Wild Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 2)

by Lydia Pax

  “So Randall gets roughed up, but Locke gets a warning?”

  “You complaining?”

  “Not really. I’m just curious about what makes you tick the way you do, Beretta.” She stretched out the syllables of his name. It occurred to her, not for the first time, that she didn’t even know his real name.

  “I know Locke,” he explained. “I know if he thought we were serious, he’d never try anything like that. And he is a horndog. So, it’s my fault. I should have let him know it was for real already.”

  “And we are for real, is that right?”

  “I don’t do anything halfway, babe.”

  She wished she could believe him. But even her doubt didn’t change the heat in her body from seeing him so close to her. She pushed up against him, taking a long glance at the door to their room.

  “He’s not the only one who wants to get laid,” said Helen.

  Beretta’s smile was wicked and sure.

  Chapter 28

  Moments later, they were inside their room again and their clothes were stripping off.

  Always before it was half-clothed or rushed. She didn’t want to be rushed. She certainly didn’t want to be half-clothed.

  She wanted their bodies totally naked, pressing against each other, riding into the night with only each other for warmth and comfort.

  Slowly, she drew her clothes off. One piece at a time, taking it slow, letting him drink in the sight of her. She knew that her body, her curves, excited him a great deal—and the way that she excited him excited her in turn.

  “Now you,” she said, motioning for him to do the same and to strip down.

  He smirked and stood up, clearly already hard. It never ceased to make her wet the way that she could see the definite bulge of his cock in his pants when he was getting hard. And around her, he always seemed to be hard.

  Having that sort of effect on any man was heady. Having that kind of effect on a man like Beretta was enough to make her downright swoon.

  And so swoon she did as he slipped his shirt off. The revelation of his torso in the light of the hotel, dim but still illuminated enough, was enough to start drool forming in her mouth. Every piece so chiseled and cut. Even the scars on his body were sexy. His arms and chest swirling with deep black ink.

  He was like a living piece of art, and she wanted to lick and kiss every inch of him that she could.

  Then he stripped down from his pants. No top-heavy mope was Beretta—oh no. His thighs were built like pillars, his buttocks pronounced and strong.

  “God,” she said. “You are so goddamn fine.”

  “Speak for yourself,” he said, walking toward her slowly. Hungrily.

  His cock led his way, already thick and hard. She wrapped her hand around it as they embraced and she pulled him closer, kissing his lips and stroking his erection urgently. She wanted him hard, as hard as he could be, and then she wanted to watch his face as he came.

  Nothing would be able to beat the thrill of that. No kind of heist, no sort of robbery, no laws broken. This was her ultimate ride, and she wanted to do it for as long as she could.

  It was insanity, wanting him this badly. Losing herself to the passion like this, kissing him so hard and so urgently, a hundred phrases that would damn her soul forever caught behind the fortress of her lips. All she wanted to tell him was that this was not just a fling to her, that this was no joke. That the way he made her feel was beyond anything she had ever felt before...and all she needed in the world was for it to keep going forever.

  It had been wrong to leave him. Wrong to think he was anything at all like Randall. Wrong of her to be so full of self-doubt. She could make him forgive her; help him understand.

  She’d run away with him, she’d leave her life with him, she didn’t care. As long as she could be in his arms, like this, holding him just so, feeling his enormity against her body, and feel safe and protected.

  “Inside,” she moaned. “Please. I want you inside me. Now.”

  He lifted her up, pushing her over to the bed. For several minutes, he kissed her body, dragging his thick cock across her, leaving a trail of his warm essence all along her torso and legs. It felt fantastic, and she relished in the feeling.

  Outside, there was a sudden explosion of sound. Gunfire?

  Beretta, panicking, took Helen and threw her down off the bed, tossing the mattress up against the window. She landed with a hard thump—completely manhandled by Beretta's massive strength. Beretta in those moments was sudden, hurricane movement personified, quick and sure.

  There was no more sound. Slowly, he peaked out the window—and saw an old Volkswagen pulling out of the lot, smoke billowing around its muffler and hood.

  It had been a car backfiring. That was all. He turned back to Helen.

  “Just a car,” he said. “Sorry.”

  In the darkness, he moved about, putting the room back together, sliding the mattress back into its place on the bed. And then, he began to pull his pants back up.

  She watched him doing it, confused. “I'm still...ready to go, you know.”

  This wasn't entirely true. She wasn't quite as aroused anymore—the heavy dose of shock and fear had done a number on her—but the opportunity wasn't completely gone. It just had to be rekindled for a while...maybe in the same way he had kindled her fire with his tongue the other night.

  But he kept getting dressed.

  She stood up now, putting his hands on his shirt when he tried to put it on. “Hey, talk to me. What's going on?”

  “I don't have to talk to you,” he said. “I don't have to do anything with you. You're not part of the plan. I forget that, because you...because you make all my senses go wild. But that's not real. None of this is real.”

  It was like he had become a different person. She stared up at him, still more confused than angry, though anger was coming.

  “We might die tomorrow,” she said. “And you want to spend the night alone?”

