When no one was looking, though, I grabbed my straw, and stuffed it into the pocket of my cut. Just in case she lost hers. Then I hooked an arm around her waist and pulled her onto my knee. “When we get back to my place,” I whispered in her ear, “How about—”
There was a crash of breaking glass and Annabelle screamed.
For a few seconds, there was total panic. What started as one scream from Annabelle grew and grew, spreading through the restaurant. Some people were jumping to their feet, others were ducking down in the seats. I looked from left to right, trying to figure out what the fuck had just happened.
The window near the end of our table had a fist-sized hole in it. Annabelle was holding her face. Drinks had been knocked over and were soaking across the tablecloth and trickling onto the floor. Three of the members down near the window were on their feet, guns drawn, trying to see out of the window. The guns were what had started most of the screaming: families were quickly deserting their tables and moving towards the exit. Others were seeking shelter, thinking it was a sniper. But the hole in the window was too big for a bullet.
“Let me see,” I told Annabelle, but she had both hands up to her face. “It’s okay,” I said, forcing my voice to be gentle. “Let me see.”
She cautiously took her hand away and my heart twisted as I saw the long slash across her cheek. It didn’t look deep but I wasn’t surprised she’d screamed. Another inch and whatever it was would have taken her eye out.
I stared at the table, still trying to figure it out. That’s when I saw the rock. The white paper wrapped around it blended in with the tablecloth: that’s why I hadn’t seen it, at first. Someone had hurled it through the window and either window glass or one of the smashed glasses on the table had hit Annabelle.
The owners of the diner raced over. Mac was on his feet instantly, trying to calm them down and snapping at the guys who’d drawn their guns to put them away. But the damage was done: half the restaurant had cleared out. Mac started counting out bills to pay for the window and the trouble, but we wouldn’t be welcome back here. All his careful work to keep the town on our side had just been undone.
I grabbed the rock and unwrapped the paper from it. A handwritten note, just one sentence.
Give up the bitch or I’ll tear your club apart.
26
Carrick
“How do we find the bastard?” I snarled as I marched into the meeting room. I was the last to arrive—I’d stopped in with Annabelle at the medical center.
“She okay?” asked Mac.
I nodded. The doctor had dressed the cut but it wouldn’t need stitches. “It’s Volos,” I said savagely. “He wants her. He’s not getting her. So how do we find him?” My voice shook with rage.
Mac put his hand on my shoulder. “Easy, brother.” He looked me in the eye. “Damn right, he’s not getting her.” He looked around the table and everyone nodded. “We’ll protect her.”
I grimly nodded my thanks but inside I was knotted up. I’d thought this was all over after we confronted Hay at the sawmill. Now the club was taking the heat again and it was all down to me rescuing Annabelle. I didn’t regret what I’d done, not for a second...but I wished it was me catching the fallout, not them.
Mac turned to Hunter. “I talked to Sheriff Harris. He’s looking into Volos for us but he didn’t sound hopeful. You have any luck with your friends?”
Hunter still had some contacts from his bounty-hunting days. “Guy’s a ghost,” he said. “Most of the people I called thought he was just a myth. No one knows his real name. People agree he’s powerful, though: money and connections.” He looked between our faces. “Being blunt: we’re small time, compared to him.”
There was a round of cursing. Great. We’d made ourselves a brand new enemy. I almost wished for the Blood Spiders back: at least we knew where to find them. And however much I’d wanted to kill Hay, at least he was just a scumbag crook. Volos...he thought he owned Annabelle, that he’d bought her body and soul. That made me want to rip his throat out.
“Everyone be careful,” said Mac. “We don’t know what this psycho will do, once he realizes we’re not giving her up. Nobody rides alone. Keep your eyes open.” He banged the gavel and I went to find Annabelle.
