Kincaid: Cerberus Mc Book 1 (3 page)

I meet the redhead at the center of the bar and drape my arm over her shoulder, turning her in the direction of the restroom sign hanging over an entryway at the back of the bar. Her hand is on my cock before we even make it five steps.

I sigh inwardly at the double standard. She’s a bar slut which makes her unappealing to me outside of this situation, but on the other hand, I’m grateful she is because it’s exactly what I need at the moment. We won’t exchange numbers; I won’t even tell her my name, and the fucked up part? She probably won’t even ask. I’d be surprised if my dick is the only one she touches tonight.

We round the corner, turning down the dark hallway, and my ears register the sound of the slap before my eyes manage to tell my brain what is going on. I see the waitress’ head swing to the side from the impact and look at the sneer on the face of the asshole that was sitting in the bar earlier; the exact one I’d assumed was her abusive asshole husband.

Fury boils over in my veins; the redhead on my side becomes inconsequential as I stride forward and punch the prick directly in his nose. The blood spray from his face isn’t satisfying enough, so I hit him again, and again. I don’t stop until he’s a whimpering puddle, crouched on the filthy floor.

I hear screaming and turn to comfort the waitress, pissed that she’s upset that I hit him, but when I turn around, it’s the redhead I was with a minute before that’s hysterical. I watch her back as she runs from the hallway. I turn my attention to the waitress who is leaning against the wall with a hand clamped over her injured cheek.

“You okay?” I ask taking slow, measured steps in her direction.

She pulls her eyes from the man on the floor to mine and then back down to him. I see the fear the second it hits her face, and I hold my hands up and take a step back. I’m pissed that she’d be afraid of me too but understanding of the situation.

“I’m not going to hurt you, darlin’.” I drop my hands to my side and attempt a casual, non-threatening pose, which is a chore because of my size and build.

Without taking her eyes from him, she says, “He’ll kill me for sure now.”

She raises her eyes to mine at the growl that came unbidden from deep in my throat. “He won’t have the chance.”

I reach for her and guide her by her elbow to the rear exit off of the dark hallway we’re standing in. She seems dazed, and I look over at her wondering how much damage he caused when he struck her. The cool night air that hits us seems to pull her from her trance.

“Wh… what are you doing?” She asks as the door to the bar and the noise of the jukebox closes behind us.

“Getting you out of here,” I tell her and point to my bike parked near the street. “Get on.” I swing my leg over the seat, hit the kickstand with the back of my boot, and wait impatiently as she stands there looking at me like she’s never seen a man on a bike before.

“Get on,” he repeats.

My head is spinning, and my brain can’t even piece together what just happened in the back hallway. I knew the minute that creepy biker grabbed my hand I was going to have to defend my actions to Bobby. I hate working at this bar. It has gotten me hit more times than I care to count.

Bobby insists I work here because he likes having the cash from my tips in his pocket every day. I voiced my opinion once about working in a café or restaurant, because patrons are less grabby when they’re drinking coffee or soda and not beer and hard liquor. That suggestion ended with two black eyes and instructions to never bring it up again. Apparently I’m “decent looking and make more money with the drunk guys.” I also pay dearly for their actions because of the situation I’m thrown in every night.

My entire life is lose/lose at this point. I don’t want to die, and I’m certain that’s exactly what will happen if I stay here. That reasoning is how I justified getting on this motorcycle with a man I know absolutely nothing about and wrapping my arms around his waist as he tore out of the parking lot. I don’t know how long the reprieve from Bobby will last, but I plan to take every single second I can get.

The bike begins to slow, and I pull my cheek from its position on his back. I swipe at the tears running down my face, hoping to be rid of them before he notices. He pulls into the parking lot of a closed gas station and parks in the shadows. I’m trembling uncontrollably as he turns off the ignition and climbs free of the machine.

