The Run (The Hell's Disciples MC Book 4) (4 page)

Taking a deep breath, she peeks up at me and laughs, saying more to herself than me, “Of course you ride, duh.” Fishing a tiny jacket out of her bag, she throws it on. It doesn’t cover much, but it might keep her from freezing to death when it gets dark. Next she starts fucking with her hair, putting it up in a ponytail, flipping it around and shit.

I’m slowly running out of patience here and I’m drifting towards annoyed. I’m not in the mood for her indecision or how she wants to wear her hair.

“You ready or what?” Without waiting for her, I jump on the bike just as she grumbles “stupid asshole,” under her breath. I can attest to the asshole part, but not so much on the stupid.

“Grab on to my—”

“Don’t worry, I know,” She assures me. Placing her hands on my shoulders, she throws a leg over and settles in behind me. Clearly this isn’t her first ride. It takes her a few seconds of fidgeting and scooting around before she’s situated herself comfortably against me.

“You gonna ride at night with those on?” she asks, tapping on my shoulder. Her question catches me off guard.

“You gonna sit still so I don’t dump us?”

“Yeah.”

“Then we’re good. You hold on and I’ll take good care of you.”

“Pretty sure that’s not safe though, she says, like she’s got to have the last fucking word. She should shut the fuck up and let me do what I’ve been doing for years. I’m in no goddamn mood for lessons on safety from a woman about to room with a stranger.

“Listen, you’re more than welcome to stay your ass right here, but if you wanna head up to the mountain, you should shut it and let me fucking worry about the drive. It’s your choice, but I’m not gonna sit here and listen to you bitch and moan over every little thing, got it?” Her silence is all the answer I need. Yeah, that’s what I thought. “Now, shut up and hang on, baby.”

Lennon

This isn’t how I want to be living my life, but that doesn’t matter. I run, then I run some more till I run from something bad to something worse. I go anywhere and everywhere with no real purpose or thought, but I always keep myself busy by running wild about it. Always on the move with no real direction I’m always busy running wild.

As much as I hate it, I love it with the same intense passion. But that’s just me; mind always changing, just like my scenery.

I live from moment to moment with no expectations. The thing about my life is it’s unstable and ever changing, but for what it lacks in consistency, it makes up for in fun—unadulterated, careless fun.

I had zero expectation when Lil told me they’d found me a chill place to lay low for a while. Oregon, a place I haven’t been to in years, is going to be my place of solace for a while, but I’m not complaining. Beggars can’t be choosers, right?

The Hell’s Disciples didn’t have to help me out, but they did. They offered their help, and for that I will be forever grateful. So, when they told me I’d be staying in Oregon, I smiled and thanked them. Oregon will be my new home, at least for now.

I don’t know anyone from the Oregon Chapter of the MC, but I don’t believe Lil would send me off somewhere, or with someone, that was unsafe.

Buck, my escort and roomie, is definitely not what I was expecting, except he’s exactly what I should’ve expected. He definitely looks the part and acts the part; tall, broad shouldered, grease stained jeans, tattoos. With his boots and cut to set the look off, he’s most certainly a biker through and through. He’s rude, crude, and bossy, but I’m used to that kind of man.

This guy, Buck, isn’t handsome or sexy. He certainly isn’t ugly, but he’s not drool worthy either, yet he’s everything. I knew it the moment I watched him roll into the lot. He’s the bad boy in the back of class all the girls secretly swoon over, but would never admit to liking. He’s that dirty, smart-mouthed, badass you’d secretly fuck for the weekend when your man was out of town. He’s a side-fuck—socially unacceptable and parentally hated—yet he’s everything right about the wrong side of the tracks.

His hair is long on top and short on the sides. It screams “brush me” as it flops and sticks out to one side. It’s a mop of a mess with no style. A dark beard covers damn near half his face, and dark brows draw down in a permanent scowl, rounding out a perfectly pissed-off face. 

Buck is stuck somewhere between mad as fuck and permanently annoyed with a grumpy crease worried across his forehead. His nose is crooked and his lips are barely noticeable under that beard, but I’m sure they’re pressed into a tight line. He doesn’t look nice or friendly.

When I woke up this morning I definitely didn’t expect to be sitting on the back of a stranger’s bike—hands locked on to a solid torso and my chin resting on an unfamiliar shoulder—riding off into the sunset. But it is what it is. This isn’t my first stranger and it won’t be my last.

New and different people come with the territory. I’m no stranger to strangers. I find comfort in others like myself. They understand me, they get the need to be free and to run, as far and as fast as possible.

Buck may be new, a stranger, but soon he’ll be a friend, and then he’ll be a memory—a time and a place in my life. And even though he may be new, I can feel it in my bones when I look at him; he’s just like me.

So, I settle in and get comfortable with Buck because right now, he may be a stranger, but he’ll offer me a kindness like only strangers do; giving help to someone he doesn’t yet know. After all, that’s how friends are made, when two strangers meet.

An hour has turned into two and I’ve molded myself onto Buck. I lay my head against his back and breathe him in, savoring the smell of this man. He smells like clean laundry, fresh cut wood, grease, and just a touch of the sweet smell of liquor. It’s intoxicating.

His tattoos run up both arms. One is completely sleeved, while the other runs from elbow to wrist. The work, done in black ink, is a jumbled mess of art and scribbled words, and it works for him. Messy, just like his appearance.

