I clicked refresh again, my knees pressed against my chest, my long chestnut hair pulled up in a sloppy bun. I was wearing nothing except one of my dad’s old oversized t-shirts and a pair of boxers—AKA, my typical sleep and work attire. One of the great things about freelancing and working for a web-zine was working in whatever the hell and wherever the hell I felt like. And today that was curled up in the center of my bed in my pajamas, refreshing my screen every four seconds—approximately the amount of time it took for a page to load.
After three years of research, one of which was almost entirely devoted to the subject, I was finally going to be publishing my article on Michael Lawrence. I knew everything I possibly could about the man. I knew he had been active for the past five years after being elected—if one could grant such criminals the decency of democracy—president of the motorcycle gang known as the Confederate Cycles of America. They were often seen with massive Confederate flags flying from the back of their bikes.
The group itself has been active for almost fifty years, but once Lawrence got his disgusting paws on the gang the crime had ratcheted up like this, increasing more every year. I could track almost every murder or unexplained death in the past year back to the CCA. My research and network were thorough, detailed, and unassailable. I made sure every piece clicked together like Legos.
I pushed my black, horn-rimmed glasses up with my knuckle and refreshed the page again and again. I slammed on my keyboard in frustration. It was only 5:11. I still had endless hours to wait for my article to get published.
My mind drifted back to Lawrence, as I found myself doing more and more often. He was the worst humanity had to offer. He was vicious, violent, crude, and a brute. He took what he wanted, when he wanted, how he wanted, and refused to let anything as mundane as morals, ethics, or human decency stop him.
I grabbed my laptop and headed down to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, unable to stop myself from constantly reloading the page. What was taking so long? They had my article for almost a week now. They swore it would be up, and it was not up. The squealing noise of the boiling water matched my emotions almost exactly.
***
I was on cup four an hour and a half later before the article was finally posted. I quickly read through it, reminding myself of my shocking claims, re-experiencing all the emotions and turmoil of the past three years of research and grief. I felt a tear run down my cheek and I hurriedly brushed it away.
This was everything I had worked for so tirelessly since Dad’s death—and, I realized, since the death of my mother. I let my mind flit back to that tragic night. The man who contributed so horrifically to my current existence had shown up again at the trailer my mother and I lived in. He wanted money. He started beating my mother, demanding it. I ran out of the house to the neighbor and asked for their phone, but by the time the police arrived he was gone, and so was she. One of the cops on the scene was Dad, and I couldn’t have been a luckier girl for that.
My cell phone rang, shocking me out of reverie. I didn’t recognize the number, but answered anyway. “Hello?”
“Sarah Pruitt?”
“This is she.”
“You better stay away from us, bitch, or you’ll deserve what is coming to you.”
The line disconnected and I pulled the phone away from my face. This wasn’t the first time I’d received threats from the CCA, but this was the first time they had called me. All other threats had been through email. Every once in a while it would be on a social media site, but increased security prevented that from happening again. How in the world did they get my number? Unless one of my little spies spilled on me. I paid them good money to not do that. Next they would know where I lived and… I didn’t want to think about that. I had known for a long time they were tracking my publications and research on them, but they had never been able to track me down to my house.
The threats kept coming after that call. I reported them to the police, but there wasn’t much they could do. After all, they hadn’t been able to get Michael Lawrence yet—how could a couple of anonymous threats change that? Dad had taught me how to defend myself when I was a teenager and I had a gun, but the thought of using it made me sick.
I would be doing exactly what I hated the CCA for doing: needless violence and killing. But no one had made any attempt to find me or contact me in any other way except through the phone threats. So I tried to push the matter from my mind and focus on the more positive results of my article.
I had some major news organizations contact me about doing interviews. I had some publishers ask me about book deals (obviously with some more research). My story was getting nationwide coverage, as it was shared through every single social media outlet. I enjoyed simply tracking the story as it spread. I wasn’t up to speed on all the intricacies of the Internet, but one of my more tech-savvy friends was able to embed some sort of tracker on the post so every time someone shared my article online, it would pop up on a little map.
For a while I enjoyed watching new blips appear, but then the map of the U.S. was so densely covered I couldn’t even tell when a new one appeared.
I was laying in bed one evening, almost two weeks after my article was published, binge-watching some Netflix and eating Chinese takeout—it is the glamorous life I lead—when my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, so I silenced my phone and carried on with my current activities. My phone vibrated against my leg. The same number. I declined the call, annoyed. A few minutes passed on and my phone vibrated again, this time with a text message.
We need to talk – Michael Lawrence.
I paused my show and sat up, staring at the innocent black letters. What could this mean? How did you get this number?
I have my ways. That’s not important right now. Where can I meet you?
Tonight?
Yes.
