Breaking It All: A Hellfire Riders MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs) (13 page)

He’s utterly still, watching me. “No one wanted you to worry.”

I barely hear the answer because all at once, the full import of what he’s saying strikes me. Stone’s replies weren’t odd—they just weren’t Stone’s.

Oh my god. What exactly did I text to Gunner this week? A few throwaway messages. A few conversations. I yanked his chain about a fake girlfriend with a unicorn baby. And joked with him about Burnout’s ass hair—and Jesus, no wonder I thought Gunner was feeding Stone those replies about symmetrical ponytails and redundant man buns.
All
of that was from Gunner.

That’s not so embarrassing, I guess. I always assume Stone shares some of my texts with Gunner, especially if they’re about other Riders. But did Gunner scroll back through my brother’s messages? Or—please God—did Stone delete those old texts? Because I’ve never had a discussion with my brother about Gunner over the phone or anywhere else, but Stone knows me as well as my mom does. And a few times, he’s poked at me a little. Nothing like a big flashing sign saying ANNA’S HUNG UP ON GUNNER but still not anything I’d want him to see.

There’s probably nothing to see. I never delete any messages, but I think Stone erases most of his. He doesn’t like leaving easy-to-follow trails—even if those trails are legal.

But I still feel like such an idiot. Sick humiliation churns in my stomach. My face burning, I fumble for the door handle.

“Anna? Shit.”

His door slams. He’s around the back of the truck faster than I can get to the brewery’s entrance, his big body blocking my way.

Gunner’s got the keys, anyway, so I couldn’t get inside even if I went around him. I lift my chin, hating how the floodlight over the brewery door exposes me. I can’t hide the humiliated flush in my cheeks, but I can throw a hell of a lot of anger behind it. I meet his brooding gaze and wait.

When his reply comes, it’s exactly what I expected. “I didn’t like lying to you—”

“But you still
did
,” I snap before he can finish. “So what’s coming next—an apology where you aren’t
really
sorry because you still think it was for the right reason?”

By the clench of his jaw, I know that hit right on the head. He’s only sorry I found out.

Frustration vibrates through his deep voice. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“So pissing me off is better than worrying me, huh?
Humiliating
me is better?” His body goes rigid and a tortured expression twists his hardened features. I hold up my hands, stopping his reply. “No, no. Let me be pissed off—and I’ll let you wallow in how shitty it feels knowing you hurt me. You earned it. God knows I can’t stay pissed anyway, so it’s not like it’ll last. So let’s get these fucking kegs and get this done, and by the time we drive back everything will be hunky-dory again.”

A muscle in his jaw works before he nods and steps back. He unlocks the door—but doesn’t move inside, holding it open for me with his arm extended, so I have to brush past him on my way through. I feel his gaze with every step.

I’m already less angry. Shit. That’s the problem with knowing he’s a decent guy instead of an asshole. He might do asshole things. But everyone does at times. Even me. And he’s a far cry from some jerk who simply doesn’t give a fuck. His reason for doing that asshole thing was fueled by good intentions.

It’s hard to stay mad about that.

Despite the chill inside, the storefront to the brewery smells like warm toast, as if the yeasty odor of the mash has permanently cooked into the air. Jenny’s got a small tasting bar along one wall, flanked by shelves of T-shirts and pint glasses branded with her logo. Stocked with bottled ale and mini-kegs, two big glass-front refrigerators hum against the opposite wall. The cash register sits on a counter in front of the walk-in cooler, where the full-sized kegs are kept.

Gunner catches up with me at the door to the walk-in. I reach for a hand truck, but his heavy boot pins the blade to the floor.

“Leave it,” he says. “I’ll carry them out. You just point to the right kegs and tell me how many.”

“For all the Riders and their old ladies? You’re going to need at least five or six kegs.” I tug on the dolly’s handle. It doesn’t move an inch. “They’re like a hundred and fifty pounds each.”

“One-sixty-two filled. So that’s one hundred and sixty two reasons for you not to be pushing that over the gravel outside.”

“So you’re just going to lug them out?”

“Yup. I’m the muscle, remember?” His smile isn’t quite all there but the curve of his mouth still shivers over my every nerve, prickling my skin with instant awareness. “Back in the day, I had a drill instructor who made us march ten miles with a barrel on our shoulders whenever he got pissed at us. He called it our penance for being pissant mealworms. So this is nothing. Twenty feet, back and forth.”