  “I want to spend every night alone. So yes. The night before we'll risk our lives? I'll do it my way. The way I intended before you came along.”

  “Before I—” she hit him on the chest. It was like striking clay. The anger was in charge now. “You fucking kidnapped me, asshole!”

  “And you fucking left me. So how about that?”

  He threw the words like a brick; they were intended to damage. This had been a long time coming. He hid it well, she realized, but she had hurt him when she left.

  And she had never apologized. She tried to gather herself. This could work. She could make it right.

  “Those things are...hardly equal,” she began. “But I do see your point—”

  “—Fucking left me,” he said again, “when it was fine. When there was nothing like this shit happening to us. So what is it? You're really into me now that the shit is bad? Or do you just want to act out your biker kink until you know you're safe again?”

  Fuck, he knew her. He was hurting her and knowing her more than she ever knew he had, making her feel closer to him and so more hurt as a result. This was ugly and way too fast. She had to slow it down.

  “It was fucked up,” she said, voice trembling, “how I left you. I'm sorry. I am, really. I...I had a lot of mixed up feelings. I think, though, if we look at the balance, both of us have acted out in some weird, shitty ways. Like kidnapping, for instance.”

  She said it as a sort of joke. Keep it as light as possible. Keep the conversation flowing. But, he was quiet. She thought for a moment that she got through to him.

  “You've been on my mind since before that,” he said. “Long before. But I never wanted you to be. I don't want anyone there. I'm with you? I'm with anyone? All I can think about is that other person dying. I can't stop myself, and you can't stop it either.”

  There was a great pain underlying that statement, but in the heat of the moment, she wasn't able to process it clearly. All she knew was that she was being rejected—rejected by the man she wanted more than an
y other, by the life that she had dreamed about since she was a girl. She was being tossed away because she wasn't some invulnerable person—because she was going to die some day no matter what they felt about each other.

  “I knew it,” she said.

  She paced from one end of the room to the other. She wished she could stop herself. She felt like a race car on one of those toy tracks, building up speed higher and higher until finally they flew off the rails.

  “I fucking knew it. I knew you weren’t over her.”

  “Over...her? Over Madeline?” His eyes widened in surprise. “It’s got nothing to do with that.”

  He had such an aggravating lack of self-awareness. Her chest burned, fingers clenching hard into her palms.

  “Really? You look me in the eyes.” She grabbed him by the face. “You look me in the eyes and you tell me you don’t love her anymore.”

  His face was stone, his eyes expressionless. But there was something, just for a moment—pity? Sadness? That only made Helen angrier.

  “I can’t do that,” he said.

  “I knew it.” She stormed away. “Why did you take me as your old lady, then?”

  “I was trying to help you, remember? To help you survive.”

  “Before that.” Her gesticulations were becoming wild now, her arms and fingers pointing in all directions. “You didn’t have to pick me up. Didn’t have to take me with you. You could have taken a paramedic, anyone. You chose me.”

  Instead he scoffed. “You’re flattering yourself. You were alone and vulnerable. That’s what I do, Helen. I prey on the vulnerable. I’m a bad man.”

  This smacked of patronizing. That he was telling her what he thought she ought to hear so that she would reject him as much as he rejected her. But just him doing that much let her know how deep far down the rabbit hole he had gone.

  He was really serious about this—he didn't want her there. And if he ever had, it was only the passion fucking with his reality.

  “I should have known,” she said, laughing to herself. Fucking men. “I don’t even know your real damn name. How would you want me if you didn’t even tell me your real name?”

  Fully dressed now, his shoes back on, Beretta opened the door. He stopped there, turning his head back just slightly.

  “After tomorrow, after the heist...no matter how it goes, I’m setting you free,” he said. “You’re done with us. I’ll take all the heat. They won’t come on to you. You’ve done enough to earn their respect. All right? It’ll be done.”

  One last shot. “And then what happens between you and me?”

  “We’ll be nothing,” he said. “We’ll be what we were anyway. What we should have been from the start.”

  Chapter 29

  The men were getting ready next to their vans. Tank drove one, the other carried Locke, Ace, and Beretta. The one with Locke was weighed down heavily, loaded down with the machine gun and, more importantly, the explosives.

  It was going to be a big goddamn mess, this job of theirs.

  Rage boiled in Helen and not for the first time. She’d felt this kind of simmering, awful feeling before. When she had broken it off with Randall, it had been—more or less—a sneak attack. She’d left in the middle of the day when he was at work, making sure that he couldn’t talk to her or try to convince her to stay. Instead, she had made the decision weeks before and then planned it, step-by-step, in detail, so that when she pulled it off she would be gone forever.

  It was, in its own way, sort of like a heist.

  But afterward, Randall called her. And called her. And called her. And called her. And all the while her rage just built and built. She sent him message after message saying that she did not want to talk, that she did not want to see him, that their relationship was over. But he wouldn’t listen.

  Being with her was something Randall had decided on, something he didn’t need her input for.

  And now Beretta was deciding the terms for her. Pretending he was in charge. Pretending he could boss his own feelings around, and boss her around with them.