Should I meet him? My first thought was that this was a trap, but it could also have been my only chance to actually speak with the man himself. I had never met him or seen a picture of him, so although I knew a lot about his recent activities, I knew almost nothing about him as a person. I didn’t even know his race. His cohorts made sure that no details about him slipped free. Some people didn’t even think he really existed. Those people were, in my opinion, highly uneducated.
Taco Bell on Applewood, I texted back. I pushed aside my hanging clothes to reveal the wall safe Dad had installed shortly after I came to live with him. He kept all his firearms in there so there wouldn’t be any unfortunate accidents, but as soon as I was old enough he started teaching me how to shoot and defend myself.
I loaded the gun and slipped it into my purse, throwing my cellphone in there as well. Then I pulled on a pair of jeans, a black bra, and a breezy teal blouse. I braided back my brown hair and put in my contacts, then slung my purse over my shoulder, keys jingling in my hand. I paused, looking in the mirror, staring myself in my blue eyes. “You can do this, Sarah. You are strong and capable. You can do this.”
The drive to Taco Bell—the only place I could think of that was open this late at night—was full of anxiety. For all I knew, I could be walking straight into a trap. After all, his crew obviously had a bone to pick with me. They all felt threatened by my research. He could easily be waiting to take me out. I could feel the heavy presence of the gun in my car. Everything that thing stood for. I pulled into the parking lot and flipped my braid over one shoulder, checking my appearance in the rearview mirror. “You can do this, Sarah. Everything will go just fine and you will get the story you need,” I told myself. “You will get the answers you need. They are waiting for you just in there.”
I looked around in the parking lot and didn’t see any bikes parked in the lot. He wasn’t here yet. I ordered a drink and sat down in one of the booths, sipping nervously at the straw, watching the doors.
Where was he? How would I recognize him? I spun my phone around in my hands, wondering if I could get another text before he arrived. The door opened and a p
ack of college students wandered in, dressed in sweats and flip-flops. They chattered noisily about papers and tests, ordering a mass of cheap food.
Distracted by their clatter, I didn’t notice that someone else entered and was coming over to my table. I jumped, staring up into a pair of chocolate-colored eyes shadowed by thick black locks of hair. “Can- Can I help you?” I stammered, both startled and overwhelmed by the intensity of his eyes.
“Are you Sarah Pruitt?”
I nodded dumbly.
“Pleasure to meet you.” He extended one tanned, well-worn hand to me. I shook it with the same silence as before. “May I?” he asked.
“Please,” I said, finally finding my voice. I couldn’t believe this young, handsome man was Michael Lawrence. This must be some sort of lackey he sent in to get a “feel” for me or something.
The top three buttons of his flannel shirt were unbuttoned and I could see the top of some sort of tattoo, as well as the statuesque quality of his pecs that shifted under his skin every time he moved. His skin was tanned a dark brown, giving him a Native American look. His left ear was pierced.
He wore a leather vest over his flannel shirt and dark blue jeans that hung off his hips in a faintly suggestive manner. The smell of gas and oil hung on him like perfume, intoxicatingly manly. I found my gaze wandering up and down his body, openly ogling him as I hadn’t done toward a man since I was in middle school.
“As you may have guessed, I am Michael Lawrence. And your life is in danger,” He said with as much earnestness as my closest friends would.
“Yes, from you,” I spat.
He sighed. “No, not from me. I’m trying to protect you, actually. Not that you would believe that, but it is true.” He ran one hand through his carelessly tousled hair. “Look, I know you won’t believe me, but I don’t approve of any of this violence that is going on. There was a rumor, and it got out of hand, and now I have reputation, and…” He cut himself off. “Why am I even telling you all of this? The point is, you are in danger and I’m the only one who can protect you.”
“If you wanted to kill me you should’ve just come to my house or something, instead of luring me our here and then to who knows where.”
“Are you listening at all? I don’t want to kill you.”
“Right, sure.” I narrowed my eyes, crossing my arms. “Why should I believe you at all?”
“When have I done anything to you?”
Images of my father being lowered into the ground, of people in black standing around six foot deep hole, flashed into my mind, but I kept my emotions under control. “You killed someone I love.”
“I did nothing of the sort. I have never killed anyone—no matter what you or anyone else might say. Now, we need to get out of here soon before people realize where I am and who I am talking to. Your home should be safe, for now.”
I laughed outright. “If you think I’m taking you to my house, you have another thing coming to you.”
I couldn’t believe this man’s audacity. Did he really think I would just causally have him come to my house without any questions? Or believe this messed up story about him not killing anyone or endorsing violence? His whole life and livelihood revolved around killing people and creating havoc everywhere he went. If he thought I was that stupid…
“Look, we really don’t have time for this. I’ve tried to hold off my men as long as possible, but they are going to take things into their own hands. Your latest article… incited them.” He grimaced.
