Ranger: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Cold Angels MC) (Bad Boy Bikers Club Book 4)

by Naomi West

  Where were we going? Through bleary eyes I watched as the city passed us by, the lights streaming around us. Was it possible that this man, whoever he was, wanted to take me out to the middle of nowhere and finish the job himself?

  No, I told myself, that wouldn’t make any sense. Why would he save me just to kill me?

  The thought of how close I’d come to death made my stomach turn. A sickly feeling of nausea spread outwards from my belly. Between the speed of the bike and the hard turns the man was making, not to mention the mental image of Maxwell’s body, I wanted to retch. But I knew that wouldn’t be a good idea if I didn’t want him to spin the bike out of control.

  I closed my eyes hard, doing all I could to force down the nausea. Thankfully, the bike began to slow down. A few more turns later and we came to a stop in the gravel parking lot of what looked to be, judging by the neon signs in the windows, a bar.

  The man killed the engine and I leapt off the bike, running like a wild woman to the nearest bushes.

  “Hey!” he called out as I ran. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  He must’ve been thinking I was making a break for it. But as soon as I reached the bushes I dropped to my knees and let it rip. There wasn’t much in my stomach—I hated eating before performances—but whatever was in there went right into the dirt.

  Still on my knees, I heard the crunch of gravel under boots.

  “Shit,” spoke the man. “You really let it rip.”

  I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and stared blankly at the ground in front of me. The nausea was gone, but I didn’t want to budge. I didn’t have it in me.

  “Come on,” said the man. “Get up and let’s go.”

  I shook my head.

  “Ah shit,” he said.

  Then I felt his strong, thick arm wrap around my waist once again. I wanted to thrash and squirm and try to break free from his grip, but I didn’t have it in me. And he was likely too strong for me to even come close to overpowering him, even if I hadn’t been in a total daze.

  He threw me over his shoulder, carrying me like a sack of flour. I craned my neck around his body and spotted a few guys in leather and denim in front of the bar, carrying on and smoking cigarettes. Muffled rock music played through the bar.

  “Yo, Ranger!” called out one of them. “Who you got there?”

  Ranger. That was his name. Or, at least, his nickname.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he barked back.

  “Never thought you were into unconscious chicks,” said one of them.

  “Yeah,” said another. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  “Shit,” said another. “If I wanted to bang a girl who just laid there, I’d call up my ex-wife.”

  The men broke out into raucous rough laughter, the sound banging against my head like a hundred little hammers.

  “Where’s Dakota?” said Ranger, ignoring their jokes.

  “Same place he’s always at,” said one of the men. “Why?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Ranger.

  “Whoa,” said one of the men as we approached the bar. “Is that girl okay?”

  “She’s fine,” said Ranger. “Been through some shit.”

  He threw open the door, the rock music getting louder and clearer as we stepped inside. As Ranger made his way across the bar, I heard a few men and women call out to him, trying to get his attention. But he blew them off with gruff replies as we went deeper into the bar.

  It was the last place I wanted to be—after what had happened, I didn’t want to see the inside of another biker bar for as long as I lived.

  Ranger threw open another door and we stepped into the back hallways of the bar. The sick feeling returned—the back hallways of a biker bar had been where I’d only recently come very, very close to something terrible happening.

  “Almost there,” said Ranger. “Just hang on for a few more minutes.”

  I mumbled something in response. I don’t even think I managed to form complete words.

  Ranger opened another door and I saw that we were in a small room with a leather couch and a desk, the window looking out over the back parking lot. He heaved me onto the couch, the fabric soft against my skin.

  As soon as he did that, another pair of footsteps entered the room. The men began talking, and I did my best to follow along.

  “Shit,” said the other man. “What the fuck’s the story with this girl?”

  “Some shit I need to tell Dakota about right-a-fucking-way,” said Ranger. “He up in his office?”

  “Yep,” he said. “Been waiting for you to get back.”

  “Well, I’m here,” said Ranger.

  “He’s going to want to know why there’s some passed-out chick in the back of his bar.”

  “I know,” said Ranger. “But I need to make sure she’s okay.”

  A moment passed as the two men appeared to consider what to do with me.

  “Wait, is Angie here?”

  “Oh, good call,” said the other man. “She totally gets off on the mothering shit.”

  “Go get her for me, would ya?”

  “Sure, sure.”

  I rolled over on the couch, taking in the sight of the room. It was a little office, whiskey bottles here and there, posters for motorcycles and metal bands on the walls.

  Ranger stood over me, and I didn’t have the energy to glance up and take a look at his face. But something about him seemed so familiar.

  “Fuck,” he said, taking a seat on the edge of his desk. “What the fuck am I going to do with you, little lady?”

  I mumbled something into the leather.

  A minute or so later, the door opened, and a set of light footsteps that I recognized as a woman’s entered the room.

  “Shit,” she said, her voice light but tough. “She looks like a damn mess.”

  “She’s been through some shit,” said Ranger. “Some major shit a girl like her wasn’t ready for.”

  “Looks that way,” the woman said.

  A beat of silence passed.

