Giving It All: A Hellfire Riders MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs)

by Kati Wilde

  Although their backstory was fun to write, and I refer to these events in Breaking It All, the chapters didn’t add anything to the plot. So they had to go.

  I thought fans of the series might enjoy them, however, so here they are! I’ve already posted the first chapter to Facebook, but a few more scenes follow it. These deleted chapters won’t spoil anything for Breaking It All—they are more like a teaser for that story, and an introduction to Gunner and Anna’s romance. Look for Breaking It All (finally!) in February 2016. I’ll have the pre-order up soon and you can always find out more at the website.

  Happy reading!

  Kati

  One

  almost ten years ago

  “Is now a good time to talk, Anna?” my doctor asks.

  It’s not, I want to tell her. I’m driving and shouldn’t have even answered my cell. But I automatically accepted the call, and when I recognized Julia Wyndham’s voice everything inside me turned to churning molten rock, as if the small lump I found three weeks ago had just erupted through my chest.

  It’s not a good time to talk about this. How could it ever be?

  But I say, “Yes, of course,” as if grief and terror don’t have a grip on my throat, and add, “Just let me pull over,” as if I’m not about to puke all over my lap.

  I knew this day might come. I’m only twenty-one but I survived leukemia when I was a kid, which means I’m at high risk for other cancers. So I’ve thought about this more times than most women my age ever have; I’ve pictured what I would do when I got the news. I hoped to be numb.

  Instead I can barely see the road through my tears when I click on the blinker. This part of the highway is only two lanes, but the shoulder is wide enough to drive onto. Outside, the sun is bright and high and probably hot as hell, but my A/C is keeping me cold. Not cold enough.

  I wanted to be numb. Eyes burning, I curl forward and brace my forehead against the steering wheel. “Okay. Hit me with it.”

  “It’ll be a gentle blow,” Julia says and I don’t understand how she can sound so upbeat. By the tone of her voice, I can picture her smiling, her eyes bright, her gray hair in a tight roll at the base her neck. How can she smile? “The mass is benign.”

  Benign? My mind goes blank. I know what the word means, but…that can’t be right. “It’s what?”

  “It’s not cancerous, Anna. The biopsy showed it’s a fibroadenoma, which is relatively common for women of your age group. Sometimes there’s discomfort associated with the tumors but they’re usually painless, just as yours is. Has that changed?”

  I shake my head then realize she can’t see me and choke out my answer. Fibroadenoma. Nothing to worry about. Except I haven’t worried about anything else since I found it. Didn’t worry about finals or my degree and I walked through my college graduation in a daze, because the only damn thing I could feel was panic and worry, thanks to a lump the size of a pea and with the weight of a boulder.

  She begins to list options for treatment—and the first option is doing nothing, just letting the tumor stay put and monitoring it. So I jump ahead to the option I know I want.

  “I need it gone.”

  “For your peace of mind, Anna, that might be your best choice. And, given the size and location of the tumor, you would be a good candidate for cryoablation.”

  Freezing the cells. Less invasive, less likely to scar, and the destroyed breast tissue would be gradually reabsorbed into my body. But I want it gone.

  “I prefer a complete surgical excision,” I tell her. “For my peace of mind.”

  “In that case, I’ll refer you to a breast surgeon. You should receive a call from Dr. Gorin’s office in the next few days.”

  “Okay,” I say and now the numbness descends over me. After robotically answering her remaining questions, I snap my phone closed and toss it into the passenger seat.

  Nothing to worry about. I should be dancing, laughing. Instead I stare through the windshield at the road ahead. Pine Valley lies a few miles on. Bend, a little farther than that. If I keep going, eventually Portland, then Seattle.

  Today I’m only going as far as Pine Valley, where I’m staying with my mom and dad in the house where I spent most of my childhood. In about a month, I’ll be packing up and heading to med school.

  Three weeks ago, that made a lot more sense than it does now.

  From the moment I found the lump, I’ve been promising myself that I’ll get through this, that I’ll fight it, I’ll survive it. I vowed the tumor wouldn’t derail my future.

