TAKE ME, OUTLAW: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance

by Zoey Parker

  Even through his sweatshirt, I could feel his muscles. The smell of his hair and body were intoxicating, especially blended with the fresh scents of sunshine and the nearby field. There was also a faint hint of the paint fumes clinging to his clothes, and I tried to tell myself that was the reason I was feeling so light-headed.

  But deep down, I knew that wasn't it at all.

  “No, keep your back straight,” Rafe cautioned. I realized that I'd been leaning back against him without meaning to and stiffened up immediately.

  “All right. See those grooves on top of the gun barrel?” Rafe asked. I nodded, turning my head slightly to take in more of his scent. “Keep your focus on them,” he continued. “Those are your sights. You use them to pick out your target. Take your time. Breathe. Aim.”

  “Shouldn't I just try to shoot it as quickly as possible?” I asked. “The last time people were shooting at us, they didn't exactly give us a lot of time to breathe and aim between bullets.”

  “Like I said, this isn't a movie,” Rafe said. I felt his breath tickling my earlobe and my heart pounded against my ribs. “We're not trying to make you into some kind of quick-draw artist, here. Right now, we just want to get you comfortable firing a gun. Speed comes later.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. I stared down the grooves on top of the gun, letting the first bottle come into focus. Even with both hands on the weapon, the tip was still shaking slightly.

  “Whenever you're ready,” Rafe whispered. “Keep your arms and legs tight and gently squeeze the trigger.”

  I took a deep breath, willing my hands to stop trembling. Slowly, they steadied themselves, and the bottle stood squarely in my sights. I fired and felt the gun try to jump backward out of my hands. The sound was so loud that it felt like someone had smacked both of my ears as hard as they could. My body jerked back against Rafe's.

  “Nice job!” Rafe said.

  My ears were ringing. I lowered the gun and looked at the bottles. All of them were still intact, but there was a hole in the barn just an inch to the left of the bottle I'd been aiming at.

  “You've officially managed to hit the broad side of a barn,” Rafe chuckled. “So you've got that going for you.”

  I sniffed the air. A strange combination of smells filled my nostrils, including charcoal, sulfur, and...

  “Do you smell pee?” I asked.

  Rafe laughed. “That's gun smoke,” he said. “The piss smell comes from the saltpeter in the gunpowder.”

  “Wow. I learn something new every day,” I said.

  “Yup, that's me,” Rafe intoned. “I'm an educational motherfucker.”

  “Jesus, it's so loud,” I added. “Isn't there anything I can do about the noise?”

  “Yeah,” Rafe said. “You can fire it enough times to get used to it. Now try again.”

  I aimed and fired eight more times. By the third shot, I was able to hit the bottles I was aiming at. When the sun finally went down and I couldn't see the bottles anymore, we walked back to the Saab and drove off in search of a motel to spend the night. I kept the gun Rafe gave me tucked into the back of my leggings with the safety on.

  It felt good, knowing I had a gun and knew how to use it.

  Looking back, I wish I'd known how little that would help me in the end.

  Chapter 21

  Rafe

  I drove the old Saab up the back roads, keeping both windows wide open to help with the smell of the paint fumes. Even with the paint dry, the odor was enough to make me a little dizzy. I knew it'd seem pretty suspicious if anyone got close enough to sniff it out, but I figured it probably wouldn't come to that. As long as we parked far enough away from other cars, it'd be enough to keep us from being noticed.

  If we were really lucky, the owner of the other car may not have even noticed its plates were gone. It's not like people usually notice their own plates.

  I glanced over at Jewel. She had the gun in her lap with the safety on. She was staring at it and running her fingers over it, but I could tell her mind was miles away. For a first-timer, she'd done a damn fine job of hitting her targets.

  I'd never have admitted it out loud, but she'd actually done a lot better than I had the first time I'd been handed a gun. I was just glad the asshole in the outlet parking lot had been carrying a .22. The small, lightweight pistol was perfect for beginners in general and women in particular.

  I hoped she wouldn't need to use it. But I was glad she had it, just in case.

  Unfortunately, the dickhead I'd taken the gun from hadn't been carrying a spare clip. The magazine capacity on a .22 was fifteen rounds and she'd fired nine. If she was really going to be any use to me in a firefight, we'd need to grab more ammo.

  But that would have to happen the next day. That night, we needed a motel to crash in. I'd have preferred to hunker down in the old farmhouse since it was more low-profile. But without any running water, it would have been almost impossible to dye our hair properly. Even though the thought of bleaching and coloring my hair made me feel like a lame-ass, I knew we couldn't take any chances.

  Plus, even though Jewel had been able to loosen up and laugh a bit during target practice, I knew she was probably still fighting a lot of anxiety. A motel would provide a more normal set of surroundings for her to try to relax and overcome her fear. Maybe some fast food and bad TV would help her feel like she was on more solid ground.

  The truth was, I couldn't remember the last time I'd gone through anything like the emotional shitstorm she was probably experiencing. When I searched my memory, the only thing I could come up with was my parents dying in the fire. My whole world had been reduced to ashes in a single fucking night, and ever since then, I embraced the fact that any of us could end up kissing the dust at any time, regardless of how safe we thought we were.

