Wild Ride (Let it Ride Book 2)

by Cynthia Rayne

  And he’d almost given her a lot more than a kiss.

  Somehow, she’d gone from his friend’s bossy kid sister to dream girl over one summer. He’d craved her ever since, but he couldn’t have her because of Abe. Fucking around with your best friend’s sister violated the bro code. Steele had been forced into doing something drastic to shut down the attraction. Something he still regretted to this day.

  After Abe’s death, there’d been no hope at all. Now Ash hated his ass, and Steele couldn’t say he blamed her. Besides, he didn’t deserve a woman like her. He’d only fuck it up if he did get the chance. She’d always be the one who’d gotten away.

  “Steele?”

  He tossed back the rest of his beer and then stood. “I didn’t fuck her, man. I don’t give a damn if you don’t believe me, but I’m tellin’ you the truth.” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “She hates me, but not because I fucked her.”

  “What’s the issue then?”

  Steele wanted to tell someone he’d gotten his best friend killed, but he couldn’t. Justice had been in the military too. What would he think of someone who’d blown off guard duty for a lousy roll in the hay?

  “It ain’t got nothin’ to do with the club. Ash will keep her word. You can all trust her.”

  “But—”

  “We’re done here. I liked you better when you were a silent motherfucker.”

  Steele stalked out and found an empty crash room down the hall. He needed to sleep if he could, but it wouldn’t be easy.

  His past was coming at him with both barrels, and Coyote might die at any second.

  Chapter Five

  Beep…beep…beep.

  The shrill shrieking of the alarm app echoed in the hotel room, bouncing off the white walls and intensifying. Ash rolled over in bed and fumbled for her cell. She snatched it from the nightstand and thumbed the alarm off, then collapsed back against the pillow with a groan.

  She checked the time. Five in the morning, time to get her ass up and moving. She rubbed her eyes, and they felt grainy and raw—like she’d gone to bed only a few minutes ago. It took all her willpower to stop herself from snuggling down beneath the covers and snoozing for a couple more hours.

  “Damn, I must be getting soft.”

  She threw her legs over the edge of the bed and silently gave herself a good talking to. Marines don’t whine, they get shit done. With attitude.

  Ash’s life was made up of a series of rituals—duty, schedules, and responsibilities were a big part of her vocabulary. Pushing herself came with the territory.

  She hobbled to the bathroom. Rolling around the floor with Jack—no, Steele—had hurt more than she’d thought it would. She should’ve gulped down some Advil last night. Her shoulders ached and so did her right foot. A few years ago, she’d gotten a hairline fracture on some icy stairs, and every now and then it pained her when the weather got colder.

  In the dim light, she got a better look at her temporary digs. She’d been too exhausted to do more than shower and fall into bed last night. A queen-sized bed stood in the center of the space. The white hotel linens had been surprisingly comfortable. They hadn’t been scratchy, and she hadn’t spotted any suspicious stains, which was more than she could say for a lot of places she’d stayed. The room had a television, a small Formica table with matching chairs by the windows, and a small bathroom.

  Not too shabby, and nothin’ beats free.

  Ash hit the switch as she entered the bathroom and blinked as the fluorescent light flickered and flashed on the ceiling. She splashed water on her face and stretched her arms above her head. Her body showed some serious wear and tear from her active lifestyle. She had a jagged cut bisecting her face, courtesy of a drug dealer. It was the last thing the bastard had done in this life, but it was precious little consolation. Several more scars from shrapnel marred her arms and shoulders. A gunshot had left puckered skin on her upper thigh.

  In short, she wasn’t a pretty girl. And she’d given up on pretty girl trappings since they didn’t do her much good. Besides, she didn’t have time for makeup, hair products, heels, and tight, itchy clothing. She’d rather wear a pair of jeans and a T-shirt any day.

  Back in ye olden hoopskirt days, women with her distinct lack of beauty had been called plain, and the descriptor fit Ash. Well, it had before all the scars.

