Breaking It All: A Hellfire Riders MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs) (17 page)

Stone is his priority. And I’m just Stone’s sister.

“Yes,” I tell him. “I’ll come with you tonight.”

“Good.” His hand slips from my cheek when he straightens, and without his touch I feel cold all over, a shiver racing over my skin. Until he turns away and I hear him say softly, “Because I don’t know how I’m ever going to let you out of my sight again.”

Anna

I jolt out of a nightmare of eyeless masks and gloved hands and into an unfamiliar bed—flat on my back, Daisy’s weight across my ankles, and my heart pounding. With sweat-slicked hands I grab the phone laying beside my pillow.

No missed calls. No messages.

It’s only three a.m.

At the end of the bed, Daisy lifts her head. With a shuddering sigh, I shut off the phone and stare up at the ceiling with the afterimage of the screen floating in front of my eyes.

I’m in Gunner’s bedroom. In his bed.

This wasn’t how I hoped to get here. I haven’t been to his place before. I knew where it was, of course—a one-bedroom rental at the edge of town. But he doesn’t seem to spend a lot of time here. When he’s not out riding, he’s either working, at the gym, at the clubhouse, or at Stone’s place…which really means my place, since Stone doesn’t pass a lot of time upstairs and Gunner always comes down with him.

Gunner doesn’t
seem
to spend a lot of time here, but he must. Because, Jesus—the books. They’re everywhere. He doesn’t have much in the way of furniture and everything is clean in the “there’s no dirt” sense. But the way the books are shoved into shelves—and on top of the coffee and side tables, and stacked beside the nightstand—the only word for it is “cluttered.” This is the house of a nerdy professor, not the Hellfire Riders’ lethal sergeant at arms.

How does he fit it all in? Work, the gym, the club, these books? Maybe he doesn’t sleep much.

I don’t know if he’s sleeping now. If he is, he’s probably out in the living room. As soon as we arrived, he tucked me into his bed to rest, then told me about Cherry and the drugged beer, about finding Stone’s phone in a Dumpster, about spending a week tracking down different clubs and asking for information. All the while he was packing—a small bag of clothes and two long duffles holding weapons he pulled from the huge gun cabinet standing against the wall opposite the bed.

Then the shock and the whiskey caught up to me and I was out. Not for long, though. I don’t know exactly what was in the nightmare that woke me but I don’t want to expend any mental effort remembering.

My body is making the effort, though. Despite the covers and Daisy’s warmth against my feet, despite my hoodie and pajamas, I begin shivering. Clenching my teeth, I roll onto my side—

And look straight into Gunner’s pale eyes.

My breath catches. He’s not in bed with me. Instead he’s crouching beside it, still wearing those loose sweatpants—but he shucked the shirt, revealing miles of tanned skin and sculpted muscle.

“You’re all right, Anna.” His big hand cups my cheek, giving me a warm anchor. In a voice roughened by sleep, he says quietly, “You’re safe.”

Teeth chattering, I glance over the edge of the bed. There’s a sheet spread out on the carpet under him, and a pillow smashed up against the foot of the nightstand. “Were you sleeping down there? Why not the couch?”

“I’m not going to leave you alone.”

Those words would have melted me if I weren’t a block of ice. “Then get up here.”

“I’m fine on the floor.” Tension adds a taut edge to his reply.

“Maybe, but I’m not fine. I’m f-freezing.” As if to emphasize my claim, my teeth click together harder. “I c-can’t even t-tell if I’m really cold or if it’s just a d-delayed reaction.”

“Ah, sweetheart. You’re killing me.” With a low groan, he grabs his pillow. “Scoot over so I can stay between you and the door.”

He had a gun within reach under the bed, I realize when he transfers the pistol to the nightstand. Daisy whines as if I’m torturing her when I roll across the mattress, taking my pillow and my phone with me. Through the dark, I glimpse chiseled abs and flexing biceps, then the sinuous stretch of obliques before I roll another quarter turn, facing the wall. The mattress sags under his weight and I slide right back into him, my spine against his chest. I pull my legs up to make room for Daisy at the foot of the bed, the curve of my bottom against Gunner’s rigid stomach. He’s lying lower on the mattress than I am—his feet must be hanging off the end.

His heavy arm wraps around my waist. His breath sweeps over my nape as he says gruffly, “Better?”

“Y-yes.” So much better. God, he’s like a furnace, the heat already sinking into my skin. “Sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry.” He pulls me tighter against him when a shudder races through my body. “You’ll be all right. It’d be a damn miracle if this shit didn’t hit you hard even after it’s done.”

“Like PTSD?”

“Something like that. Though hopefully it won’t stick more than a few nights.”

His voice is so soothing, so deep. Every word he speaks sends a faint vibration into me, and all I want to do is keep him talking. He’s possibly said more to me today than in the past six years combined.

“Did it ever happen to you during your deployments?”

“I had some bad nights,” he admits. “And I’ve had some bad nights since. But it never settled in. I know plenty of others who weren’t so lucky.”

“Including a couple other Riders.” I can think of a few off the top of my head. Some old ladies, too. Though they probably weren’t traumatized in combat—more likely by the men in their pasts. A few of the women, I think they hang around the bikers because even with all the fighting and the dangerous shit that goes down now and then, the Riders are still less terrifying than what’s in those ladies’ heads.

“Yup,” he says in the same tone Stone sometimes uses when he acknowledges the truth of something I’ve said but has no intention of talking about other patchholders behind their backs.

That’s all right. I don’t really want to talk about any other Riders, either. But I can’t dredge up another subject yet, because I can’t focus on anything except his hand. He’s not moving at all—his long body like a steel beam behind me—but his taut forearm is an iron bar across my torso, only a few inches beneath my breasts. His long fingers curl around my ribcage as he holds me securely against him.

