All the Way (14 page)

Blake swiveled back to Layla. She’d stepped so close that he bumped against her, knocking her off balance. He reached out to steady her.

They froze together. Back in his arms, past and present blurred. Heat returned. A warm tingle moved over her skin, constricting it. Tiny goose
bumps of awareness rose and swept over her like a chill.

He tilted his face down. Gaze falling to her lips, he drifted toward her.

His thumbs brushed tender arcs on her arms. Then he paused, looked down at where his large hands wrapped around her upper arms. And shut his eyes tight.

An exhale left his lips before he opened his eyes again. He let his hands drop to his sides. He heard a small, hiccupping breath come from her as he turned away, bent down and retrieved her discarded top.

She wanted him, but she didn’t want to
be with
him. Fear, anxiety, cautiousness, whatever her reasons—they still cut through him. Releasing a heavy sigh, he handed her the skimpy scrap of her top with the tag that read Victoria’s Secret.
Yeah, like I need
that visual that right now
. “If this is from Victoria’s Secret, aren’t you supposed to wear it under something, not just by itself?”

“I wore it
under
my leather jacket all day,” she retorted, snatching it from him. She held it in front of herself, staring at him obviously.

Blake threw her a look. “I just saw you naked, and now you’re shy?” Her eyes narrowed. “Fine, whatever.” He turned. “Anyway, like I was saying. I just wish—”

Thump…clack. Thump…clack.

An irritated growl rose in his throat. “Oh, for the love of—Layla are you dressed? I want to open the door and find out what the hell is making that noise.”

When he heard the hurried stretch of fabric being pulled over her body, yet another image he didn’t need right now, he went for the door.

He threw it open and charged outside. The square toe of his boot knocked a pile of small wooden disks and sent them flying. They clattered across the sidewalk. He peered at the things scattered in front of him.
Thump
.

“Ah—hey!” One hit him in the chest and dropped to the cement.
Clack
.

Thump
. This one bounced off his shoulder, as if it had come from above. “Will you quit it!” he hollered to…whoever. With quick reflexes he caught it in his hand.
Slap
.

He peered at the object. Made of wood, it was shaped like a coin. Most people got pennies from heaven. He got wooden nickels.
Doesn’t that just
figure?
He shot a glare skyward. He shook his head, muttered under his breath, “Welcome to my life.”

“What is it?” Layla asked from behind him.

Turning with it in his outstretched palm, he said, “It’s a bunch of wooden ni—no, wait.” He peered more closely. His eyebrows rose on his forehead. “These aren’t wooden nickels.” He passed his thumb over the faded blue ink stamped on the coin.
Good for one beer at Larry’s Lounge
. “They’re drink chips.”

“Someone’s pelting us with free drinks?”

He eyed the surroundings, investigating with a glance the trees off to the side of the motel, the cars parked around them, the rooftop. All looked clear, quiet, unmoving in the darkness. Then he shrugged. “Maybe it’s the people next to us. Their subtle way of telling us to cool it over here.”

“Was I being that loud?” Her hand went to her throat, a mortified gesture.

His lips tilted up. “Let’s just say I’d
probably get a few high-fives.”

“
Blake
.” She thwacked him on the arm.

He grinned, winked. “Maybe they want us to celebrate the achievement with a toast. Been a long time coming, baby.”

“Will you quit making fun of me?”

When liquid gathered at the corners of her eyes, he knew he’d gone too far. “You’re not a joke to me. I
just can’t explain these tokens. Besides that I’m not sure what to say to you…or do with you…now that we’ve…” He let her fill in the blanks.

“I’ll give you a hint.” She stood up straight, shoulders back, a battle-ready stance. “Don’t accuse me of being a coward. That has a way of making a girl freeze up on you.”

“I’m not calling you a coward, Layla,” he said tightly. “But when you don’t talk to me, I’ve got nothing to go on.”

“All I have to go on is our past, which isn’t encouraging.” She blew a long lock of hair off her forehead. “Okay, fine. You want to know about my fear? I don’t want to jump into anything because I can’t stand looking back and seeing how I screwed up. I’ve made so many wrong choices, Blake. Especially when it came to Robby. I…”
Layla crossed her arms over her heart and frowned at the floor.
“I don’t want to do something I’ll regret later.”