I purse my lips. “As penance?”

“For being an asshole.”

“But you just said it’s no effort. Not much of a penance, if you ask me.”

Humor flashes through his eyes. “You can flog me along the way. Go medieval.” Abruptly the intensity of his gaze deepens, the amusement burning away. “But a flogging wouldn’t be much of a punishment, either.”

My breath catches in my throat. No, it really wouldn’t be. But before I can reply, his face shutters and he hauls open the walk-in door.

“Which kegs?” His voice is taut.

Because that look wasn’t simple. But he still wants it to be.

With my chest aching and the rest of my body humming, I point to the stainless steel kegs lining the nearest wall. “Two of those. Then the rest from this stock over here. I’ll track down her price sheet and write up an invoice for Old Timer. Jenny will probably say they’re on the house, since it’s for her dad, but you tell him not to let her.”

“I will,” comes his gruff reply.

I leave him to it, taking down the price list near the cash register, and not even looking over when he passes me with a keg braced on his shoulder. Any other time I might have watched every step he took. But I’m aroused and hurting and neither feeling will be helped by staring at a perfect ass and a strong back that aren’t mine to touch, to hold.

I keep my head down as he comes back through. It only takes about two minutes to write up the invoice. On his third trip outside I pull out my phone, scrolling through the texts from the past week. Now that I’m looking for it, I can spot the moment he took over Stone’s messages. My brother’s punctuation and spelling were never that accurate.

My “It was Sunday morning, yeah?” catches him as he comes through the door.

His gaze flicks to the phone before lifting to meet mine. “Yes,” he says, then watches me with that brooding stare, as if waiting for me to ask more.

But I put my head down again, blindly gazing at the messages. Sunday morning. The worst fucking morning. The morning Red called—the morning I sat in my car crying, feeling hacked open with my guts spilling all over.

I feel that blade in my stomach again now.
Pipsqueak,
he called me. Did my brother tell him to use that nickname? Or did Gunner just know?

Love you, too.

Oh god. The words waver in front of me. I dip my head to conceal the sudden tears burning my eyes. Stone would have said that, no question. But knowing it’s from Gunner?

It hurts. It hurts so much.

And I can’t believe my brother did this to me. In no scenario I could ever imagine would Stone tell Gunner to pretend to be him. If I’d been playing the guessing game with my mom, I could have tripped her up on this one. “Hey, Aaron went undercover in another club and didn’t want us to worry. So guess what he did?”

My mom would
never
say, “He asked Zach to text us and pretend to be him, so that we wouldn’t worry.”

My heart thuds. A thick, heavy ball forms in my gut.

She’d never say that. Because my brother would never do it.

If Stone knew he’d be out of touch, he’d have said so. He’d have sent us a message like,
Going to be out of reach for a while. Don’t worry about me. I’ll contact you when I can.
Because he’s sent that kind of message before while doing business for the club. So if he told Gunner to send any message on his behalf, it would be that same one.

And Stone would never let me believe I was texting him while I was really texting Gunner. Because Stone knows Red’s cancer left me feeling emotionally vulnerable, and he knows how I feel about his friend. He’d never put me in a position where I might be exposed and hurt.

But I am hurt. And angry. I wanted to find something I don’t like about Gunner?

I just fucking found it.

His deception might have come from good intentions. But only a few minutes ago, I asked him point blank if Stone was okay—and he lied to me. It
had
to be a lie. Because if Stone was okay, this wouldn’t have happened.

And maybe Gunner really is trying to keep me from worrying. But it’s one thing to keep me from worrying if my brother is fine. It’s another thing to lie to my face when my brother is very likely
not
fine.

But what’s Gunner going to say if I confront him? He’ll just lie again. He might ask how I’m so sure. What should I tell him?
Because my brother knows how I feel about you and he’d never do this to me.

I never imagined Gunner would do this to me, either.

But now…I don’t even care. I don’t even want to deal with him. I just want to get away from him and figure out where my brother is.

At least my tears are gone. My eyes feel hot and dry and hard as I look at his message again.

Love you, too.

Funny. Those are words I wanted from him more than any other. Those are words I believed would fill my heart to bursting. Instead those words are as hollow as my chest, and they’re a clear declaration of what I am to him.

