didn’t want those drunk idiots scratching my precious bike— and, in this case, it had proved very wise. It probably would have looked mighty suspicious to those cops—r whoever they were—having one lone Devil’s Wing bike waiting around at the bar.
Farrah and I walked towards it, relishing with every step the feeling of warmth returning to our muscles. I hadn’t realized how much the cold had been fucking me up. Out here, under the blazing stars, with a fresh cig in my mouth, I felt much more awake and aware.
I freed the bike and mounted it, tossing the girl my spare helmet. “Have you ever ridden before?” I asked.
She laughed. “Please,” she said. “I’m Farrah Michael’s daughter.” And then, like a pro, she threw her long, sexy leg over the seat and nestled in behind me. Right away, the warm feeling of her thighs on either side of me woke up a burning throb, and I smiled.
“Sam Michael’s was a hell of a rider,” I said conversationally, waiting for her to finish locking the helmet in place. “The guys still talk about him.”
“Yeah,” said Farrah. I felt her hands closing around my waist. “He was the best in the whole damn state. It was ironic, really. His death.”
“The car crash?” It was legend to the Devil’s Wings, really.
“Yeah. Another biker game drove him right off the road. If he’d have been on a bike, instead of in a car with my mother, I’m sure he would have escaped.”
“Probably,” I responded. I didn’t really know what to say. Surely she didn’t want to talk about her dead old man? When I didn’t say anything else, she sighed, and settled in against me.
Without a word, I started the engine and peeled right out of that parking lot, giving that bar a big old ‘fuck you’ of a rev on our way out. Within a minute, the roaring of the bike and the road beneath us made it impossible to talk, which was, to me, an enormous relief.
Chapter Seven
Farrah
I hadn’t been on a bike since my father and mother died, but I was not surprised to find that it immediately came back to me. That sense of sliding rhythm, of moving with the turns, all of it was just as familiar as if I had been doing it for years. I think some of it probably could have been attributed to that fact that Connor was an excellent rider. A natural. He made all of it seem simple and easy. Soon, we were speeding along at what felt like ninety miles an hour, and I had plenty of time to be left alone with my thoughts.
Connor fascinated me. Half the time, he seemed aggressive, vindictive, and cruel, and then the other half he seemed like he genuinely wanted to connect with me, if only he could allow himself to do so. He was certainly brave. Helping me out when he didn’t know a thing about me or who was after me had taken guts. I also trusted his instincts. I could tell, simply by the way he’d acted when the cops arrived, t
hat he was well used to violence.
He could be a valuable ally, I told myself. Better than Honi, anyway.
Honi. I was terribly worried about her. Who knew where she had fled to, and who she might be using for help? I wasn’t too concerned about the envelope. Not yet. I was sure she’d return it to me when we met up again. We were friends, right?
Of course we were. As close as a whore an her owner’s heir could be.
Now that was a chilling thought. I shook it aside. I had no reason to distrust Honi.
Yet.
