Bomb (Ruin Outlaws MC #1) (3 page)

I dress and walk into the kitchen, where Sara is finishing up cooking some eggs. I peek into the fridge and eye the contents, it’s almost all Sara’s. When I look back to her, she seems to already know what I’m thinking.

“Sure, go ahead.” She piles her fried eggs on a plate and moves to sit at the counter.

“I’m swear I'll get you more eggs someday.”

She laughs and turns back to the stove. I pull out the carton of eggs and steal the pan she was using. The look she gives me as I flick the burner back on reminds me that I'll be cleaning the stove this time. But for the price of a couple eggs, I’ll clean anything. As she starts to eat, I purse my lips and think for a moment. I crack an egg and let it drop into the pan, waiting a few more seconds before breaching the subject.

“So who was on the phone last night?”

I hear her stop chewing, but I don’t turn around. I don’t want to engage her too much, it’s easier to seem kind of aloof about it. I don’t even know why I care who she’s talking to, but maybe it’s a bit of a jealousy thing. Why is she the one always drowning in men? Why not me? I guess they're not real men, but a little attention doesn't hurt. God, am I seriously wishing for an average dude? After all my whining yesterday? Maybe I just need to get laid.

She sets her fork down with a tiny clink. “I don’t want to tell you. You’ll get mad.”

“What!” I finally turn and face her, still holding the spatula in my hand. I notice it looks kind of threatening. “Why would I get mad?”

“You always tell me I do this... but it was Mark.”

“Didn’t you just break up with him?” I mutter. I turn back to the eggs and realize one is broken. “Because he was being too clingy?”

She sighs a little. “Well... now he’s not.”

I laugh and realize she’s right. I do always get on her case about this. “Oh yeah?”

“He’s doing stuff now! He said he joined a karate class.”

“Ooh, karate,” I say. I slash the spatula through the air like a sword, complete with swishing sounds. “Right? Now you’re talking to him again, and...”

“He says he’ll change for me. He’ll do anything I want if I take him back” Sara says. She’s starting to grow defensive, but it only encourages me more. She sounds a bit cheery though.

“That’s wild, he’ll do anything? What have you made him do?”

“Nothing much yet... I dared him to get a tattoo.”

I drop the spatula and nearly dunk it into the only non-violated egg left. “A tattoo!”

“Yeah! He says he’ll get one of me, right on his shoulder.”

It sounds like a horrible idea to me, but I keep it to myself. I’m already surprised she told me this much. I finish cooking my pitiful eggs and dish them onto a plate. I join her at the counter, and we eat together, joking a bit and letting some tension melt off our shoulders. I kind of needed the laugh after the strange past couple of days.

Thinking about Mark going to look at tattoos makes me kinda queasy, but why? That biker dude had tattoos... I guess it's because Mark is an IT support guru, not a brash-looking biker. A biker with mean eyes that could swallow you up.

She finishes her breakfast and tosses her plate into the sink. I watch her move across the kitchen and back into her room, before she dances off into the bathroom.

The shower streams on, and I realize rent is due. While she's tucked away in the bathroom, I sneak into my bedroom and lift the mattress a couple of inches, revealing a nicely laid out stash of cash. I groan as I shuttle it out of the hiding space and onto the floor. Ever since I was little, I liked the idea of keeping money under my bed. Now it's become almost a necessity. After being unable to handle a debit card and several credit cards, I found the only method that worked was keeping it right under me. I felt foolish having it hidden there, like I was some kind of drug lord.

I stack a couple of twenties together and throw the mattress back down. I set the cash down on the countertop gingerly, and groan a little.

Looking at the clock, I notice I’m way early today. Might as well go in and make up for being late. Pay Becky back for letting me go home early yesterday, too.

I grab my keys and dart out the door. As I climb into my car, I realize the answer to the tattoo question. It’s okay for Mr. Biker to have tattoos because he didn’t get them for a woman. He got them because he’s an outlaw.

. . .

Driving through the intersections to get to the highway usually takes a couple of minutes at best, then only a short twenty minute drive to get to my work the next town over. Today, I figure that’s how long it’ll take, but sometimes things get in the way.