  “Okay,” said the woman. “Dakota’s upstairs and wants to know what the hell’s going on. Why don’t you get up there and fill him in. I’ll worry about the girl.”

  “Sounds good,” he said. “Thanks, Angie.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Ranger stepped over to me once again.

  “Relax,” he said. “You’re safe now, little lady. For better or for worse.”

  I mumbled something else, and Ranger stepped out of the room and shut the door behind him.

  Once he was gone, the woman squatted down at the side of the couch.

  “Hey,” she said, putting her hand on my shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

  Something about her touch, soft and caring, made me feel calmer almost instantly. And her voice carried true concern.

  I took in a deep breath and spoke.

  “I’m … I don’t know.”

  “You want to tell me what happened?”

  Tears formed in my eyes as I thought back to the events of the evening.

  “Max … Maxwell …” I said. “They … killed him … and they wanted to kill me too …”

  “Shit,” said the woman.

  She gave my shoulder a light squeeze.

  “Don’t worry, kid,” she said. “You’re safe now, just like Ranger said. I’m going to get you cleaned up and taken care of. Can you open your eyes?”

  Doing so seemed like an impossible task. But I focused and I did it, laying eyes on the woman in front of me.

  She was a pretty woman, looking to be in her late twenties or early thirties, with hazel eyes and fair skin, a mop of curly brown hair on her head. She was dressed in tight blue jeans and an even tighter white T-shirt, one that showed off her dark bra through the fabric. Her arms were covered with tattoos. But despite her tough exterior, kindness and concern seemed to radiate from her. I felt a little better right away.

  “Why don’t we start
with names?” she asked.

  She placed her hand on her chest.

  “I’m Angela,” she said. “But everyone calls me Angie. What about you?”

  “I’m … I’m Cassie,” I said.

  They were the first coherent words I’d managed to speak since Ranger had taken me out of the other bar.

  “Nice to meet you, Cassie,” she said. “Now, you don’t need to tell me about what you went through—I bet it’s tough enough just thinking about it.”

  She was right about that.

  “Tell me, are you hurt? Like, physically?”

  I shook my head.

  “No,” I said.

  “That’s good,” said Angie. “That’s really good. Now, what I’m thinking is that you need a nice warm shower and some clean clothes. Then after that, you can get some sleep. A good night’s rest would be the best thing for you—no doubt about that.”

  I wondered for a moment why she mentioned “clean clothes.” Then I looked down and saw why—there was a streak of vomit on my shirt from when I’d upchucked in the bushes.

  “Come on,” said Angie. “Can you get to your feet?”

  “I think so,” I said.

  “Then let’s give it a try.”

  I took a deep breath and let my feet drop onto the floor. Once that was done, I focused my energy and rose off the couch. I still felt a little unsteady, but I was on my feet.

  “There you go,” she said. “Now take my hand and I’ll get you up to the shower.”

  I stuck out my hand and Angie wrapped her fingers around it. Slowly, she led me out of the room and into the hallway. After a short time, we arrived in a surprisingly clean bathroom, the smell of fresh flowers in the air.

  “This is the little girls’ room,” said Angie with a smile. “No boys allowed, which is why it doesn’t look like the bathroom of a truck stop. Now, you need some help getting out of those clothes?”

  “No,” I said. “I think I’ve got it.”

  Angie nodded before stepping over to the shower and turning on the water. She stuck her hand under the rushing stream until she seemed to determine it was nice and hot.

  “Go ahead and take your time. I’ll grab you some sleeping clothes. Just knock on the door when you’re done.”

  “T-thanks,” I said.

  “Of course,” said Angie.

  Once I was alone, I stripped out of my clothes and stepped into the shower. As soon as the hot water hit my body, I felt like I’d been snapped out a trance. The shock wore off, and I was right back in the present moment.

  It all came rushing back—the sight of Maxwell’s dead body, the gun in my face, and the mad rush out of the bar.

  I realized how lucky I was to still be alive.

  I washed up, trying over and over again to remind myself that I was safe. Or, at least I hoped that I was. I didn’t know any of these people, and for all I knew, they were trying to gain my trust for their own ends.

  But that explanation struck me as hollow. After all, Ranger had gone out of his way to keep me safe. He could’ve left me to die, or gotten rid of me at any point. Instead, he’d gone to the lengths of making sure I was alive and cared for. And Angie seemed to have my best interests at heart.

  When I was done in the shower, I wrapped a towel around my body and knocked on the door.

  “Ready?” asked Angie from the other side.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  The door opened a crack and Angie handed me a small pile of sleeping clothes. I put them on and opened the door.

  “There we are,” said Angie. “You’re looking better already.”

  “I feel better,” I said. “Lots better.”

  “Now let’s get you some sleep.”

  She led me up a flight of stairs to the second floor, and then to a door. Angie opened it and revealed another small office, this one with a couch with a folded blanket and pillows set on top.

  “It’s not much, but the couch is comfy. And it should be nice and quiet in here.”

  I walked over to the couch and took a seat.