“What?” he demanded. Her head snapped up. She backed into the room as Blake prowled toward her, a hard light in his eyes. “Is that what I am to you, a mistake?”

Layla didn’t answer.

“There are only two reasons you’d regret this. You don’t trust me to be what you need—or you don’t trust
yourself
. Which is it, Layla?”

Her hands clenched at her sides. “I don’t know.”

“Then you’d better figure it out—before you offer your mouth to me in a restaurant parking lot. Next time I may not have the presence of mind to wait until we get to a motel.”

Layla flinched inwardly. The callous tone of his reprimand stung like a slap.

Then, just to tighten the confusion tangling inside her, Blake grabbed her chin and tilted it up. He planted a hard, hot kiss on her mouth. Then he tore his lips away and stomped to the door. “I’m going across the street to make use of these tokens. I need a drink. Meet me there when you’ve”—he flicked a glance over her—“recovered.”

“You can be such a bastard.” Her shoe ricocheted off the doorframe.

Blake slammed the door behind him and stormed off, scooping up the chips on the ground and shoving them in his pockets.

He was furious. Torn up. And an asshole—hey, he got testy when someone questioned his honor. Especially Layla, the one whose opinion mattered.

His boldness scaled back the further he separated himself from her. He could still taste her even as he walked away not knowing if he’d ever have the chance again. And he was dying to touch her one more time, to feel her in his arms. Under him.

Wound up, feeling like a self-contained tornado, Blake stalked toward the bar across the street. A curse exploded from him, launched at the sky.

He tried to breathe deep to calm himself.

“So, I’m your mistake,” he seethed in anger, pain and defiance. “Now everything makes a hell of a lot more sense.” He drew back and hurled one of the chips down the length of the dark, empty road in frustration. “Fine. If that’s all I am to you, Layla, I’ll be the best damn mistake you ever made.”

Blake threw open the door to Larry’s Lounge and strutted in, while the squeaky screen banged behind him. Something made him pause just inside.

Indistinguishable warning thickened the air with an unseen threat. It hovered in the barroom like the smoky layers that wouldn’t dissipate.

Instinctively, he scanned the room that resembled a thousand other dive bars. ‘70s wood paneling was home to sports team flags and a sprawling Budweiser promotional.
Peppermint schnapps stung his nose as the bartender poured shots for a couple at the counter who sagged dully on red leather stools. Four guys cluttered one corner, exchanging seedy looks, their conversation muttered in low tones.

One man sat at the bar’s far end. His cigarette polluted the air, surrounding him in a haze. The shadow cast by the brim of a cowboy hat concealed his face.

Blake wondered why he got a chill bordering on recognition. He knew no one around here. Then again, he was in no condition to interpret anything. He ached for Layla so bad he could barely see straight.

Behind the bar, a shelf spread beneath a mirrored backsplash reflecting rows of liquor. Four beers were on tap. A pool table set toward the back beckoned him. Exactly what he needed—a distraction.

Except for one problem. The song hurling at him from the barroom speakers was
Nickelback’s “Figure You Out.”
Great band, wrong song.
Although Blake did recall liking it at the concert he’d taken Rob to last summer, when he wound up with an extra ticket he offered to Layla. The night he finally got to know her in a personal way, her thoughts, the way her mind worked, her tastes in music, and how she looked in the setting sunlight, her face soft, open, so incredibly beautiful. Her blue eyes glowing…

Yep, this music had to change, this song about hating to love her mixed with suggestive verses about the good times that she wrecked and the white stains on her dress. He needed to think about something other than Layla and sex.

As if by command, the tune ended with a few guitar-crunching chords. Then,
Them Bones
, a hard-hitting song
by Alice
in Chains off the
Dirt
album, cranked through the sound system. Much better.

He strode to the counter and ordered a shot of Black Velvet and a Budweiser from the bartender, who sported an untamed beard and a brown leather vest as vintage as the wall paneling. His eyes looked beer-glazed. Blake envied the man’s state.

Tossing a ten on the bar, he opened his throat, drained the shot, felt the slow burn of whisky spread through him, and asked for change in quarters. Then he picked up his beer and headed for the pool table. He needed to smack some balls around, work out his tension, take his mind off what he wished he were doing and delve into geometric precision, the mental challenge that inspired his love of the game.

