Outlaw’s Ink: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Metal Monsters MC) (Outlaw Rogues Book 4)

by Sophia Gray

  She was getting dizzy and sick to her stomach, and as the world around her started to become a miasma of wavy lines, she realized she could no longer tell if it was a heat mirage or if her own vision was becoming blurred from dehydration.

  Why had she been so insistent on parking in front of the bank and witnessing a crime that morning? Why had she been dumb enough to lean out of the car and yell out to the robbers? Why had she insisted on treating this whole thing like some kind of amusement park ride instead of taking it seriously and staying out of harm's way like most sane people would?

  Most of all, why had she believed it was a clever idea for them to ride across this hellish stretch of nowhere? And on horseback, no less?

  If only she'd spent her day off at home, she could be inside with the air conditioner cranked as high as it would go. She could be drinking cold beers and dozing off on her couch while watching the harmless cops and robbers on TV, instead of being threatened by real ones and risking a lonely and agonizing death in this parched wasteland.

  She thought about all of the times she'd foolishly believed that there could be no worse fate than spending a long, boring, miserable life in a town like Cactus Hollow. But oh, how wrong she'd been.

  Her pinto suddenly brayed with fright and reared up, and Billie saw that a rattlesnake had crossed its path. The rattler bared its fangs briefly, then continued on its way. But even as it slithered out of sight, the sound of its rattle still filled Billie's ears until it seemed to press against the backs of her eyeballs. She felt a nauseating lurch as she saw the ground spinning up to meet her.

  Before she could fall over, a firm hand clamped on her shoulder, steadying her. Clyde was next to her on his own horse, his eyes filled with concern.

  “You okay?” he asked. His cheeks and forehead were bright red, and his lips were cracked. His long hair was plastered to his sweaty neck and temples.

  Billie nodded and tried to lick her lips to respond, but her tongue was like sandpaper. All she could do was let out a croak.

  “Here,” Clyde said, extending his own water bottle. There were still a few drops swishing around at the bottom. “Drink the rest of this.”

  Billie took the bottle gratefully, its clear plastic burning her fingers as she gulped down the last of its contents. It felt like it had been warmed on a stove top, but at least its moisture broke through the web of sticky dryness that filled her mouth and throat.

  “Thank you,” she managed, coughing and tossing the bottle to the ground.

  “Take this,” Clyde said, shrugging off his leather vest and handing it to her. “Drape it over the top of your head. It should give you a little shade and ward off heatstroke for a while longer.”

  She placed it on her head carefully. The leather was hot and the manly musk of his sweat clung to it, but it kept the sunlight from beating down on her brain like a drum.

  “How close are we to the woods?” Clyde asked.

  “Couple…more…miles,” Billie wheezed.

  “Do you think you'll be able to make it?”

  She tried to laugh, but all that came out was a gagging sound. “Fuck you care? No more hostage, no more problem, right? Save you guys th' trouble've killing me.”

  “No one's going to kill you,” Clyde said. “I won't let anything bad happen to you, I promise. You just need to hold on for me a little longer, though, okay?”

  At first, Billie thought he was just telling her what she wanted to hear so she'd pull herself together and get them to the shack faster. But when she looked into his eyes, she could see that he meant it. There was real kindness and compassion in them which she'd never seen there before.

  “Just...tell me y'r real name, okay?” Billie asked. “Just so I can...put in a good word for you...up there. Heh...seems like you might end up...needin' it...”

  He hesitated for a moment, then leaned in and whispered into her ear. “Carter. My name's Carter.”

  “Carter,” she repeated through dry, cracked lips. “Wow. Shitty name. Should've...stuck with Clyde.”

  “Just stay strong and hang in there a few more minutes, and you can call me whatever you want,” Carter said.

  He really is a sweetie after all, she thought as whole galaxies of stars twinkled and popped in her peripheral vision. That's nice. Who would've thought? Big bad biker, caring about little old me. That's nice. Doesn't matter, since we're going to die out here with the snakes and the scorpions. Still, that's nice. That's...

  Reality was pulled out from under her then, but instead of falling down on the hard sand, she felt a pair of strong arms wrap themselves around her and pull her up, up, until everything went white and she was sure she was being carried by an angel up to heaven. A voice was calling her name.

  How lovely, she thought. Someone up here must be expecting me.

  Chapter 16

  Panzer

  Panzer used his sleeve to mop the sweat from his brow as he and Broyles looked down into the ditch. Federal agents were swarming over Henry Sunday's white sedan, tossing aside the corn stalks that camouflaged it and searching for evidence. The sun was just starting to turn red and sink behind the horizon.

  “That car was faster than a greased weasel,” Panzer muttered. “So why the hell did he get rid of it so soon after grabbing it?”

  “You don't get many thieves around here, do you, Sheriff?” Harbaugh sneered.

  “Virgil Mendlow's grandson once stole a couple candy bars from Pembleton's Pop Shop 'bout two, three years ago?” Broyles offered.