I found her with Scooter in the workshop, wheeling out Hunter’s rebuilt bike. We all watched as he climbed on and gave it a test run around the compound, then nodded approvingly. Annabelle grinned like a proud mom but I could see the fear she was trying to hide. She’d thought this whole thing was over and now it had found us again. I felt a wave of deep, protective rage wash through me. I stalked over and pulled her to me, wrapping my arms around her and kissing the top of her head. No way was he ever going to hurt her again. No way.
Somehow, I had to find a way to end this. And I had to do it without putting the rest of the club at risk.
27
Carrick
“You want to what?” I asked slowly, sipping my coffee.
“Ride. I’m learning all about bikes but I’ve never actually ridden one.”
I scratched at my stubble, still half-asleep. Despite the comforting press of Annabelle’s body, I’d had a lousy night’s sleep. I’d kept waking and pacing the house, peeking out of the windows for any sign of trouble. What if Volos had found out where I lived?
It was the first bad night’s sleep I’d had since we’d gotten together. I used to be like this all the time. Did I always feel this bad? I was starting to realize what a mess I’d been, before I knew her. Now, I couldn’t do without her. Part of me hated the idea of letting her loose on a Harley. But all of me knew how good riding felt. I couldn’t deny her that.
Plus, ever since the diner, the fear had come back into her eyes. She’d thought she’d escaped Volos and now the psycho was back. This was about more than just learning a new skill: I figured it was her way of taking control.
“Guys’ll be weird about it,” I warned her. Outlaws aren’t the most progressive bunch. Women ride on the back of bikes, not in the saddle.
“I don’t mean be a biker or join the club or anything. I just mean learning to ride. I just want to know what it feels like.”
I sighed. “You’ve gotta do exactly what I say,” I warned, trying to kid myself I had some shred of control over the situation.
She nodded obediently and grinned. I nodded okay and then sighed again. How was it that I could snarl and make a whole roomful of muscled badasses back down, but a red-haired girl who only came up to my shoulder could wrap me around her little finger?
At the compound, I started to have second thoughts. She looked so small, on my bike. I jammed the helmet on her head, feeling like a worried mom. “Slow,” I growled. “Don’t do anything I don’t tell you to do.”
She nodded silently, eager but breathing fast with nerves.
I slid into the saddle behind her. There was some good-natured chuckling from the members who were watching and I gave them my best scowl.
It was the first time I’d ever ridden on the back. It felt weird, not being in control of where we were going. This must be what it’s like for Annabelle.
There were advantages, though. My groin was pressed right up against the warm swells of her denim-covered ass. I felt myself harden immediately. Then she started the bike up and squirmed a little in the saddle as the vibrations throbbed through her, and that made it even better. Maybe this isn’t so bad.
“Slow,” I reminded her. “Okay, put the stand up. Take a minute, get the feel of it.” I helped her, balancing the bike with my feet, but I barely needed to. Within just a few seconds of swaying, she’d got the big machine’s balance point. “Now feed her a little throttle,” I said. “Just ease her out.”
Her pale hand twisted the throttle and we started to creep jerkily forward. I could feel the tension in her body: arms rigid, spine stiff. It took me back to my first time. But by the time I’d guided her through a few big, lazy turns, looping around the clubhouse and Mom’s trailer, she
was starting to relax and the bike was responding to her. “Now a little faster,” I told her.
That’s when things started to go wrong. She had an instinctive feel for the machine but she hadn’t yet developed the muscles you need to wrestle a big bike back into line when it misbehaves. We suddenly found ourselves weaving unsteadily right towards the workshop. Annabelle let out a wail of fright.
I put my hands over hers and used my bulk to bring us back in line, then eased her hand off the throttle and slowed us to a stop. Annabelle was panting a little. “Sorry. I thought I had it.”
I shh-ed her and brushed her hair back from her face so I could kiss her neck. “You do have it. You’re a natural. You just need to build up the strength to go with that big brain.”
She flushed. “I don’t have a big brain,” she muttered.