The table looked like it had been abandoned mid-game. Blake stood at a corner pocket, took a chug from the cold longneck slick with condensation in his hand, and scanned the layout. He picked a strategy for stripes, then solids, anticipated what English or spin to put on each shot, calculating the perfect leave, until he’d mentally sunk every ball on the table.

Now he was ready to shoot.

“Hey, buddy,” someone said behind him. “We’re shootin’ here.”

Blake turned at the waist. “Not since I walked in the door.”

The guy with the gaunt face, shifty eyes and overlapping teeth stuck set his hands at his waist, where an Iron Maiden shirt was tucked into dusty jeans. “Don’t matter. I said we’re playing.”

“Then finish.”

Heavy Metal looked to his pals, a smirk scuttling across his lips beneath a mangy blond mustache. “Hear this guy? Walks in and thinks he owns the place.”

“Looks like we’re gonna have to show him different,” said another. A black vest covered with pins and patches spread to reveal a barrel chest. His Harley-Davidson T-shirt sported an American flag that matched the bandana around his head.

Blake couldn’t help noticing one patch that stood out, thorny vines twisted around skull-and-crossbones. Blake swallowed. Above it were the words “one-percenter.” Only one-percent of motorcycle riders belonged to gangs, the Hell’s Angels or the Outlaws, as far as he knew. That’s what they called themselves—one-percenters.

Great, Desanto.
Walk into a random bar and offend the one guy you never want to piss off.

Blake’s martial arts training kicked in. With his peripheral vision, he took stock of every exit, what in his vicinity could be used as a weapon, how quickly he could reach it, and how fast he could take down an opponent with the least amount of bodily harm.

His gaze flicked to their hands, checking for weapons. Then he located a pool stick propped against a nearby table.
The reaction time would take seconds. His aim, impeccable—deadly, if it had to be.
But he preferred to contain the situation before it got that far.

He gave one chance, his tone laced with warning. “Don’t start something I’ll have to finish. I just want to shoot.”

“What you got to put on a game?” asked Heavy Metal.

“Play for a beer.”

“There’s gotta be more at stake,” the guy scoffed.

“Make it worth our while,” said the patriotic one, the one-percenter.

“There’s a hundred in my back pocket that says none of you have the skill to play me for it,” Blake instigated.

The gangster’s dark eyes hardened to match the skull on his patch. “I’d have more fun kicking your ass and
then
taking your hundred.”

Blake swiped the cue ball off the table, tossed it in the air, and tested his grip.
“You can try.”

Out of the corner of his eye,
Blake caught the motion of the bar door swinging open. Layla breezed into the bar, looking stunning as ever. Blake completely ignored her. Although every sense he possessed hummed in recognition of her presence, as if the whole world had faded to black with a single spotlight of awareness devoted to her.

Don’t come over.
Don’t come over
, he warned silently, as if he could will her to hear the words that thrashed through his mind.

But she came right to him after buying two beers, one stretched out like a peace offering. A blush covered her cheeks. The way she met his eyes told him she didn’t regret what happened at the motel. Her lips lifted in a vulnerable smile that pierced his chest.

Blake wondered if he had died and gone to purgatory.

Why now? Why make peace after they’d been doing this push-me-pull-you dance for the past year? And why did this random miracle have to happen when he couldn’t do a thing about it?

Blake accepted the drink with a stiff nod and heard his patriotic pal say snidely, “Now that’s what I call worthwhile.”

“Better think again.” Blake chugged his peace offering, preparing to use the bottle as his next weapon of choice, if necessary. He glared at the biker, his gaze settling on the patch that spelled fear for anyone who knew the language.

Then
Blake paused mid-gulp. His eyes fixed on another patch. The bands of color held meaning relegated to certain sects. These colors, he recognized as local—from Cleveland.
The dude might know Rob.

This night could end in his favor. He set his beer down, relaxed his grip on the cue ball and dropped it on the pool table. The corner of his mouth curled with his revelation.
“I just changed my mind,” he told them. “I’ll play your game. But here’s what happens when you lose—”

“
If
we lose.”
Another gaudy laugh passed between the men.

“
When
I sink that eight ball, you’ll answer me one question.”

Heavy Metal scratched his head. “You ask a lousy question, or we walk away with a hot chick?”

