TAKE ME, OUTLAW: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance

by Zoey Parker

I'd originally figured the more wine she drank, the more relaxed she'd be and the more sleep she could get. Had part of me hoped she'd get drunk enough to make a move on me, though? I didn't want to believe that about myself, but it was hard to ignore the thought.

  When she got on the floor naked next to me, I knew I should have stopped her. But after seven years in Potawatomi, a stiff breeze was enough to give me a hard-on, and the fact was that I just didn't have the willpower to stop her when she'd seemed to want it so badly. I'd even wanted to take it further, but after she'd finished massaging my cock, the inevitable post-climax moment of clarity made me see what a mistake it would have been.

  And now what? She talked a good game about being cool with it, but would she expect something from me now? Did she want this thing between us to be more than it was now?

  For that matter, did I?

  I put the phone to my ear, listening to it ring on the other end. Boomer picked up. “Devil's Nest. An' Sperm, if you're doing another one of your stupid prank calls, the refrigerator won't be the only thing running...”

  “It's Rafe,” I chuckled, fishing a cigarette out of the pack and lighting it. “But hey, since I got you on the line, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”

  “Ha ha fuckin' ha,” Boomer said. “That would be funny if the dickhead hadn't actually tried it two hours ago, as though he fuckin' just thought it up himself or somethin'. I swear, he must be gettin' these things from a book he found in a public toilet. Anyway. How're you holding up out there?”

  I caught a glimpse of myself in a car windshield, with the blonde hair and the outfit. “I've changed more in the past two days than I did in seven fucking years in the slammer,” I said, taking a long drag from my cig.

  “Well, as long as your cock's still the same length, I guess,” Boomer quipped. “If you're callin' about Rosie, we went up an' grabbed her yesterday, no problem there.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I wasn't, but that's good to know.”

  “So what can I do for you?” Boomer asked. “Are you close to squaring this thing so you can come back an' collect yer patch?”

  “I'm not actually sure,” I said. “Seems like every step I take forward, I get knocked a couple steps back. There was something else I wanted to ask you about Angelo, though.”

  “About that weird gold gun thing?” Boomer replied. “'Cause I gotta tell you, the more I've been thinking about that, the less sense it makes...”

  “Yeah, well, I just got some new info on that,” I said. “What if I said instead of carrying a gold gun, Angelo was wearing some kind of gold ring? Would that ring a bell?”

  “I dunno,” Boomer answered. “That makes about as much sense as the gun thing, to be honest. I mean, it's not like any of us have spent time around Angelo recently, not since the thing between you an' Jester. But still, walkin' around wearin' gold jewelry an' shit? That would have been too gaudy for a guy like Angelo, so...” He trailed off for a moment.

  “Boomer?” I asked, flicking my ash away. “You still there?”

  “What finger would this ring have been on?” Boomer asked. “Do you know?”

  “Yeah, uhh...” I hesitated, trying to remember. “The right middle finger. Why?”

  “Fuck,” Boomer said. It sounded like all the breath had been knocked out of his body.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Do you know if the ring had anything engraved on it?” Boomer said.

  “I don't know,” I answered. “It might have, but the person I got this info from wasn't close enough to see it that clearly. I mean, she only just remembered it was a gold ring instead of the whole gun. What aren't you telling me, Boomer?”

  Boomer took a deep breath. “It's mostly a rumor,” he began. “Somethin' that popped up about a year or two ago. People started talking about some kind of secret society that was forming within the crime families in Chicago. They called it The Family of Thorns. Real old-world Sicilian shit, like some kind of mafia-within-the-mafia.

  “Membership was kept under wraps for the most part, since their loyalty to each other outranked their loyalty to their individual organizations. They'd do deals with each other under the table, even if the rest of their gangs were on the outs with each other. Which would be enough to get 'em in deep shit if the gangs they were pledged to found out.

  “But whenever one of them gets inducted into the Thorns, they get a gold ring with the Sicilian flag symbol on it—a Medusa head with three bent legs around it in a circle, and three stalks of wheat or some shit. They're supposed to wear it on their right middle fingers. Most of 'em keep the rings turned around so the symbol's on the inside, to keep a low profile.”

  Well, that certainly didn't sound like good news. “So if a guy like Angelo were to suddenly start walking around with a gold ring...”

  “Yeah,” Boomer said. “That'd mean he's one of them. Which means Jester probably is, too, if Angelo's still his right-hand guy.”

  “So what else is known about these Thorn guys?” I asked hopefully. “Is there any way to find out how many there are, or where they hang out?”

  Boomer sounded uncertain. “There is, maybe, but...”

  “Come on. What is it?” I asked. “Anything could help. I'm gettin' desperate, here.”

  “Bard's on pretty friendly terms with Hollis Grady, the Chicago Police Superintendent. They've got some history together, and...”

  “Wait, what the fuck do you mean Bard's 'on friendly terms' with the city's top fucking cop?” I asked. Bard may have had a whole bookish, meek-and-mild routine in place to catch people off guard, but he was the most badass outlaw I'd ever known. The idea that he could be ratting to the cops on the reg and that Boomer didn't seem to have a problem with it...