  Ash had a thin mouth, and deep green eyes flecked with gold spaced a bit too far apart, though they were her best feature. She had medium brown hair and an athletic build with a bit too much muscle for most men’s taste but not enough to be a female body builder.

  Ash didn’t give a damn what men thought. Not anymore, at least. In high school, it’d been a major source of pain. But worrying about what other people thought of her proved to be a big waste of time.

  Now, she had a simple philosophy when it came to men. Take me as I am or shut up and leave me the hell alone. Once she’d made up her mind, a switch had flipped. In the military, she’d been surrounded by men, and there’d been a few takers. She hadn’t accepted all the offers, but it’d given her a healthy dose of self-confidence.

  But she wasn’t in someone like Steele’s league. He’d always been gorgeous—muscular, charming, and a real flirt. He liked pretty, easy, uncomplicated girls, and they never lasted long, flitting in and out of his life like beautiful butterflies.

  Ash was scarred, prickly, and the very definition of complicated. Steele made it clear in high school—in the most painful way possible—he had zero romantic interest in her. She didn’t have a claim on him and didn’t want one.

  He could have all the one-night stands he damn well pleased. They weren’t even friends anymore. Once, they’d been close, but not after the incident, and certainly not after Abe’s death.

  As soon as she solved this case, she’d be on her way. Ash hoped she’d never lay eyes on the bastard again. Of course, they’d talk before she left, and she planned on telling him exactly what she thought about him…in cruel detail.

  She pulled some clothes from her rucksack and got dressed for her run. If she didn’t exercise first thing in the morning, she’d end up skipping it.

  She jumped into a pair of fleece-lined, flared-leg black yoga pants with a leopard-print band around the waist, then put on a pair of white socks and her black and gray Nike high-tops. Next came a white, stretchy sports bra and a Marine Corps T-shirt. It read: Oorah, the last word a terrorist will ever hear. Ash was a sucker for good Corps merchandise.

  She ducked into the bathroom and gathered her hair into a messy bun before she shrugged on a black hoodie and slipped Abe’s dog tags over her head. They jangled, and she rubbed her fingers over the letters. After his death, the Corps had returned his tags to her family, and she’d worn them ever since. Other than memories and some photographs, it was the only thing she had left of her big brother.

  She kissed them and slipped the tags beneath the collar of her shirt. They were cold as they settled next to her heart. Sighing, she placed her hand over the metal, feeling the chilly press of stainless steel against her skin—as cold as the grave.

  “Oh, Abe.”

  Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes, and she wiped them away. Dammit. It’d been nearly a decade since he’d died. Some days it felt like a century, and on others, the wound felt fresh, bloody. Every time their birthday rolled around, the pain of Abe’s passing intensified and she got more agitated. Running into Steele had only made matters worse.

  Her brother deserved better than dying in pain by himself. He must’ve been so scared, so lonely….

  Stop it.

  Ash glared at her reflection in the mirror. She balled up a fist and barely resisted the urge to shatter it. She loved to hit things and people as if spreading the pain around would lessen hers somehow.

  Instead, she examined her face and saw Abe’s more masculine features echoed in her own. They were fraternal twins, but they’d had a strong resemblance—the same eyes, the same upturned nose, and same unfo
rtunate hair color.

  “Don’t do this to yourself. Not today.”

  It was definitely time to go. The run would burn off some of this rage.

  Ash headed out the door and jogged around Hell. Trying to be Zen about it, she emptied her mind and focused on being in the moment. She didn’t want to think about the case, her brother, or Steele. Nothing but the open road beneath her feet.

  The soles of her shoes slapped against the pavement as she propelled herself further, faster than she’d gone before. Ash concentrated on the momentum–arms pumping, heart hammering, and the cold air slamming into her lungs. Every now and then, she got into an open headspace, but it didn’t happen often enough. She loved the peace running gave her, the cold clarity of movement.

  From time to time, she wondered if she wasn’t running toward something like a goal. What if she was running away from something? Herself? Her past? Abe?

  Focus.

  But she couldn’t, her brain ran faster than her feet.

