Stolen: Hell's Overlords MC (28 page)

A new thought occurs to me suddenly. What if I’m being set up? Cesar said it himself—the Diablos have eyes everywhere now. Could they have been watching me this whole time, waiting for the right moment to swoop in and take me out? Or maybe Cesar himself sold me to them. Whatever it takes to save his own hide. Self-preservation is the only god he worships. It wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibilities for him to trade my life in return for his own. I growl. The last place I want to end up in is a ditch tonight.

I sweep my eyes across the room, looking for cameras or anything else I might find. I see only what has been here the whole time. The room is small, eight or ten feet across, lined with black leather couches and red lamps set into recesses along the wall. A set of double doors leads back to the main room. No one is in here except for me.

Adrenaline courses through my veins. I need to move, now. I’ve been in one place for too long. Only idiots park themselves in foreign territory and wait around patiently like a kid at the bus stop. That’s begging to get killed. Dying in Mexico is not on my bucket list. Motion, exit, immediately. No time to waste.

The second I jump to my feet, the door bursts open and a flying blur slams into my chest. I’m a quarter second away from whipping a knife out of my belt and plunging into the person’s throat when I realize with a jolt who it is.

“What the fuck?” I exclaim.

“They’re after me!” Rose shrieks back. She’s panicked, eyes wild with fear. I can tell she doesn’t even know who I am yet. She’s running blindly from something that is scaring the living hell out of her.

The universe is a weird bitch. Call it fate, karma, whatever the fuck you want, but every now and then it throws things together in a way that reminds people we aren’t so goddamn important after all. We’re pool balls on a billiards table, getting bounced around whether we like it or not. This is one of those moments where something comes at a man when he least expects it. The only thing to do is keep on rolling.

“Come with me,” I order. I grab her hand and start to drag her along behind me towards the door. She comes willingly at first, but when I feel her heels dig in, I stop and turn around.

Her mouth is agape. “What…what are you doing here?” she gasps.

“I don’t think we have enough time to play twenty questions,” I retort. “Are you in danger or not?”

Her mouth flutters open and shut like a fish. She’s in full fight or flight mode, but my sudden reappearance in her life has clearly thrown a wrench in the works. She looks like a robot short-circuiting. “Yes,” she manages to splutter after a few precious seconds tick by.

“Then let’s go.” I’m all action. Motion feels good. It gets the gunk cleared out of my system. I need to move, act, respond, ride like the wind. I turn back to the door and start to walk, but Rose reins back on my arm again.

“What now?” I spin around to ask her, exasperated.

“They’re following me! The men!”

Without another word, I pivot back to the door and squat low, resting my ear against it. The bass is loud every time it hits, but in between notes, I can hear the rising tide of shuffling feet and enraged voices churning in the main room.

Boom.

“Hey, what the fuck, man?”

Boom.

Glasses shattering. Something heavy slams into the floor.

Boom.

A female voice shrieking.

Boom.

Heavy, booted footsteps sprinting up a ramp.

Boom.

Two sets of steps. “We’re coming for you, bitch!” a furious voice proclaims. I know exactly who the fuck they are. I wait until the door handle starts to twist. The second I see its rotation begin, I throw the full weight of my body into the door. It flies outward on its hinges. The hard edge catches one man squarely in the center of the forehead. I hear an ugly crack. He stumbles backwards and collides with his partner behind him. Limbs tangled, they both go tumbling back down the shallow ramp they had just run up, cursing. I see the trail of wreckage they made as they’d run across the room. Drinks are broken, shards of glass strewn across the floor. Patrons stand angrily, looking on in fury and astonishment at the scene unfolding before them.

I don’t wait to see how the men react. The bass booms again, rattling the building to its foundations. I seize Rose’s hand in mine.

“Which way out?”

She points. We run. Zigzagging down a crooked hallway, we reach a side entrance and burst into the night. It’s black and sticky with humidity outside. The air hugs the inside of my lungs as our feet pound the pavement of the parking lot.

My motorcycle stands gleaming at the far edge of a circle of light cast from overhead. We cross the asphalt towards it. I don’t stop to ask for permission from Rose before grabbing her by the hips and tossing her across the back of the seat. I mount, yank the key in the ignition, and bellow, “Hold on!” over my shoulder before gassing the engine. Tires squeal as we rip out into the night.

There’s a storm coming. We need to get out before it’s too late.

Rose

We’re screeching down the street, making one wild, hair-pin turn after another. Each time we round the corner, the man in front of me leans the bike low enough that I could easily touch the surface of the street if I wanted. As it is, I’m too terrified to do anything but cling to his abs and pray I don’t die like this.

My whole body feels shaky and insubstantial. I’m sure he can feel my fingers trembling against his muscles, but he doesn’t stop or slow down for a few long minutes. Only after we’ve roared across to the other side of town does he reduce the speed. The shrieking wind in my ears begins to relent. My pulse, though, continues to hammer away at the inside of my veins.