  “Jesus, Broyles,” Panzer sighed.

  “He ditched the car to throw us off, you banjo-plucking nimrod,” said Harbaugh. Despite his harsh words, his tone was distant and contemplative as he mulled this over. “He rode it just far enough to be sure we were still looking for Ms. Rosewood's red coupe, and once he figured enough time had passed for us to discover that Mr. Sunday's car had been stolen, he rolled it down there and continued with her on foot.”

  “They couldn't keep going like that for long, though,” Panzer pointed out. “They'd have to either steal another ride or find someplace nearby to hole up.”

  “There's no way they'd go to ground anywhere near here,” Harbaugh said, shaking his head. “Based on their patterns of behavior after their previous robberies, they'll want to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the scene of their last crime. Still, the fact that they were willing to split up during their escape tells me that they must have arranged a place to meet up afterward, just in case they got separated. Are there any motels nearby?”

  “Sure,” Panzer replied, pointing toward each one as he listed them. “There's The Whippoorwill Motor Lodge and The Canasta Inn over that way, and in the opposite direction there's The Red Rider Motel.”

  “Shit,” Harbaugh snapped. “I guess our best option is to have your deputy call each motel to see if they've had bikers check in, or if any cars have been reported stolen from their parking lots. That's if he isn't too busy filling out his application for Mensa.”

  “Naw, I got plenty of time,” Broyles said, taking his cell phone from his pocket and walking a few feet away.

  “You shouldn't keep makin' fun of him like that,” Panzer mumbled. He could feel his face turning red again, but he didn't care. Broyles may not have been a brain trust, but he still didn't like seeing him get publicly belittled by some grouchy fed from out of town.

  “Sheriff, you're absolutely right,” Harbaugh retorted. “There's nothing to be gained from that kind of behavior, and I apologize. If anything, I should be saving all of my derision for you, since it'd be so much easier for us to figure out which motel they checked into if you'd bothered to get reliable descriptions of them in the bar.”

  “Look, maybe I didn't memorize every tiny detail about these guys,” Panzer huffed. “But I'm not blind either, okay? I got the basics. Not that you bothered to ask earlier when you were too busy callin' us all hicks an' such.”

  “Sure. The basics…that they were breathing a
ir and wearing pants?”

  Panzer fumed, but remained silent.

  “If only we could lift one goddamned usable print,” Harbaugh grumbled, more to himself than anyone else. “At least then we'd probably have a rap sheet to circulate, and known associates to look into. But based on the zilch we were able to collect from the red coupe, he must be wearing gloves, and there's no reason to believe he'd have taken them off in this car.”

  Broyles returned, tucking his cell phone back in his pocket. “I spoke with them managers?” he began. “Ain't no one checked into The Canasta all day, but The Whippoorwill an' The Red Rider both had new people come in an' reserve rooms, includin' two or three who looked like they could be biker types. None of 'em had any of the vee-hickles reported stolen from their parkin' lots, but they're gonna go double-check just in case they ain't been noticed missin' yet.”

  “So now we've narrowed it down to two places, in opposite directions from each other,” Harbaugh said. “Swell. By the time we rule one of them out and focus on the other one, these jokers will probably have a massive head start on us.”

  “Agent Harbaugh!” one of the feds called out from the ditch. “You oughtta come look at this.”

  Harbaugh smiled, tossing the cigarette away and carefully stepping down to the side of the ditch. “What is it, Mulcahey?” he asked. “Please, tell me there's a God and you found some prints after all.”

  “No fingerprints,” Mulcahey said, “but there's a big, dusty bootprint from where he must have kicked the dashboard.” He pointed out the dirty tread pattern stamped on it.

  “Better than nothing,” Harbaugh admitted, peering at it. “Can we match it to any of the prints in the mud around the car? That would tell us which way they headed, at least.”

  Mulcahey and the other agents examined the mud for a few moments as Harbaugh looked on.

  “Looks like they went toward The Whippoorwill,” Harbaugh observed. “We may as well send out people over there to check out the rooms, even though they're most likely long gone by now.”

  Broyles' cell phone buzzed and he answered it. “Yeah, Clem? Really? Okay, thanks fer lettin' us know.” He hung up again. “The manager at the Whippoorwill said a couple motorcycles went missin' from their parkin' lot. No way of knowin' when they were taken exactly, since their owners was takin' a nap in their room durin' the theft.”

  “Only two motorcycles,” Harbaugh mused. “So they must have decided to split up again. Two went ahead on the bikes, while the third went a different way, presumably with Ms. Rosewood.”

  “Who was dragged along under duress, no doubt,” Panzer said.

  “You keep peddling that theory,” said Harbaugh, “and I'll keep telling you it's bullshit. If she's really being held against her will, then I'm the Lone fucking Ranger.”