  “I’m going to lock the door,” said Angie. “No one’s going to bother you. But if you need anything, you pick up that phone and dial my number—I wrote it down for you.”

  “Thank you, Angie,” I said, meaning it. “Thanks for everything.”

  “You got it, girl,” she said with a warm smile. “Now get some sleep and we can figure this all out in the morning.”

  With that, she shut the door. When she was gone, I set my head on the pillow and closed my eyes.

  I was out within seconds.

  8

  Ranger

  I knocked back a shot at my usual table at The Red Thorn, the Cold Angels HQ and the bar where I’d brought the girl. Rick, the bartender, had given me a shot glass and a bottle of whiskey, just like I’d asked, and I was content to chain-smoke and get shitfaced while I waited for Dakota to get with me.

  I’d done the right thing—of that I had no doubt. If I’d shown up a few seconds later that poor girl would’ve had her brains blasted out over the wall behind her. What the fuck else could I have done? Just let it happen?

  It had all been instinct. I might’ve been a hardass, but seeing an innocent girl in danger was something I couldn’t stand for. Those pricks had deserved every last punch I’d given them—maybe even a few more than that.

  I threw back another shot, frustrated that I’d only been able to work up a solid buzz. I’d drunk so much whiskey in my day that it took damn near a bottle to even get me kind of sauced. But then again, I thought, maybe that was for the best. Shit was about to go down, and I had a feeling I was going to need to be clearheaded for it.

  The girl popped into my mind again, like she’d been burned into my thoughts the same way a bright light lingers in the middle of your vision after you’ve stared at it for too long.

  She was fucking beautiful—no goddamn doubt about that. Gorgeous strawberry blonde hair, grass-green eyes, and a body that every man in this bar would beat each other to a pulp just for a chance at. My cock twitched in my jeans as I thought back to how good it had felt to have her arms wrapped around me on the back of the bike, her full, luscious tits pressed against me.

  Focus, dammit, I told myself as I poured another shot and lit another cigarette.

  I’d probably put my MC on the brink of a war, and all I could think about was pussy.

  By the time I’d killed half the bottle, Stan, one of the lower-level guys in the Cold Angels, approached my table.

  “There you are,” he said. “Dakota’s looking for you.”

  I wasn’t looking forward to telling Dakota what I’d done, but I knew there was no getting around it. Sure, I might’ve thought that saving the girl was worth the risk, but I wasn’t the man who had to deal with all the consequences. As the president, he was.

  I swiped the bottle and my smokes off the table and followed Stan out of the main floor of the bar. The place was as wild as it usually was on a Saturday night, and part of me wished I could ignore my troubles and get shitty drunk with the rest of the boys. But I didn’t have that luxury tonight.

  The two of us made our way to the back hallways of the bar and were soon up on the third floor, where Dakota’s office was located. Stan gave the door a quick rap before heading off.

  “That you, Ranger?” his gruff voice called from inside.

  “Yup,” I said back.

  “Get your ass on in here, then.”

  I opened up the door to Dakota’s office and stepped in. The office was high up on the third floor, the large window in the back looking out over the downtown area, the skyscrapers like shards of light cutting into the night sky.

  It was a big space with a bar, a large desk, and some fancy Italian leather furniture that Dakota’d had custom-made. He wasn’t really the kind of guy to go in for luxury, but he was the sort of boss who knew the importance of making anyone who stepped into the office know right away that he was the man in charge.

 
Dakota was seated behind his desk, his jet-black leather boots propped up on top of it. He was a tank of a man, six-and-a-half feet tall and built like a brick wall. His hair was fire-red, matching his thick beard. A large, deep scar traveled from his forehead straight down to his jaw—a souvenir from a gang fight back when we were both up-and-comers. Like the rest of us, he was covered in tattoos and dressed in leather and denim, his kutte adorned with patches.

  “Sit,” he said, his voice deep, gruff, and stern.

  I plopped into the chair across from his desk and yanked the top off my bottle of whiskey.

  “You want some?” I asked, waving the bottle.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s see it.”

  I tossed him the bottle and he caught it midair, bringing it to his mouth with a single fluid motion. He drained nearly every last drop in there and tossed the empty bottle into the trash.

  “That’s the least you owe me for what you pulled tonight.”

  “Fair enough,” I said.

  “You want to tell me what happened?” he asked. “Why the fuck you were on Heretics territory to begin with?”

  “I take it Angie filled you in?”

  “She gave me the broad strokes,” he said.

  “I was there checking on Jackson,” I said.

  “And how is he?” asked Dakota.

  Despite the shit going down, Dakota still wanted to hear about one of our old crew. He was tough as hell, but the man cared for each and every one of us like we were his own blood.

  “Good,” I said. “Still doing the family thing.”

  Dakota grunted in approval and nodded for me to go on.

  “There was some chick there,” I said.

  A wry smirk formed on Dakota’s lips through his beard.

  “I wonder how many shitshows that’ve happened since the dawn of fucking time began with those words.”

  He was probably right about that.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “Some cute little thing playing her guitar on stage. I got to talking with Jackson and asked him why the fuck a girl like her was in a bar like that all by herself.”