Dirty Ties (9 page)

In matters of revenge, looking for distractions often signifies a change of heart.

Benny didn’t know revenge. It didn’t claw at her underbelly and wake her in a feverish sweat at night. But she knew
me
, and she subscribed to justice and family. I was her family as much as she was mine.

We’d worked side-by-side in this garage since we graduated from MIT eight years earlier. Her, developing and expanding on my ideas. Me, following my mother’s leads and…revenging.

My first kill was the assassin who’d sliced my mother’s throat. Took me five years to hunt him down and thirty seconds to open his neck the way he’d butchered hers.

I placed my hand against the incinerator door and let the heat soak into my palm. Eight more bodies had joined his fiery grave. I killed killers, rapists, career criminals, all of them named in my mother’s diary. All of them tied to Trenchant Media. And I wasn’t done.

But we needed money. We always needed money. Especially the way my sole employee raped my wallet.

A grin tugged at my mouth. Benny was worth every dime. To fund my endeavors and her salary, she’d designed the underground racing network and the untraceable technology that protected its secret society of gamblers, thus giving Evader a profitable platform.

Of course, no one knew who launched and maintained the network, but because the winner always advanced to the next race and I’d never lost, Evader had become the racing icon.

If I lost? Well, besides evading death at the hands of pissed-off gamblers, I’d lose my income stream, my high-paid employee, and the resources needed to finish what I’d started.

My attention flicked back to the newspaper clipping. I wasn’t looking for a distraction, and I sure as hell hadn’t had a change of heart. Revenge wasn’t an emotion. It was my inheritance, the acting force that lived in my blood and sustained my balance. It was my equilibrium.

Revenge.

I raced to finance it.

I evaded to protect it.

I killed to attain it.

I planned everything.

Once Trent Anderson announced his replacement as CEO of Trenchant Media, I would be there, donned in a suit, staring into his eyes, and smiling as I accepted the offer.

Then I would gut him, all of them, from the inside out.

Six long days passed, my waking hours spent in the office, spurts of sleep coming only when I forced it. But finally, I shed the miserable heels and the creep of Trent’s fingers, if only for a fleeting night.

I weaved the Ducati through convoys of bikers, my skin heating beneath the tight mold of my custom leathers. Hundreds had gathered around the finish line, the sputter of exhaust pipes resonating with the wild pumping of my blood.

A potluck of young men with crew cuts and athletic physiques reclined on enduros, sportbikes, busas, and zooks in a colorful array of fairings and racing leathers. These were the guys who longed to race but would probably never find the balls to throw down against a competitor like Evader.

On the other side of the street, tattooed, bearded brutes and their voluptuous women straddled choppers and cruisers. As I passed, their fuck-off vibes and explicit banter strained the chilly air and crawled down my spine.

The distant sirens, the flash of knives and guns tucked in waistbands, and the general paranoia innate to an assembly of criminals created an atmosphere that pulsed with danger. An ambiance where the country’s worst crime rate met its soul mate.

Flasks in hands, engines growling, cigarettes drooping from lips, and fingers groping exposed cleavage, this was how the roughnecks partied. A far leap from the social graces and black tie affairs I’d spent a lifetime stifling yawns through.

I should’ve been terrified. Maybe I was. Adrenaline-induced fear was part of the appeal, after all, and my body buzzed with a heady mix of excitement and caution.

Ironic how this was the world I felt most comfortable in. Here, the danger was predictable, tattooed, and armed with bullets. Unlike the office, where the threat hid behind calculating smiles and opulent charity events.

My senses on high alert, I maneuvered through the outskirts of the commotion until I spotted an empty street a couple blocks from the finish line. Evader would tear through the finish line any moment. I wouldn’t be able to see him take the win from two blocks away, but I promised Collin I’d always lay low and out of sight.

With a regretful sigh, I motored away from the crowd. I carried a Springfield .40 cal wedged in my waistband, the comforting steel warming my tailbone. I’d removed my license plate a few miles back. And I never took off my helmet, never let my visor linger on any one person. Even with these precautions, I’d fended off bikers more times than I cared to count.

It wasn’t like I couldn’t afford to hire a security team—wouldn't that have been cool?—but armed guards would ruin the whole minimize-attention-while-living-rebelliously thing I was going for.

I passed an alley close to the crowd, but it held deep, unoccupied shadows. A much better viewpoint of the finish line. Would it be safer than the open street farther down? Probably not, but dammit, I came here for a reason. To escape work. To escape Trent hounding my ass and fucking with my mind. To escape the emptiness of my bed. I came for a glimpse, for a fantasy to materialize in the flesh.

Screw Collin and his lay-low promise. I wouldn’t be front and center for the finish, but I wouldn’t miss it, either.

Backing the bike into the alcove, I lowered the kickstand and switched off the engine. Hidden and silent. A glimpse through the mob confirmed no one was looking at me, their focus locked on the race and each other.

The steel supports of the surrounding bridge rattled my bones as one of Chicago’s ‘L’ trains zoomed overhead. But this position would give me the perfect glimpse of him when he broke from the horde, his shoulders squared with aggression and his body pressed so close to the bike he might as well be fucking it. God, the man was a fearless, panty-soaking badass in black leather.

The rowdy hoots and cranking throttles escalated, followed by the distinct purr of his 999 cc inline-4. My thighs tightened around the frame of the bike as I strained my neck, searching for a gap in the press of chrome and leather.

Something shifted at the edge of my periphery. My hackles raised, and I jerked my head.

A hand swung out from behind and caught my throat. A huge, calloused hand with jabbing fingers, clamping down, threatening my airway.