“Are you kidding? You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. You know more about mechanical stuff than I ever will. Scooter’s impressed and he doesn’t impress easily. And you’ll get this, too.” I kissed her again. “I believe in you.”
She nodded silently. Then, as I climbed off the bike, “Carrick?”
I turned back to her.
“I believe in you too.”
I stood there staring at her for a second, unsure what to say. But at that second, Mac burst out of the clubhouse and yelled at us to follow. Other members flooded out after him: the whole club. I quickly climbed onto the front of my bike as Annabelle scooched back to make room. “What’s going on?” I yelled.
“The warehouse!” shouted Mac. “It’s burning down!”
28
Annabelle
Carrick had explained how the warehouse was the club’s one legitimate business, a place where they sold cheap t-shirts and jeans. The first job of a Prospect was usually to pull a few shifts there, with local teenagers making up the rest of the workforce. True, they used the profits to cover up their shadier business of running guns, but in itself it was a genuine money-making enterprise and popular with the locals: everyone living within the town was given a discount and it provided some of their kids with jobs. It had been Mac’s idea and he was rightly proud of it.
So when we pulled up outside, my heart sank into my feet.
Tongues of flame were leaping up between the sheets of metal that formed the roof. Thick white smoke billowed out of the doorway. Cardboard cartons of clothes were strewn on the ground, some scorched and smoldering. Every few moments, a Prospect ran out of the smoke, threw down another box and ran back inside. They’d gotten all the civilian workers out of there: four teenage girls were standing terrified a safe distance away.
“FUCK!” snapped Mac. He jumped off his bike. “Where’s the fire service?”
Tailor, one of the Prospects, shook his head. “We called, but—” he broke off as coughs wracked his body. “They haven’t showed,” he managed, wheezing.
Mac cursed and ran inside. “Everybody save what you can!” he yelled.
Carrick started forward but then turned and grabbed me. “You stay here.”
I shook my head. “No way. You’ve all done so much for me. Let me help!”
He started to argue so I just dodged around him and ran for the door. Inside, the place was big: rows and rows of shelves all laden with piles of clothes. The fire had started on one side and was spreading fast: more than half the stuff that was on display was gone, but the storeroom at the back was still intact and that was where the Prospects were grabbing stuff from.
Carrick ran up behind me and grabbed my arm. “Get out of here!”
I pulled my arm out of his grip. “No! Please: let me do this.” I looked up into his eyes. “Please.”
He huffed and I saw that protective need in his eyes, the look that made me warm inside. But there was something else there, too: respect. “Stay right beside me,” he said.
I nodded. We ran to the storeroom and I grabbed a carton of t-shirts. Carrick grabbed one under each arm and we turned, only to almost run into other members coming in the door. We squeezed past and ran outside, dumped the cartons and went back for more, but now we had to wait for people coming out. Everyone was spending all their time running from the door of the warehouse to the storeroom at the very back….
I stopped running and narrowed my eyes. In my head, the army of leather-clad bikers became oil in a too-narrow pipe. Inefficient.
I grabbed Mac as he raced past. “Mac!”
He spun to face me, incredulous. “What? I’m a little busy!”
“We need to make a human chain. It’ll be quicker. We’ll save more of the stock.”
Mac stared at me, eyes blazing with anger. I got why he was pissed: the warehouse was important. But why was he pissed at—
Then I got it. It wasn’t a coincidence that this place had caught fire, the day after Volos’s warning. I felt like I was going to throw up. This is all my fault. I brought this down on them.
I swallowed. “It’ll be quicker,” I said again, my voice thin.
Mac stared at me a second longer...and then nodded. “Make a line!” he yelled to the others. “Pass the boxes out!”
I shoved my way into the line as it formed, more determined than ever to help. There were tears in my eyes and not just from the smoke. Carrick put his arm around me and gave me a reassuring squeeze which helped, but my guts were still churning with guilt.