  Now survival has been handed to me on a silver platter. But I think this stupid lump derailed my future, anyway—and right now I can’t see myself taking the road I intended to.

  To Pine Valley, sure. My parents expect me to stay home for a little while. I want to be home. My brother will be there for the next month, too, on leave from the Marines. Then Aaron will return to base in North Carolina and I’ll be…

  Doing something else. I don’t know what.

  Something.

  But the first thing is: Get home and tell my parents everything is okay. I could call them. For this, though, face-to-face is better.

  Then I’ll figure out the rest.

  I wait until a semi blows past me before pulling back onto the highway. As soon as I hit the asphalt, my steering wheel drags heavily to the right.

  A flat tire. Just as I’m starting down a metaphorical new road.

  It must be a sign. The universe, telling me that this new path isn’t going to be so easy to traverse.

  Bring it on, universe.

  I steer onto the shoulder again. And I was right—it’s a freaking scorcher outside. Holy crap. Thank god for sunscreen. I can practically feel the UV rays bombarding every skin cell exposed by my pink tank top and white jean shorts. I don’t burn easy, but I can’t be too careful, so SPF is my middle name.

  Okay, no, actually it’s Marie. Anna Marie Wall. Childhood leukemia survivor. Anti-oxidant fanatic. New road taker.

  Flat tire changer.

  The right front wheel sits on a rubber pancake. Something must have punctured it when I pulled off the road.

  I knew it wasn’t a good time to take that call. Finding out the lump is benign almost proved me wrong, but this tire proves me right.

  Man, I just love being right.

  I grab an elastic band out of my purse and gather up my hair in a long ponytail before popping open the trunk. Dang, I really need to clean it out. I wrestle the spare out from beneath a pile of notebooks, an extra blanket and an assortment of random paint cans and craft supplies—oooh, and my red Nerd Nation hoodie that went missing last winter! I love that one—and roll the spare over the rust-red cinder gravel covering the shoulder.

  Time to tackle the flat. When I bought new tires this spring, the shop must have tightened the lug nuts with an impact wrench that had something to prove to the world. I’m straining against the tire iron, trying to crack the first nut loose as a car speeds by, followed by a motorcycle. I don’t even have to look up to know it was a Harley. Mistaking the sound of that engine is impossible.

  The rumbling roar of that engine changes to a low growl. Slowing down.

  No, he’s turning around.

  Shit.

  I look up. He’s a hundred yards away and coming in fast. Is he wearing a kutte? There’s a few motorcycle clubs in the area. God, if he is a patchholder, let him be a Steel Titan. My friend Jenny Erickson is the daughter of that club’s president and most of the members know me. Even a Hellfire Rider wouldn’t be so bad. My brother is friends with a few of those bikers and although I’ve heard some pretty crazy stories about the Riders, I’ve never heard of one hurting a woman. But if it’s a member of the Eighty-Eight Henchmen, that could be bad. Really bad.

  But I don’t see a leather vest. Just a white T-shirt and tanned, heavily muscled arms. Eyes hidden by mirrored sunglasses, hair concealed under a half helmet. Jeans on long legs and feet covered in big black boots.

  Lug
wrench in hand, I reach into the passenger seat for my cell and keep a vigilant eye on the biker as he pulls onto the shoulder in front of my car. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t able to see me when he rode by the first time—I was crouched out of sight beside the tire—which means he turned around without knowing if I was young or old, man or woman. So he’s probably just seeing if I need help.

  He cuts the engine and it’s suddenly really freaking quiet. Though he couldn’t see me before, I guess he’s taking a long look now, though it’s hard to tell with his eyes hidden behind those lenses.

  I’m not wearing sunglasses and I’m not going to pretend that I’m anything but wary.

  Wary and not at all threatening. I run every day so I’m in good shape, but I’ve got no illusions about being some kickass heroine. So if he intends to hurt me, I’m in trouble.