  While she glimpsed inner peace occasionally, she’d never gotten a feeling of ecstasy. Nothing about running was euphoric. It was exhausting, dirty, and made sweat pour from her body. Unless you counted sore thighs and shin splints as bliss.

  To distract herself, she fired up her iPod and hit the running playlist. Big Data’s Dangerous started up. As she listened, she took in the view. While she was in town, she planned on visiting some of the local businesses—the Bloody Hell Tea Room and Devil’s Brew, for sure. And she planned on avoiding Steele’s place, Inferno Firearms. Nostrils flaring, Ash sprinted right by the gun shop.

  Twenty minutes later, she finished her run and loped back to Hades.

  Now, the question was what to do about breakfast. The residents of Hell didn’t seem the kind of folks who were into health food. Southern food had a reputation for not being the healthiest of cuisines.

  Unfortunately, she didn’t have a fridge in her room. Ash made a mental note to get a dorm-sized fridge and some supplies when she went out today. Lately, her go-to breakfast was a smoothie made in her small travel blender—a handful of spinach or kale, some pomegranate juice, yogurt or almond milk, half a banana, and some berries. Sometimes, she added protein powder or powdered peanut butter. But this morning, she’d make do with something from the diner. With her luck, it’d be calorie-ific, and she’d have to run off the meal later in the day. Oh, joy.

  After grabbing a quick shower, she threw on a pair of jeans, red Chucks, and a blue shirt. She added a matching flannel shirt because it was nippy this morning.

  Ash strolled into Hades. An antique jukebox played Bobby Darin’s Mack the Knife. The diner had a fifties feel—black-and-white-checkered floor, red vinyl booths, and steel stools with red vinyl tops. Texas memorabilia decorated the walls. Her favorite metal sign read: Bad Cowboy! Go to my room.

  Amen. She’d had the chance to meet men from all over the world, but Texans were the best.

  The place was busy—several men in matching black leather vests sat on stools situated around the counter. From her research, she knew the vests were called cuts. They featured an angry-looking stallion in the center with Four Horsemen along the top. Near the bottom of the vest was a Texas patch. She heard the biker’s raucous laughter but couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. Some non-leather clad civilians were tucked into booths and tables around the room.

  After taking a seat by herself in a booth, she noted there weren’t any menus on the table. Maybe the locals had memorized the diner’s menu and already knew what they wanted. How…quaint. After discreetly scoping out everyone’s plates, she determined eating here was definitely a bad idea. It was all gravy, biscuits, and pork products. Not a vegetable or fruit in sight, unless she counted orange juice, which she didn’t because it was loaded with sugar.

  Although, she had to admit the food smelled delicious. It smelled like home, actually. Her dad used to make biscuits and sausage gravy on weekends.

  “You were lookin’ good out there.”

  Ash glanced up to see a handsome man swaggering toward her. He had cropped black hair and skin the color of caramel. She couldn’t place his heritage, exactly, but it seemed to be a mixture. While she couldn’t suss out the mix, he sure was a handsome devil. With a ripped body and jeans which outlined his muscled thighs in exquisite detail, she definitely noticed him. And so did the other women in the diner, who watched him walk with rapt attention. He wore a Four Horsemen leather vest over a long-sleeved black T-shirt.

  Another biker. Figures.

  “I’m Ace.” He extended a hand. “And who might you be, darlin’?” He grinned, showing gleaming white teeth. Ace had a perfect aww shucks sort of down-home smile she found herself returning.

  “I’m Ashton Calhoun.” She gave his hand a good squeeze. “Call me Ash.”

  His eyes widened.

  Ash raised a brow. Perfecting her handshake had taken years. Working in a male-dominated profession demanded manly communication skills, and men respected a good, firm handshake because it communicated competence. She meant it to be business-like and perfunctory, but he clasped her fingers in his for a couple of extra beats, enough to convey a sexual interest in her.

  Uh, oh. Lord have mercy, he was going to try to pick her up. Being a woman in the military, she’d heard all sorts of come-ons. Ash had been quite a hot commodity in Afghanistan, and she’d helped herself to handsome Marines every now and then. None of those encounters had been serious. Actually, they’d all been fun as hell.