The silence after the engine is cut is deafening. Suddenly I’m more aware of my surroundings and more than a little apprehensive to be in the dark with a stranger who’s covered in tattoos and the president of a motorcycle gang.

You get hit daily by a man who wears a suit to work
, my brain reminds me. That fact doesn’t calm my nerves, though.

“I have to go back,” I tell him as he pulls his phone from the front pocket of his jeans.

He raises an eyebrow at me like I’ve lost my mind. Then his face changes and he gives me the look. The same look I get from co-workers. The same one the doctors gave me at the ER the last time I went. The one that says ‘this woman is pitiful for staying with an abusive man.’ The one that also looks like the ‘she must like it if she sticks around’ look.

I hang my head, ashamed; just like I’ve done each and every other time I’ve been looked at this way.

“I didn’t grab any of my things,” I finally mutter raising my gaze to his. I’m met with understanding, golden-brown eyes. My heart pounds harder in my chest with unexplained emotion; none of which resembles the fear and apprehension I felt just moments ago.

Safe
, my mind whispers.
You’re safe with him.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” I want to close my eyes at the sound of his low timbre.

“Em… Emmalyn,” I tell him.

He gives me a small smile and then turns his attention to his phone, hitting a few things, and then holding it to his ear.

“I need you to take care of something,” he says into the phone rather than a customary greeting.

My eyes snap to him, and the first thought I have is the “something that needs to be taken care of” is going to be Bobby. I shuffle off of the bike and take a few steps toward him. I don’t do it to protect Bobby; I couldn’t care less if he met his final demise, but I don’t want others getting in trouble for a situation I put myself into.

“I need you to head to the bar and get Emmalyn…” He holds the phone away his mouth in a questioning manner.

“Mikaelson,” I answer.

“I need you to get Emmalyn Mikaelson’s belongings from the bartender.”

“Have them ask for Gina. She’ll get my things for me,” I tell him quickly.

He relays the message. “I’m switching hotels. I’ll message you later with the info.” He pauses while the other person speaks. “I’ll explain everything later.” Another pause and a light laugh. “Yeah, it has something to do with that.”

He ends the call and begins to make his way back to the bike. “You coming?” he throws over his shoulder before the machine rumbles back to life.

“Like I have a choice,” I mutter looking around the deserted parking lot that’s situated in a not-so-great neighborhood.

I climb on behind him and brace myself for the pain. Each and every bump and mild jostle is killing my already injured ribs and by the time we pull into a small motel a few miles away I’m near sobbing again. I pray I get my things soon, even though I’m sure the Tylenol I have in my purse won’t be strong enough to ease the pain I’m in.

I wrap my arms around my waist as he climbs off of the bike. I’m unable to pretend anymore, and I’m unconcerned about the tears streaming down my cheeks. He turns back to me, and I feel the heat from his body he’s so close. I look up at him and gasp as he reaches a hand out and wipes away the tears from my face with cold, wind-blown fingers.

“He’ll never hurt you again,” he vows in a gentle voice. A voice that has no business coming from a muscled up biker. I nod my head, refusing to explain my injuries. The look of pity hitting his face again is not something I can handle right now.

“Come on,” he says calmly with a hand outstretched.

I get off the bike and stand close to him, but I don’t reach out and take his hand. He lets it fall without presumption or anger as we walk into the lobby of the clean, but small motel.

“I don’t have any money,” I tell him just now realizing why we’re at a motel.

“It’s a good thing I do then, huh?” he says playfully as he opens his wallet and pays for the room with only a fraction of the cash he has.

I busy myself with the rack of travel pamphlets while he takes care of the rooms. I make a mental note to log the amount so I can pay him back for my room.

“Ready?” he asks startling me.

I take a step away from him once I realize how close he’s standing next to me. “I’ll pay you back,” I whisper and hold my hand out for the key to my room.