  The plan was—his plan was—for Helen to remain behind at the motel while the heist went down. They wanted her on call and in a safe spot if any of them got hurt and she needed to provide medical attention.

  But, Helen had decided, fuck Beretta's plan.

  She walked up to the back of the van he was in, knocking to let herself in.

  “I’m going in with you.”

  Beretta turned around from the front seat. “That’s a bad idea.”

  Ace tapped his fingers along the arm rest, letting out a breath and looking at Helen. He looked undecided. Good. She moved up into the van, closing the door behind her. Locke moved aside to make room. There was a flash of anger in Beretta's face at that, and she enjoyed it.

  “I’m going in with you,” she said. “If you get hurt, I can patch you up. You’ll be able to carry that much more money out of there. You’ll need another hand.”

  “There’ll be killing,” said Ace. “You might have to take part.”

  “Don’t fucking talk to her like you’re going to let her,” said Beretta. “She’ll be killed in there. You can’t—”

  She gritted her teeth, answering Ace. “That’s fine.”

  Ace looked to Beretta then. “She wants to go. It’s your call. I already told you I’m cool with it.”

  Beretta looked back at Helen and then out to the road. He let out a sigh.

  “Whatever. You’re cashing your own check, though. Don’t come whining to me when you're shot and you're the only one who can fix it. Give her a gun, would you?”

  Ace gave him a cross look. “I don't take orders from you.”

  “I'm driving and we're leaving. You want me to give her a gun and drive?”

  Frowning, Ace slid into the back with Helen and handed her a small pistol, showing her quickly how to reload, how to shoot.

  “Simplest gun I have,” he said. “Ol’ Abby. Take care of her for me. I’ll want her back.”

  “And here,” said Beretta, grabbing something from the console up front and tossing it back. “Have this too.”

  A box cutter landed in her lap.

  “What's this for?” she asked.

  “In case they get close,” said Beretta. “That'll rip a man to pieces.”

  She stared at it for a moment before stuffing it into her jeans, hoping that she never would have to do such a thing.

  Some minutes passed with Helen examining the gun, making sure she could at least get the basics of loading and reloading down. It had been a while since she'd fired her own gun at the range, but she still knew the basics of working a semi-automatic. It came back to her easier than she would have imagined. Easier than she would have liked.

  Who really wanted to know such information? Who wanted to have ease with a killing machine?

  Could she really shoot someone if she had to?

  Even with that doubt, she would have been lying if she said she didn't feel stark excitement at the thought of coming along. It wasn't just rage at Beretta—this was the life she was born to be in. On the edge of society, taking risks, living dangerously. She was built for it. She was tired of pretending that she wasn't.

  And maybe Beretta would see that.

  They powered onto the road, Beretta driving them toward the steelworks and the job that would save them or kill them.

  Chapter 30

  The more complicated a plan got, the more could go wrong. Even a child trying to steal a treat from the cookie jar knew that. Too many moving parts meant too many risks for malfunction.

  Beretta had, then, in masterminding the plan, kept it all as simple as he possibly could.

  First, they would use one van to hit the steelworks with as many explosives as possible. Tank would keep the Copperheads distracted, and meanwhile, the rest of them would assault from behind.

  That was it—that was the meat of the whole operation. Everything else was just dressing.

  The steelworks was po
sitioned at the edge of the industrial district; behind it was only a long, flat plain full of cactus and creosote bush. There was a street in front of the steelworks that ran north and south and connected to the highway. One street connected up with this one, leading straight into the middle of the steelworks—and it was along this route where Tank had stashed himself.

  “Payload is ready,” said Tank. They all wore headsets so they could communicate. “On your signal.”

  Ace took a look around the van. Beretta nodded at him—they were as ready as they were going to get.

  “Do it.”

  When Ace gave the signal, Tank cranked on his van and sent it down the street straight into the steelworks. The steering wheel was locked and the gas was pushed down with a concrete block. Then he rushed on top of a nearby building with his brand new machine gun already sitting on the roof.

  The four of them were out of sight of the front of the steelworks, and had no line of vision on the payload as it approached. But they could hear the Copperheads opening fire on it, no doubt pumping it full of holes before it even broke the fence.

  But the payload kept going. And then, Tank—safe and in cover, used a remote to blow the charges.

  The explosion was massive. A giant fireball exploded up and outward, sending shrapnel and molten brick everywhere. The height of the explosion, at its peak, was taller than the steelworks itself. Even in the van, even with earplugs in, the sound was deafening to Beretta. A vibrating rush of heat and sound pushed hard against the Wrecking Crew’s van, threatening to tip it over.

  “That’s our signal,” said Beretta. “Let’s go.”

  He started up the van and they pushed in—coming from behind the steelworks, opposite from the direction that the payload van had hit. They had to drive through the plains and powered through several cacti, but it was worth it. No one was covering the rear—every Copperhead was occupied with the explosion.

  They broke through the fence in the back with the van, barbed wire on top ripping through their tires.

  Shit.