  The lesson had been painful, but it had made me free. Living, dying, killing—ever since then, they'd all seemed the same to me.

  But Jewel had mentioned that her outfit was a gift from her parents, which probably meant they were still alive. From the way she talked about her job, it sounded like that meant a lot to her, too. She had plenty to lose, including her mind. And if she gave in to her shock and horror, she'd be no good to me.

  Is that really what's bugging you? I asked myself. Are you just worrying about her safety and comfort because you think she's still got information you need? That seems pretty fucking unlikely, doesn't it? So what, then? If you were really all about fucking her, you'd have done it last night when she gave you an opening. Are you catching feelings for her? Is that it?

  I shook my head to clear these nagging thoughts away and switched on the radio, flipping through the stations. I was looking for heavy metal or even some classic rock, but every station seemed to be playing either obnoxious commercials or drippy love songs that didn't exactly stifle the questions I was asking myself.

  I could feel Jewel looking at me, but I kept my eyes straight ahead until I saw a sign for a Comfy Nest Motel and pulled in. It was a cheap national motel chain that dotted just about every highway in America, and better still, it was away from the highway. I figured it'd serve our purposes pretty well, all in all.

  “You've got credit cards, I'm guessing, right?” I asked Jewel.

  “Sure,” she replied. “There's not much money on any of them, though. Probably not even enough for a room for the night.”

  “That's cool,” I said. “They don't need to charge the card, they just need it on file.” I pulled a wad of cash from my pocket. Most of it had come from the guy in the outlet parking lot. “You can use this to pay for it. You should definitely tell them you're here alone, though. Just to be on the safe side, in case anyone comes in asking about us. They probably won't, but still.”

  Jewel paused. “But if I tell them I'm alone, I can't ask for a room with two beds, can I? That would be kind of weird.”

  I hadn't thought of it. “No biggie,” I said. “I'll take the floor.”

  “Are you sure?” she aske
d.

  I wasn't sure whether she was asking if I was sure about her asking for a room with one bed, or if I was sure about sleeping on the floor. Either way...“Yeah, I'm sure,” I said.

  Jewel nodded and got out of the car. I spotted a liquor store across the street from the motel and got an idea. “Hey, do you drink?” I called after her.

  She stopped, and it looked like she was thinking it over. After a moment, she said, “Well, not usually. But then, I'm not usually shot at much, either. So I can probably make an exception, right?”

  “Sounds like a good idea to me,” I agreed. “What's your poison?”

  “I like white wine,” Jewel said.

  I tried not to roll my eyes, wondering why I'd even bothered to ask. But hey, if that's what it took to help her relax...

  “You got it,” I said. Jewel smiled and continued toward the front office to check in.

  I thought about how funny it was that just yesterday, I would have worried that as soon as she was out of my sight, she would bolt on me and run to the nearest person in uniform. Now I was certain she wouldn't.

  Was that because she was convinced I could protect her? Had she believed my half-truths about the cops being in on this?

  I knew I didn't have time to think about stuff like this. Just like I knew I couldn't seem to think of anything else but her.

  I got out of the car and strolled across the street. As I walked into the shop, I was hit by the strangely universal liquor store smell of dusty glass and alcohol. The clerk was a morbidly obese man in his sixties with a long white beard with dirty gray streaks and a t-shirt that said “Madder Than a Bobcat in a Piss Fire.” I didn't know what that meant, but I sure wasn't in a hurry to ask.

  I browsed the wine section, but I had never been partial to the stuff and I had no idea what I was looking for. I saw that there was a big box of white wine that appeared to be the least expensive option, so I grabbed that and a bottle of cheap whiskey and walked up to the counter.

  “Oh, and a pack of cigarettes,” I said, pointing to the brand I wanted.

  The clerk grabbed the cigarettes and rang up my purchase, looking at me dolefully. “Circus in town?” he drawled.

  I looked down and realized I'd already forgotten what I was wearing. Jesus, if the other Reapers saw me right now they'd never let me live it down, I thought. Especially Sperm.

  “Laundry day,” I answered, shooting a glance at the clerk's t-shirt. “You can probably relate, huh?”

  The clerk raised his bushy white eyebrows for a second, then rasped with laughter, slapping his knee. “Laundry day! That's a good'n!” he wheezed, nodding.

  I smirked, handing over the money for the wine, booze, and smokes. As I did, my eye fell on a small handgun behind the counter. “Nice .22,” I commented. “Most liquor store clerks I've known were more of the shotgun-toting type.”

  “Ahh, yeah, this fuckin' faggy-lookin' thing,” the clerk sneered, waving a hand at the pistol. “Looks like it oughtta be in a goddamn purse, right? 'Cept my shoulders an' knees are all fucked up from when I worked construction, so I'm stuck with this pea-shooter if I wanna actually hit anythin' when I shoot.”

  I got an idea. It was a little risky, but if it worked, it could do a lot to save us some travel time the next day.