  The biker must see that worry, because he doesn’t get off his motorcycle yet, and when he speaks, his voice is a low, easy rumble. “You look like you can manage this by yourself.”

  “I can, thanks.” As long as I can crack the lug nuts loose.

  He nods but doesn’t seem in a hurry to leave. “It’s hot as hell out here. You want a little help so it goes faster?”

  I do. But I don’t want to end up dead in a ditch somewhere. “Can I text your plate number to my mom first?”

  Oh my god, his grin. I could tell he had a nice jaw and a firm mouth, but until this second I was thinking of his looks in terms of “Could I describe him to the police?” But now I’m thinking that I want to make him grin again.

  And again and again.

  I want to see the rest of him, too.

  “Go ahead,” he says.

  Send my mom his license plate. Right.

  He doesn’t move as I make a wide circle around his motorcycle and quickly send the message. This guy is helping me change my tire. California plate. I copy the number. Two faded camo packs are strapped tightly to the seat behind him. Not just a day ride. He’s traveling. “What’s your name?”

  “Zachary Cooper.” Amusement deepens his voice. “You want to see my driver’s license?”

  “No.” I send his name, too, before adding that I’ll be home soon. “If you’re a roadside murderer you probably own a fake ID.”

  His grin widens. Oh, my heart. “You’re the one with the tire iron.”

  “Not for long.” I use the lug wrench to gesture at the flat. “I was having trouble loosening the nuts. If you can do that part, I can do the rest.”

  “All right.” Long fingers unfasten the helmet’s chin strap. His hair’s dark brown, almost black, and cut military-short.

  He’s tall, too. Probably a little over six feet, but considering that I only hit five-three in my dreams, when he gets up off his bike I suddenly feel a lot smaller.

  He leaves the helmet on his seat and hooks his sunglasses into the V of his T-shirt’s neckline before facing me.

  Holy shit.

  Holy shit. I wouldn’t need to describe him to the police. I could just say, “Look for the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen” and any cop would be drawn straight to his location, then fall in love with him, and he probably could get away with murder just because he’d smile.

  He can’t be real. Real people just don’t look like him. Real people don’t have eyes like that—so light blue that they’re almost crystalline. And I thought his jaw and lips were nice? Jesus. Put together with the whole package of dark slashing eyebrows and high set cheekbones, they’re just…just…

  I don’t even know. Indescribable.

  And now that I think about it, that was pretty mean. Taking off his sunglasses like that. He should prepare people.

  Those light blue eyes are locked on my face as he comes closer. I’m staring at him. My jaw might be hanging open, I’m not sure. My panties are probably falling off. I can’t really tell because my brains have turned to jelly.

  I bet this happens to him often. My voice sounds strange to my own ears when I ask, “Do you end up with a lot of bugs in your teeth?”

  He grins again, and nope. No bugs. Just gorgeous, perfect white chompers. “You learn not to open your mouth while you ride.”

  “Oh, I know that.” I’ve been around motorcycles my whole life. I don’t ride them, but I know plenty of people who do, including my brother. “But what you’ve got going on there”—I indicate his face with a twirl of my finger—“almost knocked me over, so it seems you’d have extra trouble keeping the bugs away. Especially at night. Like, you don’t even need a headlamp. You can just open your eyes and light up the world.”

  He’s not even embarrassed. Just amused. His chuckle is low and deep and shivers right up my spine.

  “Nights are rough,” he agrees. “All those insects throwing themselves at me.”

  “I bet.” Insects, women.

  “Good thing about accidentally ingesting bugs is, they’re packed full of protein.”

  Ew. “That’s a good thing? That’s the downside of being beautiful.”

  “I’m sure you’re well acquainted with any downsides.”

  Did he just call me beautiful? Either that, or he’s suggesting I know what it’s like to eat bugs. So I’ll go with beautiful.

  I grin up at him. “You’re my new favorite person.”

  “Well, if I want to hold that spot, I better get started.”