  Ash had only been serious about one man.

  “Mind if I sit a spell? Join you for breakfast?” He made a sweeping gesture at the opposite side of the booth.

  She wanted to refuse. The less she interacted with the bikers, the better. Getting in deeper with a criminal element wouldn’t be great for her career or her temper. However, a lifetime of southern manners dictated she invite him to eat with her. Damn it, why couldn’t she have been born up north? Being rude was a lot more socially acceptable north of the Mason-Dixon line.

  “Be my guest.”

  “What brings you to Hell?” He slipped into the booth.

  Evidently, word that she’d be working with the Horsemen hadn’t spread, so she decided to have some fun. “Business.”

  He leaned closer. “What kind of business?”

  Another handsome man hurried over to the table. He was young, mid- or early twenties with blue eyes and blond, spiky hair. “Hi, I’m Angel, and I’ll be your server today. Would you like coffee?”

  “Oh, yes, please.” She allowed herself exactly one cup a day, although if she had her way, she’d drink an entire pot. Especially today.

  “You’re late getting over here, prospect. We’ve been here forever.”

  “Sorry, Ace.”

  Prospect meant a new member. In the Marines, they called them grunts, and higher-ups made their lives a living hell until they got into the groove of things. Ash smirked. She missed those days.

  “Got any menus, Angel?”

  Ace answered the question. “Voo doesn’t let you order. Instead, he brings you something he knows you’ll enjoy.”

  “No can do. I eat healthy food.”

  “Oh, he makes healthy food.”

  She raised a disbelieving brow.

  “I’ve seen Captain eat turkey sausage and egg whites here.” He leaned back in the booth, spreading his arms wide along the back of the seat.

  So she didn’t order any food, but Angel returned in a few minutes with their coffees. And she put exactly two spoonfuls of honey in hers. She didn’t use refined sugar or artificial sweeteners either. She’d broken her habit of using real cream and sugar, but it’d been painful. Ace added a couple packets of Dixie Crystals to his.

  Another man sidled up to their table. He stood a couple inches over six feet tall with mocha skin and extraordinary silvery eyes. His dark hair was twisted into short dreadlocks and came down to right below his ears.

  “Bonjour,” he greeted Ace.

&
nbsp; Ace nodded. “Mornin’, Voo.”

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle.” He grasped her hand and brushed a kiss along the back of her knuckles. She couldn’t quite place his accent. Creole, maybe? It had a dash of French united with a bit of Southern and a trace of Spanish. “Welcome to Hades. I own and operate this fine establishment.”

  “Good mornin’.” She was charmed by his demeanor, despite herself.

  “You must be the famous Ashton Calhoun.” Voo studied her for a moment.

  She widened her eyes.

  “Axel and Steele texted me last night. I’m Voodoo, the Vice President. We don’t have many outsiders here, and I put two and two together.”

  “How come I didn’t hear about this?” Ace scowled.

  “You didn’t need to know.”

  “Yeah, I bet.” He turned to Ash. “Word to the wise, Voodoo’s got some freaky ass intuition powers, so watch yourself.”

  “Is it my problem all your thoughts are posted on your forehead just waiting for me to read them?” He glanced at Ash. “You’ll find I’m very perceptive, which ain’t my fault.”

  Somehow, she found it unsettling.

  “Hey, wait.” Ace frowned. “What did you say about Steele texting?”

  “Ashton is a former amour of Steele’s,” Voo explained.

  “Steele’s not my boyfriend. Never has been and never will be. He’s just an old friend.” Hmph. Friends? Enemies more like it.

  When she looked up, Voo watched her with curious eyes. “Keep tellin’ yourself that.”

  “You belong to Steele?” Ace eased out of the booth with a long face as though she’d come down with a sudden case of leprosy.

  She gritted her teeth. “No, pay attention. I don’t belong to Steele or anyone else. Last time I checked, this was a free country.”

  Voo watched the interplay with interest, his gaze flicking back and forth between them. “Steele has no claim on you?”