The traffic is pretty chaotic, but nothing I’m not used to. I can hear my car clattering under the hood, but I don’t know anything about cars so I ignore it. Nothing I can do about it until a mechanic looks at it anyway. I tell myself that every time I am forced to open the hood. It all looks like greek to me, in engine. Whatever that would be.

A flash of light in one of my mirrors catches my attention. It’s a motorcyclist and he speeds up in front of my car. I recognize the jacket patches from the other day, but I can’t quite see the rider’s face. My heart races when I see him, and my hands stick to the steering wheel. Great, I’m already making myself silly about some guy I’ve only seen once. I never even thought I had a thing for motorcycle riders. Sara would be awfully proud if she knew, I chuckle to myself.

I desperately want to race up and get a good look, but the minivan in front of me refuses to go the speed limit. I groan loudly and lay on my horn, hoping it’ll do anything to make the driver go faster. I see a middle finger go up in between the seats of the car. Great. Come on. I look at the motorcyclist again. Let me just look at him, just a peek.

The biker glances over his shoulder away from me, and I fume. I slam my hands on the steering wheel. The radio switches from a commercial to the DJ talking about something in the news, but I have my eyes fixed on the rider.

He twists his wrist and jets off in front of the pack of cars, including me, and into the upcoming intersection. The light is turning yellow, but I gun my car forward and swerve around the van. I can’t explain it, but I have to see if it's the same biker as the other day. I just know I'll be so pissed if I miss the opportunity. Just the chance to see those eyes again, to take a look at his tattoos. To feel that freedom and live it through him. That rush of my heart.

The motorcyclist weaves past the intersection just as the light turns red, and I’m too late. I’m jerk my head forward just as I’m passing under the traffic lights and another motorcyclist is cutting across the intersection, and I slam into him. The metal of his bike makes a horrific screech and the rider skids across the asphalt. I slam on my brakes and my mouth drops open. What the fuck just happened? My hands are shaking, and I can’t breathe.

Quickly glancing over my shoulder for any vehicles in the way, I jerk my car to the shoulder, flipping my hazards on and jumping out of my driver's seat. The motorcyclist was thrown from his bike a good thirty feet, and he isn’t moving. Jesus Christ this can’t be happening, fuck, fuck.

I flip open my phone and dial 9-1-1. Where the fuck did he come from? Was I that fucking blinded and tunnel visioned on the first motorcycle? I stare over the expansive road at the unconscious man, and pray he isn’t dead. I don’t dare step a foot closer to him. The first motorcyclist screeches on his brakes and throws his bike around the median, before howling back to the scene of the accident.

Just as dispatch picks up, another roar of engines come from behind me. The deafening sound makes it impossible to hear the voice on the other end of the line. I lower the phone for a second and search for the sound, and six motorcyclists wearing the same leather vests stream down from behind me, their bikes scorching the pavement with black lines as they slide to a stop. They scatter and maneuver their bikes with an agility I can barely comprehend, and wave the stunned drivers away from the wreckage. Hell, the police couldn’t have responded faster if they were psychic.

The woman on the phone shouts at me, “Hello? Are you there?” I shake away how dumbstruck I am and raise the phone to my ear.

“There’s been a car accident.” My voice is shaky and weak. I feel like throwing up.

“State the address, please,” she says.

I glance for street signs. “Barrister and Seventh.”

She tells me she’s notified emergency services and she hangs up. I stare at the motorcyclists as a couple of them climb off their rides and start to swarm the injured rider. One of them looks as big as a bear, with black curly hair jutting out from his back and neck. I shudder at the thought of him spotting me. I want nothing more than to curl into a ball and die. They kneel down next to the victim but don’t touch him.

A couple of them start talking amongst themselves and then one points at me. My eyes widen and my heart sinks into my stomach so fast I can hear it splash. I look for a way to escape, but I’m frozen with a mixture of fear and nausea. The worst thing is, I’m more worried I hit the biker I saw the other day.

I swallow hard and maintain eye contact with the gang of riders, and one of them climbs to his feet and starts walking towards me. I recognize him immediately. I don’t know if it’s his face so much, but the aura he gives off.