  “You wouldn't happen to have any extra ammo for that sucker, would you?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

  I expected the clerk to react with surprise or suspicion, but he just shrugged. “Sure I do,” he said, reaching under the counter and producing a dusty box of .22 bullets. “May as well sell the fuckin' things. Been sittin' on the shelf down here for goin' on three years.”

  “Thanks, man,” I said. “How much?”

  The clerk sized me up shrewdly. “Well, son, these normally sell for about twenty-five a box. But seein' as how you're askin' me to sell 'em to you instead of goin' to a store, I'm gonna go ahead an' assume you've got a black mark or two on your record.” He held up a hand to stop me before I could say anything. “Now, that ain't nothin' to be embarrassed over. There's plenty of harmless folks who could say the same. Still, given your situation, I reckon I'd be a damn fool to charge less than forty bucks for 'em.”

  “Fair enough,” I agreed, forking over the money. “Much appreciated.” I was tempted to tell him to lie if anyone asked whether I'd been in there, but I was pretty sure he would anyway. He didn't want word getting around that he was willing to sell ammo illegally, and besides, he looked like an old-school redneck who wasn't big on people coming in and asking questions. If any Mancusos came in here demanding answers, it wasn't hard to imagine the clerk making them chew on a few rounds from his pistol.

  I shoved the box of ammo in my pocket, hefted the weight of the bag with the beverages in it, and walked back to the car in time to see Jewel emerge from the office with the room key.

  We drove around to the back of the motel and went up to the room.

  Chapter 22

  Jewel

  I had initially balked when I saw that Rafe had gotten me a big cardboard box of white wine, but when I poured some of it into one of the room's plastic cups and gave it a try, I didn't taste a noticeable difference between it and the twelve-dollar bottles I usually bought myself for special occasions.

  I had originally planned to sip it slowly, but given the size of the box and the number of whiskey shots Rafe had taken in the time it took for me to finish my first cup, that plan had started to seem pretty stupid.

  So by the time I started bleaching Rafe's hair, I'd had three cups of cheap wine. The low-level panic I'd felt since witnessing the murder in the alley had finally dulled to the point where I couldn't feel it at all. I was using the brush from the kit to paint the bleach over his brown locks layer by layer.

  “Jesus, are you painting a portrait back there or what?” Rafe asked after a few minutes.

  “I'm just being careful. Wow. It's a good thing your hair just happened to be so dirty, since that's ideal for this. I'll bet you usually keep it nice and clean, though, right?” I added with a twist of sarcasm.

  He snorted. “Oh, yeah. All us bikers are known for three things—the fists we throw, the bikes we ride, and the hair products we use to maintain a healthy sheen and volume.”

  “Funny,” I said, finishing the last hairs along his neckline with a flourish. “There. Now turn around and I'll do your eyebrows.”

  “Nuh-uh,” Rafe said. “You're not doing my eyebrows. That's where I draw the goddamn line. Blonde eyebrows? I'll look like a moron.”

  “Well, if you walk around with blonde hair and brown eyebrows, you'll look like someone who bleached his hair quickly because he doesn't want to be recognized.”

  Rafe groaned, turning around. “Fair enough. I just hope this shit doesn't take too long growing back once all this is over. The other Reapers are gonna piss themselves laughing when they see me.”

  I brushed his eyebrows lightly as I raised my own. “Reapers?”

  “Yeah, the War Reapers,” Rafe said. “They're the club I belong to.”

  “They sound rough,” I said, trying to sound casual. It had been easier to think of him as just a random biker, but the idea that he was a member of a gang with a name so lethal-sounding was tickling my anxiety again.

  “They can be,” Rafe agreed, “but they're a good bunch of guys. They've always had my back.”

  “So maybe they could help us,” I offered. “Could they send more bikers to protect us?”

  “It's more complicated than that,” Rafe grunted. “I've got them making some moves for me on this back in the city, though. I should probably go rinse this stuff out now, huh?”

  “You should wait about fifteen minutes,” I said. I could sense how much he wanted to change the subject and I wondered what he was hiding—about himself, about the Reapers, about this whole situation. We'd been on the run for two days and I still had no idea where we were going or why. “So what's our plan tomorrow?”

  Rafe shrugged, pouring anothe
r shot of whiskey into his plastic cup and drinking it down. “Keep trying to stay ahead of Jester and the Mancusos.”

  “That's, um, not much of a specific answer,” I pointed out.

  “Well, how specific do you want me to be?” Rafe said. He sounded irritated and I wanted to drop it, but I knew I couldn't.

  “I don't know, Rafe, how far do you expect me to go with you while you keep up the silent act?” I asked, raising my voice a little. “Minnesota? Canada? Alaska? I think I've been pretty patient and good about keeping my questions to myself, but if I'm going to keep trusting you enough to stay with you instead of just taking my chances with the cops, I need to know what your end game is with all this. I've got a mother and father who will probably start worrying about me soon, and a boss who's probably already looking for someone to replace me. So if you think you can just wave all that away with a charming smile and a tough quip...”