I don’t look up until I feel the bike come to a halt. Raising my face from where I’d had it pressed against his broad back, I take a glance around.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“Behind my motel,” the man answers. He runs a hand through his dark curls. Those green eyes are like lighthouses in the night, cutting an emerald swathe through the darkness.

My throat feels like it’s going to close. “Your motel? We need to get out of here right now! They could be after us!” I’m tugging at the roots of my hair, pacing back and forth, huffing and hyperventilating.

“That’s what they’re expecting,” he says to me, his voice low and in control. “There’s only one road out of this town, and it’s thirty-odd miles of open desert before the next scrap of civilization. My bike’s fast, but it doesn’t exactly blend in, and they’re bound to have eyes all along that route. We wouldn’t even make it halfway right now without getting captured. We’ll have to wait until morning, when we can blend in with other traffic.”

“I don’t care!” I’ve never had a panic attack before, but that’s the only thing that can explain the bile rising from my stomach and the dizziness spiraling in front of my eyeballs. My skin is static electricity; my nerves are hoses with the water pressure cranked too high. Everything feels like it’s about to burst or collapse or both. “We have to leave! Right now!” My voice is a high-pitched yelp. I hardly recognize it.

He crosses the distance between us. I step backwards, but I bump into a cinderblock column and freeze. It’s just like the canyon cliff in my dream. He’s in front of me and there’s nowhere to go. “You need to calm down and lower your voice,” he cautions. 

“Calm down? Calm down? I’m freaking the fuck out!” I yell. “Those men followed me! They know where I work! They want to kill me, just like they killed Lucila!” All the colors from the world are draining to the bottom of my vision, faltering like a TV tuned to a dead channel. The bush-lined courtyard, the metal sheen of the bike, all of it is overstimulating and vanishing at the same time. I feel faint. My muscles are giving out. The blood is pumping too strongly for me to stay conscious.

Everything teeters on its edge, threatening to tip over and knock me off balance. If it does, I don’t think I’ll ever get back to my feet. Nothing will stay rooted. The horizon is tilting. I’m fading, fast. Goosebumps stand along the backs of my arms. I’m so cold. The black is getting darker.

“Breathe,” comes his voice, piercing through the gathering shadows. I want to cling to it like a life raft in a storm, but I keep losing sight of him. I feel his hand on my neck, supporting my head when it wants so badly to sag forward, but his touch seems far away, too, just like his voice.

Hands scoop me up. Strong, powerful hands, plucking me from the ground and slinging me across his torso like a baby. I feel him running. We bounce across the courtyard, down a hallway, up a flight of stairs. A door flings open. All of this comes to my senses like sound through a mile of cotton. It is a series of signals, no emotion attached, hardly an ounce of recognition. Color is gone, replaced by light and dark, and the former has almost disappeared, too. I won’t make it back if I pass out. I’m almost there. Almost gone.

My throat is almost completely sealed now. The shaking in my hands has intensified. I’m slumping and spasming at the same time, my body a minefield of crossed signals and muscles firing at the wrong moments. Through it all, the veil of unconsciousness keeps dropping lower and lower. I hear the biker’s voice like he’s far away. “Stay with me, Rose.”

The sound of my own name reels me back in a little bit. The blackness recedes, if only for a moment. “How do you…how do you know…my name?” I mumble through lips that feel too fat, too heavy to manage words. The syllables are sloppy and slurred. “I don’t even know who you are.”

“I’m Vince.”

The taut ring of his name is like a bucket of cold water in the face. I feel myself regain an ounce of control over my disobedient body. My feet hit the floor softly. My spine straightens a crucial degree. I stop retreating within my head. My breathing is still too rapid and shallow to provide oxygen to my fingertips, but for the first time in several long seconds, my lungs manage to suck in a mouthful of air. I say his name to myself again.
Vince.
It’s so strong and sturdy. I want to hang onto the word itself. It’s the only thing keeping me upright. Well, that, and his hand on my neck.

“Good,” he counsels. He’s leaned me against a wall. We’re inside somewhere. His motel room, judging by the look of it. Dingy furniture, yellow light flickering from a lamp next to the bed. “Breathe again. Deep.”

I heed his advice, inhaling hard through my nostrils. Air squeaks past my panic-swollen throat and races into my greedy lungs. The tingling in my face eases.  When my chest is as full as my ribcage will allow, I exhale. A deep sigh rushes between my lips. The jumpy lines of the world settle back into place. I find my balance again. The ground is no longer rocking, trying to throw me off my feet.

Still, Vince’s hand on my neck is the strongest tether I have. I wrap my fingers around his wrist and cling hard to it. He barely seems to notice my weight. His eyes stay locked on mine. God, they’re so green. It’s too much color. I feel like I’m going to pass out again. I close my eyes.

“Again,” he orders. I’m fresh out of willpower. All I can do is listen. I breathe in deep and then out slowly. My blood eases its pounding, though it leaves a stinging headache in its wake. “Again.” In. Out. Calmer. Calmer. Calm.

When I finally have control over my breathing and body again, I open my eyes. He hasn’t blinked or moved. The same eyes are staring at me with the same overpowering intensity. “Keep breathing,” he tells me. I manage a quiet nod.