  He holds out his hand and I place the lug wrench in his callused palm. Thick veins trace tautly muscled forearms. Not just gorgeous, but strong. A sheen of perspiration glows over his tanned skin but the sweat isn’t why his T-shirt clings to his chest the way it does. His broad shoulders and pectoral muscles are doing all the work there.

  God, the way that shirt is hugging him, I bet it never wants to let go.

  He crouches beside the flat and I back up to the car’s rear passenger door—ostensibly to grab a water bottle from the six-pack in the back seat but really so I can get a good look at Zachary Cooper’s whole package again.

  I’m not a bit sorry for my blatant ogling. A) Because not looking seems like some kind of cardinal sin—I mean, if there is a God and He put that face on this earth, then surely He meant for us to appreciate it—and B) I’m never going to see Zachary Cooper again anyway.

  Oh, and C) is the way his biceps flex when he fits the lug wrench onto the first nut and gives it a good tug.

  I wish all my tires were flat.

  But my mom taught me better than this. Just staring at someone? So rude.

  I slide a water bottle onto the hood in front of him. “It’s not cold, but the least I can do is offer a drink while I ogle you.”

  He smiles so easily, but he doesn’t really look like someone who smiles a lot. He can’t be much older than me—maybe twenty-three or twenty-four—but there’s a rough edge to him that I recognize, because my brother has that edge, too. It lies in the calluses on his hands, the austere cut of his hair, and the chain around his neck.

  Dog tags.

  I crack open the cap of my own bottle. “Did you recently get out or are you on leave?”

  He shoots me a sharp glance, as if he’s surprised I picked up on that. “On leave.”

  “And passing through?” Maybe coming up from one of military bases in California.

  “Visiting a friend.”

  “Not family?” That’s usually the first place a guy goes on leave. Family, then to a bar, then to someone’s bed.

  “I did that yesterday.” The response has a bite to it.

  I don’t need to know him well to read that tone and the tightening of his jaw. His family is a sore spot. So I won’t touch it.

  Anyway, his friend sounds more interesting. “Is she as pretty as you are?”

  A huff of laughter shoots from between his teeth, clenched tight as he cracks the final nut loose. “He is all right.”

  I should have known. Gorgeous, funny, helpful? He’s gay.

  He’s also a mind reader. Despite the glacial blue of his eyes, the glance he shoots me then isn’t icy
but hot and quick, a flickering blue flame, the kind of look a guy gives a girl just before he kisses her. But he doesn’t kiss me. He just says, “No.”

  Not gay. Not that it matters one way or another. He’s passing through and I’m not. Looking is all I’m going to get.

  “Oh, hey—wait.” I try to stop him when he reaches for the jack. “This is the part I’m supposed to do.”

  “Were you?” he asks like he doesn’t remember agreeing to it and slides the jack under the car’s frame. “I’m just trying to stay on your list of favorite people.”

  I snort. “If you want to do that, just look at my boobs and tell me they’re not very pretty.”

  The jack’s lever slips in his grip. That pale blue gaze is suddenly all over me—sliding down to my chest but it’s my face he settles on. I try to smile but all the crap I swallowed down while I was waiting for my doctor to hand out my death sentence is rising up again.

  Oh, shit. My throat thickens and burns; my eyes swim with tears. I sink onto the ground beside him but he doesn’t move. Just watches me.

  “Since you’re my favorite person and I won’t see you again, can I tell you something?” My voice is thick. “You can say no.”

  But he says, “Tell me.”

  “I found a lump about three weeks ago.”

  His gaze drops again when I cup my breast in my palm. He can’t mistake what kind of lump I’m talking about.

  A gruff note roughens his voice. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-one. But I was sick when I was a kid, and chances of it happening again are higher for me than most girls. So I had reason to think the worst.” My breath shudders. “And I did think the worst. I mean, I was determined to fight it. Mastectomy, chemo, whatever it took. And I kept on a brave face with my mom and dad when I told them. But deep down I was convinced that I’d cheated death once and now it had caught up to me. So for three weeks I’ve been thinking of all the things I haven’t done, haven’t seen, and how I was never going to get a chance to.”