Nothing. Which is about as simple as it gets.

And I can’t ever let myself forget it.

Gunner

I’m such a goddamn asshole.

The cold bites my face as I load the last keg into the truck bed and slam the tailgate closed. I could have come out here to pick up the beer by myself. I know where everything is. When Jenny was in trouble last summer, the prez had me look at the security in the old barn, get familiar with the layout. And I’ve stopped by plenty of times since.

I could have done this alone. Instead I let Anna drag herself out here with me—even though she’s exhausted as fuck and grieving so hard she looks ready to shatter into a thousand pieces.

Dragged her out here, then lied to her.

Lied to her even as my eyes consume her whole. She’s wearing a coat that swallows her like a sleeping bag from her neck to her knees, but I know every slender curve hidden beneath. In the garage, in the truck, just keeping my hands off her strained my self control to the breaking point. Thinking about how warm she’d be if I hauled her over me and spread her sleek thighs. Thinking of her hot mouth and of sinking balls deep into her, holding on and fucking and pretending tomorrow won’t come.

Because the only path ahead is the last route I ever wanted to take. But I’ll do anything to bring her brother home—even if it means I won’t be coming back again.

And now, maybe my last time seeing her, I’ve got the filth of these lies all over me. I want to kiss her. Want to hold her. But I’m covered in this shit and I’ve already hurt her with it.

So I watch her instead, taking what little I can. She looks so damn tired, fragile. And so beautiful, her dark hair coiled back and framing her fairy-like features.

I head back into the brewery. She’s at the cashier’s counter, staring down at her phone, her expression so brittle it’s all I can do not to pull her into my arms, try to soothe the hurt.

The hurt I caused. I’ve got no right to touch her.

I don’t know if I’d stop once I did.

Standing by the door, I clear my throat. “You helped Jenny decorate?”

Her gaze is blank as she looks up, then over at the wall I gesture to. A mural is partially concealed by the shelves of branded T-shirts and glassware Jenny has for sale. It’s a simple painting of a field in the spring, but because I know what to look for, I can see how the wildflowers form a connect-the-dots.

Anna was here.

Not just selfies—she’s done the same with paintings in her own house. I don’t know a thing about art, but to my eye, she’s damn talented with a brush. Anna doesn’t agree. She told me once her artwork wasn’t even as good as the stuff you can buy for cheap at Target. Maybe that’s true, but they look good to me. And I fucking love the second I see the words I’m looking for in them.

She’s staring blindly at the mural now, and the blankness of her expression slowly hardens, comes into focus. Finally her gaze slides over to me. “Do you still want to do something for me, even if it’s horrible?”

“Name it.” Anything for her.

“Remember when I found out I was having breast surgery, so I flashed my boobs at you and wanted you to tell me they weren’t perfect?”

As if I could forget. I can’t stop my eyes from drifting down now. Her coat conceals the soft curves of her breasts, but I remember those small, pretty tits. There’s a scar now, I guess, though I’ve never seen it. But I’ve seen her breasts a thousand times in my mind. I’ve drawn her taut nipples into my mouth, imagined her moans as I licked and sucked those stiffened tips.

Fuck. My cock’s about to tear through my zipper. “So my horrible task is to stand here while you flash me again? Shit. I’ll try to bear the pain.”

Seeing her mouth twitch with humor is like winning the goddamn lottery—then having the prize taken away when her smile quickly subsides. “No. I started down a new road that day. I was so worried about dying. But I’ve started a new road today. I’m starting it now. So I want to mark it with a picture. Something…to remind me why I’m doing this.”

One of her selfies. Though by definition, a selfie doesn’t need me. “I’ll take a picture of you flashing me, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No. It’ll be a picture of you.” She points at my chest, flicks her finger upward. “Strip your shirt and kutte off.”

This is so damn close to a thousand fantasies I stand motionless—brainless—just staring at her.

“Come on.” Her eyebrows arch in challenge. “You said you’d do anything.”

That’s a boot in my ass. “I meant it.”

Quickly shrugging out of my kutte, I fold the leather carefully before laying the Riders’ colors on the bar. With my back to her, I yank the tails of my black shirt free of my jeans. This is a fucking problem. My erection bulges behind my zipper, aching to be buried deep inside her. There’s no way she won’t see how hard I am.