  “Chill out, man,” Boomer continued. “We all thought it was pretty weird too when we found out, but it turns out they were in the war together or somethin' an' they don't usually discuss business with each other. Grady pulled our asses out of the fire a little during that thing with the Bonaccorsos. He seems like kind of a decent guy. Y'know, for being one of the pigs, I mean.”

  I took a deep breath. That was a lot to process, and I just didn't have the time. “So you think he'd be able to help?”

  “It's a slim chance, but maybe,” Boomer said. “He'd have access to the CPD's files, and probably any intelligence the FBI has picked up on them. But like I said, Bard's the one who's got a relationship with him, an' Bard doesn't know I've been helping you out. If I ask him to reach out on this, there's no reason to believe he'll say yes.”

  “I get that, totally,” I said, finishing my cigarette and tossing it. “But Boomer, if there's anything at all you could do for me here...”

  Boomer sighed. “I know, I know. I'll do what I can. Okay?”

  “That's all I ask,” I replied. My phone started beeping at me, and it took me a second to realize it was the call waiting. And since the only other person who had this number was Snoops...

  “I gotta go,” I said. “Thanks again, man.” I switched the call over and put the phone to my ear again. “Snoops?”

  On the other end, it sounded like a war zone. There were distant gunshots, and I could hear people yelling. “Rafe, it's me,” Snoops said. His voice sounded faint. “Two guys on bikes just came to The Flytrap, tossed a grenade through the window, an' then lit the whole fuckin' place up with Uzis. They killed half the people inside, went in to get somethin', and then hopped back on their rides an' zoomed out. We tried to stop 'em, but...aw, hell, they killed Marley an' I got shot in the belly...”

  Fuck, I thought. So much for grabbing breakfast. I turned around and started running back to the motel room. “Did you see which way they were going?” I asked. “What highway they were heading for?”

  “Yeah,” Snoops groaned. “They were goin' toward I-94. Rafe, whatever this is about, trust me, you don't wanna go up against 'em...not these guys...too much gun...” Snoops sounded like he was fading fast.

  “Don't worry about me, Sn
oops,” I said, leaping up the steps to the room. I could hear sirens in the background, and Snoops coughing wetly. “Just hang in there and wait for the ambulance to show up, okay? I'm sorry, man. I'm so fucking sorry I put you in the middle of this.”

  “'S okay,” Snoops whispered. “We're...Reapers, right? We...stick...together...”

  I heard a clattering sound, and realized Snoops had dropped his phone. I hoped he'd make it, but I knew I had to act before it was too late.

  I had to head them off on I-94 before they could get to Chicago, grab whatever they'd snatched up, and hope like hell it could help us somehow.

  And I had to dodge bullets from Uzis while I was at it.

  Chapter 25

  Jewel

  I heard Rafe's key card in the lock a moment before he threw the door open. “We need to hit the road,” he said, throwing the duffel bag over his shoulder. “Now.”

  After the past couple days, I'd gotten pretty good at hurrying when he told me to. I gathered up my belongings and headed for the door immediately. “Where are we headed? Milwaukee still?”

  Rafe shook his head as we raced down the stairs. “Too late for that. Whatever the thing is, Jester's people already showed up and grabbed it. They're heading back down I-94 now. We need to stop them before they reach Chicago. You go check out and I'll get the car started.”

  I ran over to the motel lobby, my head still throbbing and now spinning with questions. I was worried that my anxiety and rushing would make the clerk suspicious, but the middle-aged woman's flat, glassy eyes barely left the screen of the lobby's TV set as she took my room key.

  I was about to leave quickly when I heard someone mention Milwaukee on TV. I stopped in my tracks, turning to look.

  The set was tuned into a local news show. A young female news correspondent in a loud blue blazer with wide lapels was standing in front of what used to be a nightclub, and was now a smoking, bullet-pocked wreck. Police cars and emergency vehicles surrounded the front, and huge crowds were gathered behind yellow crime scene tape. EMTs were loading bodies on stretchers into ambulances. The buzzing drone of helicopters could be heard above.

  “The scene outside of the Milwaukee nightclub The Flytrap is one of chaos, confusion, and devastation this morning, in the wake of a shocking attack that happened just moments ago. According to bystanders, two men on motorcycles threw an explosive device through the front window, then entered with machine guns and systematically executed all of the employees, including two waitresses, a hostess, and the manager. Upon exiting the club, the attackers engaged in a brief gun battle with several members of the local chapter of the War Reapers Motorcycle Club. So far, their involvement in this—and the motives of the gunmen themselves—remain unknown.”

  “Crazy shit, huh?” the clerk asked. “Just a few miles away from here, an' it looks like goddamn Beirut.”

  I nodded vaguely in her direction and walked to the Saab, getting in on the passenger's side. Rafe had gotten it started and was drumming his fingers on the dashboard nervously.

  “That took a while,” Rafe said, pulling out of the parking lot and driving toward the highway. “Was there a problem?”