I’m standing with my back against the closed door of his room. Vince is standing in front of me. His fingers are wrapped protectively around the back of my neck, keeping me upright while I breathe as slowly and controlled as I can manage. Behind him, the motel room looms, cramped and dusty.

His face is unreadable. It’s intense but caring, as furious as it is tender and concerned. “Are you okay?” he asks.

I swallow. My spit tastes sour and metallic, like days-old blood. The back of my throat is as dry as the desert outside. “Yes, I’m okay,” I rasp.

His eyes narrow. “What happened?”

I blink hard and think back on the insane series of events I just plowed through. “Those men…they came in the club. They were looking for me.”

“The ones who attacked you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know who they are?”

I shake my head. “I’ve never seen them before last night. They came to watch the shows. I asked if they wanted drinks, but they told me no. But then, later…” I trail off. It’s hard to form the words. Vince doesn’t say anything, just stares at me with those impossibly bright eyes. “They hurt my friend,” I say simply. “I walked in on it. I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t supposed to see. But they saw me and chased me outside.”

“That’s where I found you.”

“Yes,” I repeat. I blush. “Thank you for that.”

He is silent for a while. His eyes roam over my face, taking in every plane and crevice. “Your name is Rose.” It’s not a question.

“And yours is Vince.”

There is a crackling tension building between us. It started low at first, but with every successive word, a new spark leaps up and ignites the next layer. The soft hush of Vince’s breath moving through his nostrils is like a bellows to the heat beginning to rise in my cheeks. His smell and his hand on my skin stokes things ever higher.

“I think this belongs to you,” he says. He extends his closed left fist towards me. I look down, confused. It’s not until he flips his hand over and unwraps his fingers that I see what he’s holding.

My name tag glitters in his hand. I see my name in block letters against the grain of the cheap metal. I look at him. “Thank you,” I say. I start to reach for it, but I hesitate. My hand pauses in mid-air. It feels like there’s an aura around him, some kind of invisible, shimmering field that if I cross into, I’ll never be able to escape. I can’t yet decide if that scares me enough to stay away. The heat climbing between my legs screams no. It says go forward. It says touch him.

My fingertips brush ever so gently against his palm as I retrieve the name tag. I don’t break eye contact. Just as I start to pull my hand away, he clamps down, capturing my hand within his. “Are you in the habit of kissing any man you meet in strip club parking lot?” he asks. He’s joking, but there’s a serious intentionality behind his eyes. It’s powerful, overwhelmingly so.

“I get the feeling you aren’t just ‘any man,’” I say. My bravado surprises me. I don’t even know where it comes from. I’ve never said anything half that clever in my life, but I open my mouth around Vince and shocking things come out.

He smiles. “Ain’t that the truth.” Then he kisses me.

The kiss is teasing and delicate at first, barely there, just enough to tantalize me further. He nips at my lips with the edge of his teeth, catching my flesh for a tiny nibble before releasing with a sigh. The hand he is holding on the back of my neck draws me towards him. I don’t resist. That would be impossible.

I lean into his embrace. When I inhale, the air is rich with his scent. It fills my nostrils and sweeps into my lungs. I like the idea of pieces of him swirling through my bloodstream. He’s everywhere—under my hands and against my lips, in my mouth and cascading down my veins from the center of my chest out to the tips of my fingers.

He puts his hands on my hips, picks me up, and pushes me back against the wall, cupping one palm beneath my ass to support me. I wrap my legs around his waist and lock my ankles behind his back. With the way we’re kissing, his abs grind through my jeans and panties against my slit, sending shockwaves rippling through me. Our bodies rock gently together, exacerbating the motion. Each time we break apart to find a new position, we exhale a dissatisfied moan at the same time, too hungry for each other’s touch to stay away for long.

It’s a lover’s embrace, like I’ve known him forever, even though we’ve barely spoken. The only thing I know about him is his name. A sane, rational Rose would get the hell away from this whole situation. All I have to do is think about Lucila to realize that sleeping with a stranger is a horrendous idea. But I don’t seriously consider stopping, not even for a moment. This kiss is too electric and his body is too warm around mine to let go. I need anchoring, solidity, and Vince is both of those things right now. He is a six-and-a-half-foot statue with lips like a cloud and a tongue that keeps finding new, never before seen ways to flicker into my mouth.

A man like him can’t be real. I’m not one hundred percent certain that this is real life. Maybe I passed out during the panic attack and this is all a crazy hallucination, one I’m going to wake up from with a blush you could see from space.

But then again, if this isn’t real, how can I explain the fine detail of his stubble rasping against my face? How can I simply be imagining the fever blooming where our hips meet? He’s more than a dream, more than a fantasy. He’s something else entirely. More real than real.

“Don’t let me go,” I tell him. If he stops touching me, I’m afraid I’ll wake up. This will all dissolve into blurry pixels and I’ll come to just to realize that I never even made it out of the parking lot, that those men in black are staring down at me beneath the harsh glare of a streetlight, unzipping their pants and preparing to do to me exactly what they did to Lucila—use me before they bury me.