We started passing the cartons of clothes along the chain, working as fast as we could. Soon, we had a continuous flow going: my hands were never empty for more than a second. We worked like that for several minutes as the flames crept closer and closer and then: “Enough!” yelled Mac. “Everybody out!”
He herded us all out the door, staying behind to make sure no one was left behind, then joined us in the fresh, clean air. We all stood there, hunched over and coughing painful, rasping coughs. Carrick found my hand and squeezed it and I squeezed back. Mac caught my eye...and nodded his thanks. He even looked a little guilty for snapping at me. But that didn’t make me feel better: he’s right to be pissed at me. This is all my fault!
At that moment, a fire truck pulled up, its crew cursing as they jumped out. “What took you so long?” Mac yelled, then descended into coughing again.
The firefighter in charge looked both pissed and defensive. “We got the call,” he said. “Then we got another one from the state police, saying they’d caught you trying to burn your own place down, and there was no fire.”
“Sonofabitch,” muttered Mac.
I was reeling, too. Volos. He’d tried to ensure the fire would burn as long as possible. Either he really did know people in the state police, or he’d convincingly faked the call—neither was a good sign.
The firefighters went to work and quickly brought the fire under control but the stock left inside was ash and the building was a burned-out wreck. Between the efforts of the Prospects and the human chain, we’d managed to salvage maybe half the stock but the club had still lost tens of thousands of dollars...maybe more.
Then it got worse. Sheriff Harris pulled up and headed straight for Mac. He pulled him to one side, but I managed to overhear some of the conversation. “Arson?” was the first word out of the sheriff’s mouth.
“Yeah,” said Mac bitterly. “But we can’t say that. The Feds would come snooping around. Write it up as an accident.”
“You won’t be able to claim on the insurance,” said the sheriff. “The investigator will spot the signs—hell, I can smell the gasoline from here. They’ll know someone burned it down.”
“I know,” growled Mac. “We won’t claim.”
Shit. This could bankrupt the club.
“This ain’t good,” said Sheriff Harris, looking at the gathering crowd. “Everybody’s still freaked out about what happened at the diner. I got questions from the State boys about what happened on the highway. I’ll keep looking into this Volos asshole for you, but you guys gotta stay off the radar or I can’t protect you.”
Mac slapped him on the shoulder and wal
ked off. I really felt for him. Carrick carried the weight of all the bad shit he’d done but Mac had the future of the whole club on his shoulders.
Carrick slipped an arm around me. “You did good,” he told me. “You helped us save a lot of stuff.”
But none of it would have been burned if it hadn’t been for me. If Carrick hadn’t rescued me, if the club hadn’t protected me…
I looked around at the Prospects, at the members, at the teenagers who worked there. Mac was reassuring them he’d cover their wages until they reopened, but now their parents were beginning to arrive, angrily pulling their kids into their cars. They’d never let them work for the club again. The club’s reputation was in tatters: no one believed the fire was an accident, not when an MC was involved. And it felt like they were all looking at me: the MC, the civilians, even the firefighters. Was I imagining it, or did they know this was somehow my fault?
Carrick must have picked up on my mood. For a guy who pretended to be gruff and unfeeling, he was scary good at reading me. “C’mon,” he said, pulling me away. He showed me over to where Mom was standing next to an ancient blue station wagon that matched her trailer. “I got to stay for a while. You get out of here. I’ll see you later.” He looked at Mom. “Can you run her back to the club?”
Mom nodded quickly. “Come on. You can help me fix a meal for when everyone gets home.”
I bit my lip. I didn’t want to run off when everyone else was helping but I could feel people’s eyes on me. Maybe some of it was my imagination, but not all of it. They’d volunteered to help me, but they couldn’t have known this would be the cost. I figured I should make myself scarce. I hugged Carrick and the feel of his hard, warm chest against my cheek was fantastic. “Don’t be long,” I begged.
Outlaw's Promise Page 13