  “Not exactly,” I answered. I felt a lump of fear quivering high in my throat, and it felt difficult to talk around it. “They had the news on, and they were showing footage of what happened in Milwaukee.”

  Rafe glanced at me, eyebrows raised. “Jesus. From the sound of your voice, I'm guessing that looked like some apocalyptic shit.”

  “That would be a good word for it, yeah,” I replied. “Rafe, this seems insane. There has to be someone we can go to about this instead of throwing ourselves in harm's way. I mean, the idea that we're actually driving toward the men who killed all those people instead of going in the other direction as fast as we can...”

  Suddenly, Rafe jerked the car over to the emergency lane of the highway and hit the brakes, making us screech to a stop. He leaned over and grabbed me by the wrists, his eyes blazing into mine with an intensity that was almost blinding.

  “Listen,” he growled, “I know you don't know a lot about me, but here's something you should get straight right now. In the seven years I was in the slam, I survived four different guys trying to kill me. Since I got out, nine more have tried. And guess what? I'm still here without a mark on me. And I don't give a goddamn if Jester comes at me with a fucking army. I'm grabbing whatever those guys are carrying and I'm using it to take Jester down hard, even if I have to take it off their dead motherfucking bodies. Now is there anything about me that you've seen over the past two days that makes you think I'm not serious?”

  I thought of the fights and shoot-outs I'd seen since I'd been with Rafe. They were all terrifying, but every time, he'd handled himself just like a hero from one of my dad's Westerns—keeping me safe, acting fearless in the face of danger, and taking out the bad guys even when the odds were stacked against him. I also thought about the massive weapon in the duffel bag, and how something like that might possibly even the odds a bit.

  Part of me still wanted to run to the nearest state trooper and tell them the whole story so they'd take me away from all this, but what if what Rafe had told me before was true? If even half the cops were in on this, how could I be sure I'd run into the right one? How could I be sure that even the right one wouldn't turn me over to the wrong one without even realizing it? I imagined being marched behind the state police barracks and shot through the head before I'd have a chance to tell my story to anyone who could help.

  Rafe scared me, especially the way he was looking into my eyes at that moment. But pretty much everyone and everything else was scaring me a lot more, and deep down, I was certain that Rafe would be able to protect me.

  There was something else I had to consider too, though. Rafe had said he'd do whatever it took to “take Jester down hard.” Not to protect me, because clearly, this wasn't about me—or at least, not as much as Rafe wanted me to think. There was something going on between Rafe and Jester, something from before Rafe watched me witness a murder and swooped in to take me away from all that. Something Rafe still wasn't telling me.

  I thought about the feel of his big hand around my wrists—secure but a little painful. I thought about what happened the night before, and how much I'd wanted to go even further with him.

  I thought about the fact that in spite of everything, I still wanted that.

  “Okay,” I said. “I'm still pretty freaked out, but I'm in.”

  “Good,” Rafe answered, getting back on the highway as fast as the speed limit allowed. “We all get a little freaked out the first couple times someone hands us a gun and we find ourselves deep in the shit. That's natural. But it's important to keep your head. Like right now, every cell in my body's telling me to floor it, but the last thing we need is for a cop to stop us, so I have to stay under the limit, even if it feels like we're fucking crawling.” He banged on the steering wheel to emphasize the last two words, and I realized how nervous he was, even though he was trying to hide it.

  “How will we know who we're looking for?” I asked. “The news said it was two bikers, but...”

  “I'll know them when I see them,” Rafe said. “My guys back in Chicago told me what to look for. They're called the Chayner brothers. Apparently, they're hard to miss.”

  That certainly sounded ominous. My mind conjured up images of a pair of inhuman brutes loaded with guns and bombs, riding motorcycles with mounted chainsaws and flames shooting from their engines. From the destruction I saw on the news, it wasn't hard to believe.

  “So who are they?” I asked. “Some kind of super-assassin commandos?”

  Rafe glanced over at me. “They're men with guns,” he snarled. “They'll bleed when they're shot and they'll shit their pants when they die, just like anyone.”

  Chapter 26

  Rafe

  I knew it had been a mistake to get so intense about Jester when talking to Jewel. She'd already proved plenty of times that she was
sharp enough to pick up on clues, like the fact that my determination to see this through had a lot more to do with my feelings for Jester than my feelings for her. I was pretty sure that if I'd frightened her any more, she'd have bailed out of the car and gone running for the first cop she could find, never mind my bullshit about how they were “all in on it.” Maybe she was even still thinking about doing that.

  So yeah, I'd fucked up. But the truth was, my frustration was starting to eat me from the inside like battery acid. Time seemed to stand still in Potawatomi, and while I was in there, my rage was like a bug preserved in amber—frozen in time, a perfect specimen to be studied from every angle. But ever since I'd been released and rode out to take Jester apart, I could feel the rage shaking loose and flowing through me, filling me with volcanic fury I could barely control.

  Part of it was the time I'd lost thanks to his frame-up, sure. But the more time I spent with Jewel, the more I felt anger on her behalf, too. I was grateful for the information she'd been able to give me about Jester, but she should never have had to deal with any of this bullshit.