He’s the one I saw the other day. My heart quickens, more out of excitement than fear. He looks pissed. His arms are tanned as dark leather and covered in jet-black tattoos. He looks powerful, and in a way, stronger than the bear-sized man that he rode in with. Despite my creeping anxiety, I don’t break eye contact. His blue eyes seem to sizzle in the light, and the sounds of cars whizzing by and drivers yelling at me fades into the background.

He’s right in front of me now. His hand is extended. I try to look unfazed.

I notch my chin up toward him. “What is it?” I say.

“Who did you just call?” His voice is more gravely than I had guessed. I tighten my grip on my phone.

“The police, I was calling in the accident.”

He shakes his head, as if I’m an idiot. “That was stupid,” he says. I frown and lean closer to him. I can smell him now, the mixture of sweat with his masculine scent. Not the kind that can be bought in a store, but something primal and intangible. I pause to keep my composure, because the scent is heady and making me even more flushed.

“What was I supposed to do?”

“Hand it over,” he says, pushing his hand toward me again. I shake my head and toss the phone into the open window of my car. I hear it bounce from the driver’s seat to the floor. He frowns.

“Why would you do that?” He plants his hand next to my head and I fight back a shiver of emotion. His lips are dangerously close to mine, and his eyes feel like bottomless wells with light glinting off the bottoms. He doesn’t seem fazed at all. I’d argue he’s unimpressed with my behavior. I have no idea. He reaches into my car window and grabs my phone and my purse.

“Hey!” I shout, slamming my hand on his back. The black leather is hot to the touch, despite the weather being only mild. He doesn’t twitch. He reels back out of the car and examines my purse.

“What are you going to tell the police?”

I stare at him, confused. “What?” I pause and can tell he isn’t asking as a joke. I want to cower and make myself small, but something tells me that’ll make it worse. “Is he going to be okay...? sir?”

He looks at me a bit stunned, but relaxes and regains his composure. “Sir,” he repeats, as if he’s testing the sound. “That’s funny.” He empties the contents of my purse on the ground and kneels down to survey his work. I stare down at him, but a brief flash of an illicit thought appears in my mind as I see his head nearly nestled between my thighs. I can’t be thinking like this right now, I’m in shock. He thumbs through the spillage and finds my wallet. He picks it up and stands.

I don’t shake my gaze from him. “You’re not scared?” he says. He pulls my ID out of my wallet and reads it. “Cassie Clements?”

I narrow my eyes. “Should I be?” I throw my hands into the air, feeling the tension grating on my nerves.

“Depends. Are you scared that I have your address and name now?” He pockets my ID and folds his arms.

“A man named...”

He looks at me, a shallow smirk growing on his lips. I must look ridiculous. “Logan.”

I glare at him a little longer, astounded at his confidence. At least now I have a name to put to a face. And an attitude. I can’t believe how wound up I am over him, in strange and frustrating ways. He grins and turns away from me. “The men aren’t going to like this.”

I watch him return to his group of riders, and the sounds of the traffic fade back into the foreground again. For a few moments, it felt like I was trapped in some weird closet with Logan, and I don’t know how I should feel about it.

The riders are arguing about something, but I can’t tell what. After some time, one pulls out a knife and kneels down by the unconscious victim. Oh my God, are they going to kill him? He digs the knife into the leather vest and cuts it off him, pulling the front and back from his body. Why would they do that?

After gathering up the jacket, they climb back on their motorcycles and race their engines. The ambulance and police sirens sound off the buildings as they race toward the intersection, and just before they make themselves visible, the motorcyclists all ride off down the road, twisting and weaving between rubber-necking cars.

I guess they didn’t want the police to know he was part of their gang. The EMTs rush out of their ambulance with a stretcher and wrap a brace around the victim’s neck. He seems to be coming to. The EMTs are talking to him. As they carry him into the ambulance, a police officer approaches me by surprise.

“Ma’am, would you like to make a statement?”

. . .

By the time I give my statement and make it to work, I’m three hours late. Becky is ready to chastise me, but I nearly break down in tears in the back room. The weight of the entire event finally falls down on my shoulders, and I feel like puking. Between the accident and Logan’s interrogation, I don’t know what I should feel. I can’t believe my car squeaked by with barely any damage but a destroyed bumper. My air bags didn’t even go off.