Blake nodded, ignoring Layla’s outraged gasp. She threw him a glacial glare, but he was already numbed by what felt like a block of ice in the pit of his stomach.

If he made one slip…

He shoved away any thought of failure, flicked four quarters on the table and announced, “Rack ‘em, boys. Money breaks.”

“This is some kind of joke, right?” Layla asked.

“I’m offended, darling,’” said the patriot in a voice that ran roughshod over the nerves. “I take winning you real serious.”

The man’s smirk revealed a grimy row of teeth. Layla cringed.

Standing at the head of the table, Blake faced the neat triangle of balls awaiting him. He turned to Layla with a penetrating gaze.
“Do you trust me?”

“Trust you.” Her eyes met his, indecision tightening her throat. She had to force the words out.
“What has that got to do with anything?”

“Do you trust me?”

“I-I don’t know.” It echoed what she’d told him in the motel room. She thought she’d have a better answer. But now, given this sudden test—at her expense—she felt awkward, on display, no more than a bargaining chip to him. After everything they just shared, this was his idea of proving his trustworthiness?
Her brows pulled together with disbelief. “My God, Blake.
What do you expect me to think?
I’m the one at stake!”

“For that reason, you shouldn’t have a single doubt.”

He hunched over, lined up for his break…drew back…
At the last second, he tilted his head, winked at Layla and made the shot blind.

Layla gasped.

Blake listened to the crack of the cue ball hitting home, the
thunk-thunk-thunk
of balls diving into pockets. He straightened, laid the stick down, and walked away. No confirmation was necessary.

“Son of a—he sank the eight on the break!”

The color died in Layla’s cheeks. She stumbled backward.
“That…that’s bad.
Isn’t it? You can’t make the eight ball before all the others…”

“You still don’t trust me,” he said, disappointment hardening his tone.

“But you weren’t even looking! How do you know? You sank the eight ball. How could you?” Tears threatened.

“Baby, I won.”

“No, you didn’t. Did you?” She looked from him, to the table, to the sore losers, and back to Blake. She flung a hand toward the competition.
“But—what if you’d lost?”

“I didn’t.”

She threw her hands up. “That’s beside the point! You used me to leverage your bet. What sort of person does that to another? How do you sleep at night?”

His eyes narrowed. “If I’m that abominable, maybe you’d rather leave with them. We could call a rematch. I’ll try not to be so lucky.”

“You are completely impossible.”
She whipped around and stormed out.

“Glad everything’s back to normal again,” he muttered. “And where do you think you’re going?” Blake’s arm shot out to block the patriot from trailing Layla. “We had a deal. I won. I want my answer.”

“Not after that trick shot.”

Blake stared at him, offended. “How was that a trick shot?”

“Nobody walks up to a random table and makes the eight on the break.”

His gaze narrowed.
“I just did. Time to pay up.”

“Ask,” the patriot growled. “It don’t mean I’ll answer.”

“I know that patch,” Blake said. The man’s chin tipped up in wary confirmation.
“And your colors are with the division out of Cleveland.” Blake found his second confirmation when the man’s eyes turned to slits in his wind-worn face. “I need to know if you picked up a kid, five-eleven, with his lip pierced, dark curly hair, blue eyes, riding a metallic green Sportster with an alligator airbrushed on the tank.”

The man hawked a huge wad of tar-colored phlegm, and launched it. It missed Blake’s boot by an inch. He answered, “Yeah, I seen a kid like that. Been riding with us a month, maybe two.” His eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“He in some kind of trouble?”

“No.” Blake tried to mask the turbulent surge of relief and anxiety that flooded through him.
“Just satisfying a curiosity.
Thanks, man.”

The guy lingered in front of Blake, his gaze going to the door as though envisioning Layla within its frame. “Fine piece of ass you brought with you.”

A muscle tightened in Blake’s jaw. “She’s a lot more than that.”

His gaze refocused on Blake. “No one outside the Mad Dogs knows who rides with us. If we see a problem, we take care of it. I see a problem. And you’re it.”

Now it starts
.
Blake took one step back pacifistically. “Where are you going with this?”

“Between your pretty girl’s thighs.”

His retreat stopped. “Excuse me?”

“I always get what I want, even if I have to take it.”

Blake took a step forward. “You think you can take my woman?”