  “Even assuming you're right about that—and I'm still sure you're not—how the hell could they keep moving without stealing anything to ride?” asked Panzer. “There aren't any other stores or parking lots over in that direction. There's just farms, and beyond that, there's too much desert to cross on foot without burning to a crisp or dying of thirst.”

  Harbaugh frowned. “Farms? What kinds of farms?”

  “Well, there's Pete Crabtree's soybean field,” Panzer said. “And there's Red Hawley. He grows corn, mostly. But other than those boys, and Old Man Tiller's horse farm…”

  “A horse farm,” Harbaugh said slowly. “Sheriff, I think we should get over there as fast as we can.”

  “You mean you don't wanna check out The Whippoorwill after all?” Broyles asked, scratching his head.

  “They wouldn't be stupid enough to still be there,” said Harbaugh. “And if I'm right, this Tiller fellow might have been the victim of a crime, too. One he hasn't even found out about yet. Now come on, let's roll.”

  Harbaugh walked toward his car. Panzer followed, wondering what the fed was talking about and hoping like hell he could find a way to bring Billie home safely.

  Chapter 17

  Billie

  Billie felt something cool and damp pressed against her cheeks and forehead. She opened her eyelids slowly and saw that she was in the wooded area from her childhood, lying on soft dirt and leaves. Carter was crouched over her, naked from the waist up. He was using his wet t-shirt to gently dab at her face, which felt badly sunburned. Above him, the boughs of the trees waved and rustled in the faint breeze. Somewhere nearby, she could hear the sound of flowing water.

  Even though she was groggy, she still couldn't help but admire his well-defined pecs and abs as the last few rays of sunlight played across them. She almost reached up to run her hands over them reflexively, until she remembered that it would be inappropriate given the nature of their relationship so far.

  “Hey, you're awake,” Carter said, smiling. “Good. I was doing my best to cool you down, but I don't know a lot about how to treat heatstroke. The helmet usually does a decent job of that when I'm riding, you know?”

  “Water,” Billie gasped.

  “Yeah, there's a little stream over there,” Carter said, tilting his head in the direction of the water sounds. “I didn't really have anything to put it in so I could bring it over and give it to you, plus I didn't want to risk pouring it down you while you were unconscious in case you choked. Do you think you can move over to it? If so, you can cup your hands and drink that way, like I did.”

  Billie nodded and tried to sit up. Carter carefully put his arms around her and lifted, half-carrying her. Together, they made their way over to a narrow stream running between some rocks and patches of wildflowers. The horses were bowing their heads over it and lapping up the water.

  “Here, let's get you upstream so you won't be slurping down any horse spit,” Carter suggested. “I guess fish still fuck in it, but it's better than nothing, right?”

  He carried her a few more feet and lowered her again until she was perched next to the stream. She put her trembling hands together and dipped them under the water, pulling out enough to gulp a mouthful of it before the rest slipped through her fingers. She repeated this process again and again.

  “That horse you picked for yourself is a tough one,” Carter said. “Mine barely made it, but yours stayed strong right up to the end, even with you slung across its back. Still, it's a good thing this stream was close to the edge of the woods, or I'm not sure we would have survived more than a few more steps.”

  Billie nodded, taking one last handful of water. Her head was finally starting to clear, and her mouth no longer felt like there was cement hardening in it.

  “Thank you,” she said. Her voice was still a little raspy. “You saved my life.”

  Carter's eyes shifted downward, and he looked slightly embarrassed. “Well, a dead hostage isn't worth much, as far as I can tell. Anyway, I'm glad you're okay.”

  “How are you?” she asked. Even in the shadows of the woods, she could see that Carter's face was beet red. It looked painful, and she wondered whether her own sunburn looked worse.

  “I'm fine,” he said. “I'm damn near starving to death, though, since I haven't had anything to eat since yesterday. Everyone always says breakfast's the most important meal of the day. Guess I should have listened to them, huh?”

  “I didn't have breakfast either,” Billie said. Her stomach rumbled, and she realized that with all of the action earlier that day, she hadn't had time to feel particularly hungry. Now, though, she discovered that she was ravenous.

  “Well, if you can find this shack you were telling me about, I can try to find us something to eat,” said Carter. “I'm not sure how much luck I'll have, though. I haven't seen many animals around, and I have no idea which plants are edible and which ones are poisonous. I'm not in that big a hurry to find out, either.”

  “We could always eat the horses,” Billie joked.

  Carter snickered. “What are you, French or something?”

  There was a brief silence, and then suddenly they were both on the ground, rolling around and la
ughing hysterically. The joke wasn't that funny, and Billie didn't know whether one or both of them were still suffering the effects of heatstroke, but in that moment it was somehow the most hilarious fucking thing Billie had ever heard in her life. She cackled helplessly until tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “So, where is this shack supposed to be, anyway?” Carter asked, trying to compose himself as chuckles bubbled out of his mouth uncontrollably.

  “It's about a quarter of a mile from here,” Billie said as her giggles finally started to die down. “Here, help me up again and I'll show you.”