Rather than handing me a key, he takes my hand in his. Not wanting to be rude after he’s been so generous, I keep it there but let it hang loosely. No matter how much I want to bend my fingers and grip his hand the way he’s gripping mine I keep my fingers straight. I don’t what to think about how comforting the simple touch is.

He walks to a door just a few yards from the lobby and opens it with the key card the clerk apparently gave him. He lets the door swing open and stands out of the way so I can enter first. A biker with manners? Not a stereotype I would have imagined.

“Well, thank you,” I say turning back to him to find him walking into the room as well. I stiffen. “I’ll pay you back for the room.”

“Nonsense,” he says closing the door behind him.

“What are you doing?” I ask hesitantly as he begins to pull his leather vest off.

He angles his head like he’s confused. “Getting comfortable.”

I shove my hands in my pocket and take a step back. “Umm… shouldn’t you be doing that in
your
room?”

He chuckles softly, sits on the chair in the corner, and begins to unlace his boots. “This
is
my room, darlin’.”

“Like hell!” I belt out without thinking. I clamp my hand over my mouth and take another step back. My back hits the wall, and suddenly I feel like a cornered animal.

The smile on his face fades when he sees me. His hands move from the laces of his boots to his knees as he leans back in the chair.

“Emmalyn.” He clamps his lips together before continuing. “I’m going to sleep in this chair.” He pats the arms with his big hands. “And you’re going to sleep on that bed.” He points to the huge bed on the far wall.

I’d argue with him, but arguing has only caused me more pain in the past. I’m well aware that this man is not Robert Mikaelson, but Bobby is not the only man on the Earth to ever hit a woman.

“I don’t even know your name,” I whisper as if this will make him change his mind and leave the room.

He stands from the chair and slowly gets within arm’s reach of me. Holding out his hand he says, “My name is Diego Anderson. Most people call me Kincaid.”

I quickly shake his warm hand and pull mine back. “Kincaid?” I ask with a drawn brow.

“It’s my road name,” he explains as he sits back down and begins to work on the laces of his boots again.

“What should I call you?” I walk toward the bed and sit tentatively on the edge.

He follows me with his eyes, his hands still on his boots. “Anything you like,” he says with a wink.

I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m not having sex with you.”

His smile grows, but he doesn’t respond.

“If that’s your expectation because you paid for this room, then I should just go.” I stand and begin to walk toward the door.

He leans deeper into the chair. “You want me to give you a ride home?” I cut my eyes to him quickly, knowing I’m going to find a shitty ‘this or that’ look on his face.

His smile is gone, and the look on his face seems sad, but I’m not a hundred percent sure of the other emotions that are flickering there.

“So that’s the deal? Have sex with you or you take me back to my husband?” I feel the sting of threatening tears behind my eyes.

I see what is no doubt anger flash in his eyes. Leaning forward, placing his elbows on his knees, he narrows his eyes at me. “I would never coerce a woman to have sex with me. You’re not safe at home. I know that. You know that. But you sure as hell aren’t safe leaving this room and wandering around in the middle of the night.”

I cower slightly. I can tell he’s angry at the situation and not me, but I’m well aware of how quickly people can divert their anger.

“You have no reason to be afraid of me, Emmalyn, but I understand that you’re leery. There’s no telling how long you’ve had to question each word that has come out of your mouth, wonder about each and every action and what kind of reaction it may cause from that asshole husband of yours. That guy,” he says pointing out the door. “I’m not that guy. I’d never hit a woman. I’d never hurt a woman, and that includes giving one an ultimatum to have sex with me.”

My nerves calm slightly at his words.

“You’ll sleep in that bed, and I’ll sleep on this chair,” he repeats.

I know I can’t go home. Ever.

I drop my hands in defeat by my side and walk back over to the bed. After kicking my own shoes off, I crawl under the covers and keep my eyes on him. Once he’s finished with his own boots he heads into the restroom, but I keep my eyes on the door and watch him wearily as he settles back down on the chair across the room. It doesn’t look comfortable, but that’s not my problem.