My pulse spiked as I grabbed at my neck and lunged to the side, jerking away. But the hand held me immobile, tightening. I gasped, clawing at the fingers. Fuck me, this couldn’t be happening. Shock chilled my blood as my gaze flew to the key in the ignition. I reached for it.

“Don’t move.” A masculine voice to match the strength of his grip.

Keep your cool. Don’t freak out.
My chest rose and fell with the heave of my lungs. I was freaking the fuck out. “What do you want?” A squeak.

His hand clamped harder as he shifted to stand before me. Wrinkles indented his bald head. Sleeveless leather jacket, rugged jeans, and faded ink on his neck and arms, he sported the standard uniform for this scene.

His soaring height and broad shoulders blocked my view of the street. His cryptic smile drained the blood from my face, leaving a tingling chill in my cheeks.

The gun in my waistband grew heavy. Could I draw it and flick off the safety before he disarmed me? I lowered my fists to my lap and swallowed around the vise of his fingers. “Let me go.”

His hard gaze flicked over the Ducati, my leather-clad legs, and lingered on my visor, squinting as if trying to see my face through the shield. “Nice bike. Titanium parts, programmable electronic sequential gearbox, carbon fiber gas tank? Shit, you’ve got what? A couple hundred G’s in upgrades alone?”

So he wanted to rob me. A relief really, considering the alternatives.
If you survive this, buy a cheap damned bike and dress like a felon.

My muscles trembled to hand over the bike. But rage drew my fingers around my hip, reaching for the gun.

His grip squeezed painfully hard and closed off my air. Blinding agony spread through my throat, burning my lungs. I grabbed with both hands, trying to pry away his fingers, my bulky gloves hindering my ability to latch on.

He raised his free hand and scratched the stubble on his jaw with a vicious-looking blade.

Oh God, I was in deep shit. “Help.” My shout roared through my head, but it escaped without breath or sound. Time slowed as I focused on my laboring heartbeat and my desperate need for air. Surely, he wouldn’t kill me. I couldn’t die silently, right here, where hundreds of people gathered just yards away.

But my hiding spot was too deep inside the alley, smothered in darkness.
So damned stupid, Kaci.

The crowd was engaged in the race, screaming and cheering, with their backs to us. Not that they could’ve heard me over the thunder of all those engines and the passing trains above.

Black spots swarmed my vision. My helmet grew heavy, constricting, my feet kicking the pavement.

He glanced over his shoulder and back to me, deep grooves rutting his bald head. “Scream all you want. No one will hear you.” He loosened his grip but didn’t let go.

I sucked in rapid, painful breaths, my fingers gripping his, and choked, “I’ll step off the bike.”
And reach for my gun.
“Key’s in the ignition. Take it.”
So I can put a bullet in your skull, motherfucker.

He stepped back to give me room, but as I slid off the seat, he didn’t release my neck and instead used it to shove my back against the wall of the building. “What’s a rich little thing like you doing in a place like this all alone?”

The sirens grew louder, closer, and I clung to that sound with my pulse in my throat. “Cops are coming.” I kicked out a boot and collided with his shin.

He grunted, and in a blink, we became a kicking, shoving tussle of arms and legs. I yanked at the fingers on my throat and reached for the gun at my back. But he pinned me with his weight and trapped my hand between my back and the wall.

I whipped my helmet forward and crunched his nose. He roared and slammed a knee into my thigh, forcing my legs apart. I wound up pressed against the wall, one hand yanked high up my back and the cold steel of his blade against my throat.

My free hand wrapped around his wrist, trying to stay the weapon that was an impulse away from cutting me. Police sirens rang out one maybe two blocks away. I closed my eyes, opened them. “You’re out of time, Baldy.”

He laughed. “The cops have enough going on out there”—he nodded to the street—“to keep them occupied for a while.”

Fuck, he was right. Soon, they would be chasing bikes all over the city. How long would it take for a squad car to shine a light into this alley?

Too long. I bucked beneath him, screaming and thrashing uselessly, panting with noisy breaths.
Jesus, calm down.
I loosened my hold on his wrist and relaxed my fingers. Deep inhale. Exhale.

“We’re going to walk toward that door.” He thrust his chin toward the back of the alley.

A door? The realization had been there, but now it bathed my core in ice. He wasn’t here for my bike. Fear gathered in my throat, and it felt way too much like a sob. Not good, not good, oh holy fuck, not good.

The growl of passing motorcycles ricocheted through the alley, but I couldn’t turn my head to look at the street. The race must’ve ended. Everyone was fleeing.

My exhales came hot and fast, stifling the interior of the helmet. “Where does the door go?” A crowded bar? A secluded hallway?
Please let it be a bar.

He ground his pelvis against my hip, his erection shooting my pulse into overdrive. “A garage. My car. Let’s go.”

My hands shook, one wrapped around his wrist, the other pinned to my back, inches from the gun. If he disarmed me and I stepped into his car, I was dead. I twisted against his weight, each jerk sliding the blade over my throat.

The rumble of another passing bike sounded close, really close, but I still couldn’t turn my head. The burn of steel cutting the vulnerable spot beneath my chin watered my eyes and gritted my teeth.

My knuckles grazed the butt of the gun. Would he shove the blade in if I moved my arm? I would have to be quick. I jerked my hand.

A fist shot out from my left, slamming into Baldy’s jaw and dislodging the knife.

My hand went for my throat, the other for my gun, as he sprawled across the ground and cupped his nose. Blood spurted between his fingers, his wide-eyed glare locked on the blur lunging at him again. A blur of long, lean, enraged masculinity.

The owner of the unerring fist moved with lethal ferocity, black leather encasing the hard lines of his body. A body I’d recognize anywhere.