I follow his giant arms up to where his big scarred hands clutch the ape hangers. Along one hand, he has the word fuck tattooed across his knuckles, and life across the others. Everything about Buck screams social pariah, and his knuckles say everything I need to know about the man; Buck doesn’t give a fuck.

“Comfortable, darlin’?”

“Yes,” I yell back over the noise.

Looping my fingers into the belt loops of his jeans, I hang on, letting my forearms rest on Bucks thick waist. I’m in it for the long haul, numb ass and all.

We ride for a while, maybe another hour or two before we pull off onto a two-lane country highway. I’m lost in thought when a cold rough hand touches mine. Lifting my head, I see Buck’s head twisted to the side.

“You good?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

It’s late. The sky is black, hollow, and moody. The only light comes from the muted glow of the cloud covered moon as we ride into the soulless night. I love it. The not knowing, the uncertainty of it grabs me, holding me hostage.

Riding down the highway, I get caught up in the whip of the wind, the roar of the engine, the open road. I lose myself. It’s been a year, a long fucking time since I’ve ran. It feels good to be free and wild and on the open road. I let go, my arms in the air and my head thrown back. I can’t stop it.

“Careful,” Buck warns.

“Never!” I scream. I’m never careful. A life not lived is no life at all. “If I die tonight, I’d die happy.” And that’s exactly how I’d want to go out—the wind in my hair and my past at my back.

“Faster,” I yell out into the night. Nodding once, he smirks over his shoulder at me.

“You got it, babe.”

We live in the mountains. I live in the mountains, alone, with my stranger. Buck lives in the middle of nowhere. And when I say middle of nowhere, I mean nowhere. It’s miles and miles up the side of a mountain into nothing but dark, dense forest.

Other vehicles started to become sparse about an hour ago, and thirty minutes later they’ve all but disappeared. It’s just Buck and I out here in the middle of BFE, and it’s starting to feel a little serial killer-ish. This wilderness is a perfect place to dump a body, but I’m just too goddamn happy to really care. It’s possibly a concern for another day.

The bike slows when Buck pulls off the old highway and onto a dark, almost hidden, single-lane road. We travel for a while over loose gravel before the trees thin out and we come into a cleared lot. A few hundred feet more and a small log cabin pops up into view.

“Honey, we’re home,” Buck jokes, coming to a rolling stop in front of an old wooden deck. “Hop on off, sweet cheeks.” I don’t want to. I want to ride until I’m a million miles away.

“Such a gentleman,” I laugh as I get off the bike. Apparently my roomie is a comedian. I’m a little sore from the long ride, so I stand on my tiptoes and stretch. I look around and catch Buck watching me over his shoulder, so I smile.

“I thought so,” Buck says, getting off the bike himself. I hadn’t noticed before now, just how fucking big he really is. Standing next to him I feel small. This guy is a beast of a man.

Scooping up my bag and box, he throws them over his shoulder and walks off, leaving me standing here. His big intimidating body walks purposefully off, his stride wide and cocky.

“Come on, Tonto,” he yells over his shoulder. “Unless you’d rather sleep outside.” Oh, I get it. Tonto, because I’m Indian. Yep, a comedian.

“Yeah, you’re damn funny,” I tell him. Following after him, I try to keep up, but he’s fast. “Slow down, Sasquatch.” He stops dead in his tracks and turns to me. Oh shit.

“This living together is gonna be fun, isn’t it?” he mutters, looking me up and down, shaking his head back and forth.

I’m not sure if that was a joke or a statement. Shrugging, I settle on, “Yep, a fucking blast.”

This will be great, I’m sure of it. It’s just a feeling I have, deep in my gut.

It’s odd sleeping in someone else’s bed; different sheets, a comfortable mattress, new pillows under my head. Staring at nothing, up at an unfamiliar ceiling, I listen to the distant noises coming from the woods surrounding us. 

What’s not odd is sleeping somewhere different. That’s my normal. It’s been years since I’ve slept in my house. I remember the comfort, the familiarity of my sheets and my lumpy pillow. It’s something I don’t have anymore, but at least Buck’s bed is big and comfortable.

Buck welcomed me inside his place with a sweep of his hand and a grunt. “This is it.” And it’s a nice place. A little messy with a few empties on the coffee table, dirty dishes in the sink, clean clothes piled on a chair, and an empty pizza box on the table, but it’s not gross, it’s lived in. It’s cozy and it’s home ... for now. 

Opening the old pine wooden door, the living room is the first thing you see. A large river rock fireplace sits between two floor-to-ceiling windows in desperate need of a cleaning. The living room is outfitted with a worn, creased and cracked leather couch, a plaid recliner, and a ring stained, dented wood coffee table. There are no decorations or personal effects, just a practical space with the basics.

A dated, country style kitchen with a small breakfast nook is off the living room. The appliances are old, but functional, assuming the food-crusted pot is from recently cooking. It’s nothing special, but it’s a place to lay my head at night.

There is one bedroom and one bathroom down a small hall at the back of the house. A mud room / laundry room has a door that leads out into the overly green wilderness.

One bedroom means we’re sharing or taking turns, or whatever Buck has planned. I’m in no position to argue with the sleeping arrangements. I’ll sleep wherever he wants to put me. I’m not picky.

Buck offered me the bed and I didn’t argue. I crawled in and got comfortable. This was going to be my life, my normal, for now.