I heard the roar of engines outside and the low rumble of idling vehicles. They didn’t turn off, but a group of burly, dirty-looking men burst through the door. They were dressed mostly in leather and ripped denim.
“Shit,” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder. “Too late. You need to do exactly as I say, and you might live.”
He stood up, motioning for me to stay seated. A thrill ran through me. This was just the situation I needed to be on sight for. I quickly memorized the scene: the people there, the innocent college students obliviously chatting in a large booth, the tired-looking employees behind the counter, the four gang members at the door, Michael Lawrence, and myself tucked against one of the windows. I reached for my purse and wrapped my fingers around my gun. If he thought I was going to sit here and play damsel in distress, he had another thing coming to him.
“Boys. I see you also were craving some of the cheap, craving-satisfying goodness that is Taco Bell. I will confess, you have found out my guilty pleasure. Don’t tell the rest of the crew; they probably would never look at me the same way.”
“Who you sittin’ with boss?” one of the men asked.
“Oh, her? She was just here and I thought I’d be friendly and introduce myself. One shouldn’t let beautiful women eat alone, especially not in a forlorn place like this.” He gestured to his surroundings.
Was this guy for real? Who talked like that? These thugs actually were afraid of this fop?
“No, you ain’t. This is her, the Pruitt bitch.”
“Ray, it is rude to curse like that in front of ladies—and in public.”
“I’ll talk however the fuck I feel like.”
“And I feel like you need to settle down a bit.”
“Gentlemen, either take this off our premises or I’m calling the cops,” someone from behind the counter said.
Michael stared down the group of men. “Yes. Let’s take this outside.” Even though obviously at odds, the men listened to Michael and even held the door open for him. He didn’t make eye contact with me, but subtly motioned for me to leave through the other door as he walked away. I snuck out the side door and around to my car, ducking behind it to overhear the conversation. I was not going to let an opportunity like this go to waste.
“What do you plan to do? You can’t just let her keep writin’ this stuff about us!”
“Of course not, I’m going to get her to stop, but that doesn’t mean ending her life.”
“She deserves to have it ended, though.”
“No, no she doesn’t. She hadn’t done anything to anyone. Except maybe damage your pride a little bit, and perhaps that deserved to be knocked down a little. You know how I feel about the killings.”
“Killin’ is how you get stuff done though, boss, and you know that. There ain’t any better way of gettin’ your message across or making sure there are no unpleasant surprises at the end of the day.”
“You do realize we are in a public place and everyone can hear every word you are saying,” Michael said in a low voice. He glanced toward my car and I ducked back down. He couldn’t know this was my car. That would be impossible. Right? He had never seen my car before; I was just being paranoid. Although one look around the almost empty parking lot wouldn’t make it hard to deduce which car was mine.
“You ain’t tryin’ to protect her, are ya?”
Michael scoffed. “Why would I want to protect her? What has she done to benefit us? Nothing. I just don’t think you need to kill her.”
“Are ya getting’ soft on us, boss?”
“She’s still here somewhere.” One of them motioned to the window where I had been sitting. I cursed and tried to slip into my car without being noticed, but it was too late. They had seen me. “Get her!”
I dove into the car, seeing the flash of metal as a gun was pulled out from a jacket. The driver’s door was yanked from my grasp and I was pulled out on to the asphalt, hitting my head. The next few events passed in a dizzy haze, but a gunshot was fired, one of the thugs hit the ground next to me, and I was picked up.
When I next realized what was going on, I was on the back of a motorcycle. “What? Who? Where?” I muttered, clinging to whoever was sitting in front of me. I recognized his smell and could feel the ripple of muscle beneath leather and flannel. “Lawrence?” I muttered.
He didn’t respond and I realized he probably couldn’t hear me over the roar of the engine. I had no idea where he was taking me, but it wasn’t like I could escape now.
I would just have to wait until we stopped.
The ride was a confusing mix of emotions. First and foremost, I was terrified. Not just a little apprehension about the situation, but complete utter terror. I was on the back of a motorcycle with a strange man who I had never met until now and who was I had been researching and trying to imprison for three years.
The more I thought about this situation, the worse it seemed. But if I drifted away from those thoughts, I found myself focused on my arms around his waist and my hands clasped over his abs, feeling them expand with his breaths.
The vibrating hum of the bike was soothing and I could almost see why people rode these things. My hair whipped behind, strands pulling loose from the braid. I reached up with one hand and pulled the hair tie out and wrapped it around my wrist. I then pressed my face into his back, letting the wind, the feel of the bike, the feel of him, take me away.
Runaway Ride: Alpha Bad Boy Biker and MC Romance Box Set Page 54