Like some preppy fucker, I tie my shirt around my hips. The long sleeves dangling beneath the knot cover most of the evidence. At least I won’t poke her eyes out with my dick when I turn around.

When I face her, she’s utterly still, looking at me and holding her breath. Her bottom lip is trapped between her teeth, those warm brown eyes locked on my stomach, her gaze slipping over the ridges of muscle. A flush spreads up her pale cheeks and I remember her drunken
“You are so damn beautiful.”

Maybe so. But I grew up with five brothers who looked the same, so it’s nothing.

The way she looks at me, though, like she could eat me up—that’s everything. I’ll take it with me. I can’t have a kiss, I can’t have her. I’ll take this.

Grinning, I spread my arms so she can see all she wants and move in closer, adding an extra bit of swagger. Her sudden laugh fills me right up, makes every single hour busting my ass in the gym and fighting in the ring worth it. I’m almost sorry when she closes her eyes, like it’s all a visual overload, but not sorry when she breathes, “That’s just ridiculous.”

“And it’s all yours, baby.” Only yours. Forever.

Something painful slides across her expression, scraping away her laughter and leaving a thin smile. Her brittle gaze lifts to mine before dropping to my chest again. “You know, the first time you stayed with us, I told my mom we should install hidden cameras in the guest room so we could sell the photos.”

Considering how many times I stroked my dick while thinking of her just across the hall, it’s a damn good thing there weren’t hidden cameras in there. “You going to sell this picture?”

Her smile fades. “No. It’s just for me.”

I tap my forefinger beneath her pointed chin, making her meet my eyes again. “You aren’t sending me a copy?”

She shakes her head before turning away. I barely stop myself from reaching for her, drawing her back. Hands clenched at my sides, I watch her circle around the bar. From beneath the counter she grabs a white hand towel. My gaze follows her as she returns, unfolding the towel on the diagonal and quickly whipping the terrycloth into a white rope.

I haven’t seen anyone do that since a locker room in high school. “So it’ll be a flogging after all?”

Her brittle smile returns. “No. I want you to put it on like a blindfold.”

She holds the towel up for me to take. Hell no. I’m not passing up this chance. I play dumb as fuck, as if I think she’s offering to tie it for me. I lower my head, close my eyes.

On a deep breath, she moves closer. And it’s torture. Sweet torture. Soft, warm fingers brush against my cheekbones as she carefully lays the rough cloth over my eyes. Then she lifts up on her toes and her hands wind the towel behind my head, her chest pressing against mine, the soft coat pillowed between us. Jesus Christ, this is heaven. The whisper of her breath on my neck, the delicate fragrance of her hair.

And thank fuck for that big puffy coat or she’d know exactly how this affects me. Between us, my cock is a solid throbbing ache.

My voice is a thick rasp. “This is a lot kinkier than I expected.”

Her breathless laugh against my ear almost snaps my control. Body rigid, I force myself not to grab onto her, to haul her up closer and claim her mouth, kissing her until that laugh deepens into a needy moan.

A tug at the back of my head tells me she’s almost got the knot tied. The blood pounds in my brain, harder and harder, then her warmth disappears as she pulls away. I lift my head, tension straining every muscle. A rustle of cloth sounds, as if she’s digging into her pockets, followed by the soft click of a cap or a bottle being opened.

“Okay, now—stay really still. And don’t look.”

She moves closer again, her sweet scent returning with her. I clench my jaw against a groan when her palm flattens against my chest. Steadying herself, I realize—one hand braced against my right pectoral even as something cool and wet swirls across my left pec. Something moist, but not warm enough to be her tongue.

She’s writing on me.

Oh fuck. I know what she always writes. I know without even looking.

Anna was here.

Sweetheart. You were always here.

The need to reach out to her is overwhelming. But that’s not what she wants now. This is about her taking a new road, not about some asshole taking her into his arms.

She stops writing and begins drawing a line around the words. Every nerve in my skin seems focused on the wet path of her pen or brush or whatever she’s using.

Not just a line around the words—a shape. Two curves at the top, the point at the bottom.

A heart. Right over mine.

I clench my jaw against the pain rising in my chest. Christ. The path of that heart seems to draw blood, knowing I’m leaving tomorrow. Knowing I’ll never have her.

But I’ll have this.

“Just a second,” she whispers and her voice isn’t right. Thick, as if clogged with tears. “I still have to take the picture.”

Even though she’s crying. As if this is hurting her. Gritting my teeth, I wait until I hear the click of her phone’s camera. Fucking finally. I reach up to grab the blindfold.

Her hands catch my wrists. “Wait. I have to…”

Clean me off. Even as her voice trails away she begins wiping at the words on my chest—using tissues, it feels like.

“Shit,” she whispers. “Shit.”

“What?”

“I used lipstick. Now it’s just smearing.”

“It doesn’t matter. Can I take this off?”

She rubs hard for another long second. Finally, she steps back. “Okay.”

I glance down and fight back another groan. A blob of crimson darkens half my chest—the same color of lipstick she wore in the selfie she sent to Stone last week. I dreamed of having that lipstick smeared all over my cock. My pec is a hell of a long way from that, but I still love wearing Anna’s mark.

She’s not so thrilled. With a sigh, she gathers up the wadded tissues and heads for the trash bin. “It’s going to stain your shirt.”

“I don’t care.” I study her face as I untie the sleeves knotted at my waist. Though she’s not crying as I thought, she looks wrecked—as if something inside her shattered and she’s barely holding it together. “Are you all right?”

She doesn’t answer right away. That’s an answer in itself. And she’s not ogling my body now. Instead her face is averted, as if she’s waiting until I’m safely covered before looking at me again.

Damn it. I liked her looking at me.

But something’s changing in her. Even as I watch, her expression slowly hardens with determination, resolve—as if she’s gearing up for something. Or bracing herself. She moves to the bar and props herself against the edge of a stool, her shoulders hunched, her hands balled in her coat pockets.

Finally she looks at me. “There’s something else I need you to do for me.”

I finish buttoning my shirt, leaving the tails untucked to cover my erection, and reach for my kutte. “Anything.”

Her chest lifts on a deep breath. “When you and Stone get back…I don’t want you coming to the house anymore. Or sitting at the bar when I’m working.”

I freeze with the leather dangling from my fingers. Is she joking? But she’s not. Her eyes aren’t sparkling in that way she has when she’s jerking Stone’s chain. Instead her gaze is flat and hard and steady.

She meant it. But I can’t fucking take it in.

Slowly I shrug into my kutte, feeling like I’ve been sucker punched. Every thought is scattered and I can’t catch my breath. “You want what?”

She doesn’t repeat herself but just barrels forward. “I know it’s Stone’s place, too. And the Den isn’t my bar, so it’s not even my right to ask—”

Fuck rights. “Why the hell would you ask? You don’t want me around?”

Her gaze remains steady but tension’s starting to unravel her voice. “I need to start this new road—not being afraid of dying.”

“Good. But what the fuck does that have to do with me?”

Now her eyes dart to the side, like she’s looking for a reason. Which tells me this won’t be her real reason. “Remember you said a long time ago to keep it simple? You’re just Stone’s friend. I’m just his sister.”

“Yeah.”

Of course I remember. I did it to protect her. And it’s killed me for ten goddamn years.

“Well, nobody thinks it’s simple,” she says, her gaze meeting mine again and her voice picking up, like she’s convincing herself as she goes along. “And I need to move forward. But every time someone asks me out, they think they’ll have to go around you. Like Mark, the other day he asked—”

“Mark’s a fucking tool.”

“I know.” It bursts out on a short, sharp laugh, like it rips from her. “But you wondered about the shit I get because of those rumors about you and me. And Mark, he asked if he was going to have to fight you. They all ask. Because you’re always there. And I know you don’t do it on purpose. It’s just what they think. And so guys who might ask me out won’t, because they think they’ll have to go through you. Or they think we’re already together.”

So I’ve been cockblocking some of those fuckers? I’m sure as hell not sorry about it. “Any asshole who isn’t willing to go through me to have you isn’t a man worth having.”

Pain flashes over her expression. “So I need someone who’d risk anything to be with me? I know.”

That pain settles into a sad, longing smile that about rips my heart out. Jesus. Chest aching, I clench my jaw and look away from her, staring blindly toward the back of the store. I’d give anything to be with her. But to keep her safe,
being with her
is the one damn thing I can’t have.