And all I can think is how close his hand is to my breast. Every tiny fluctuation in the strength of his grip, every subtle change in the pressure of his fingertips is an agonizing tease, my nipples stiff and begging for his touch.

Or begging for him to slide his hand south, over my belly, slipping beneath the elastic waist of my pants—

On second thought, maybe not south. Not for another day. A little blood might be great for scaring away would-be rapists. Not so great for sexy times.

But Gunner doesn’t move north or south. Just holds me as my shivers slowly ease.

The quiet is killing me. I cast around for something innocuous, something a million miles away from my sensitive breasts and the fire between my legs.

Like something hanging on his bedroom wall. “You really did put up that stupid painting.”

There’s a smile in his voice. “I did.”

Because he has terrible taste, apparently. It’s a peek-a-boo landscape I painted almost five years ago and called “Playtime’s Over.” At first glance, it’s just a forest scene. But look close and there’s a naked Barbie swinging through the trees like Tarzan. A rabid Furby lurks in a hollow beneath a rotting stump, its glassy eyes reflecting an amber glow. Amid a pile of rocks, a Magic 8 Ball says to “fuck off.” It was the first and last painting of its type that I made. It was supposed to be funny but just felt cynical, and I would have painted over it and re-used the canvas if Gunner hadn’t offered to take it off my hands.

“I like the fireflies,” he adds, and for a moment I can’t remember any fireflies at all, until I realize I spelled out
Anna was here
with the glowing bugs. A squeeze of his hand against my side almost distracts me from his, “And now they don’t lie anymore.”

Because I
am
here. For the first time. But although I smile into the dark, my mind goes straight back to the brewery. Straight back to writing on his chest in lipstick. Straight back to telling him not to come around anymore.

A long, shuddering sigh escapes me. I’m so glad he didn’t listen.

“Anna.” Concern deepens his voice. “You all right?”

“Yes.” Not really. “I was just thinking…at the funeral today, I realized—a gravestone is the ultimate version of that, isn’t it? When all of Red’s friends are gone, when Jenny is gone, when no one remembers him, that gravestone will still be there, saying, ‘Red was here.’”

His grip tightens. “No.”

“No?”

Against my neck, I feel him shake his head. “That’s not what it says. ‘Beloved father and husband’ was engraved on it. So when all those people are gone, it doesn’t just say he was here. It says he was loved.”

Oh my god. I choke up so fast, my eyes fill so quick—and I don’t know why. Except that Gunner just ripped open something inside me.

Silence falls as I fight back the tears and Gunner waits for my reply. Abruptly he seems to realize it’s not coming.

He sits up. Without his chest to support me, I roll onto my back and suddenly he leans over me, his right hand planted beside my shoulder, his face close to mine—searching my eyes through the dark.

“Don’t,” he says roughly. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m not.” It’s thick and clearly a lie but I don’t quit telling it. “I’m not.”

He groans and hangs his head. Tension cords the powerful muscles of the arm braced against the mattress and holding his upper body above mine. “What’d I say?”

“Nothing. Just, I don’t know—” I’m still working it through. “Maybe that’s what I’ve been doing. Leaving gravestones all over the place. Desperately telling myself that I’m loved.”

“Damn it, sweetheart. That’s not what I meant for you to take away from that.” He sounds tortured. “You
are
—”

“I know.” I do know. I’m loved. By my family, by friends. “I’m just tired. And feeling sorry for myself. And a little vulnerable. You know, all that fun stuff.”

He nods, his face shadowed, but I can feel him watching me. “So that selfie in the brewery—was that a gravestone?”

Agony constricts my lungs. I strive for a light reply but I only manage a strained whisper. “It was definitely the end of something.”

It was supposed to be—the end of hoping I’ll ever be anything more to him. But like a vampire or a zombie, the hope keeps coming back from the dead. And I need to remind myself that this hope only returns to suck me dry or to eat my brains. This hope only leaves me feeling empty and stupid.

But it’s so hard to remember that when I’m in bed with him. When he’s looking down at me. When every gesture and every word says he cares.

Even though he said something else before.
You’re not anything more to me.

His fingers twist around the ends of my hair and a light tug brings me back to the conversation. “The end of worrying about dying?”

“Yes.” Let him think that. It’s partially true. Then the memory of a fist to my jaw and the blinding light in my face spins that worry around and I can’t stop my laugh. “Oh god. Maybe I stopped worrying about dying a few hours too early.”

“Don’t you fucking say that.” Gunner’s not laughing. “He’ll
never
get to you, Anna. I swear to you. I’ll make sure you have your future.”

I fall quiet at the ferocity of his response, as if every bit of gentleness was scraped from his voice, leaving nothing but a rough promise. Longing fills my chest. I want to believe that promise. And I do believe he’ll protect me. But to give me a future? It’s just too much to believe he’ll be any part of it. At least, not in a way that’s any different from the past ten years.

“All right?” he says, his voice softer now.

I nod, throat hurting too much to speak.

“Good.” He lowers onto his side again, his head on his pillow and his arm over my stomach—but now that I’m on my back and we’re not spooning, he’s not as close. He’s not wrapped around me.

A few hours ago, he kissed me. I ache to turn over now, press my mouth to his—seeking comfort in his warmth.

Then seeking more.

But I’ve done that before. And even though
he
kissed
me
in the shower, I don’t know whether it was anything more than what he’s doing now. Being here for me. Supporting me. Trying to warm me and soothe me.

It
felt
like more. But how many times have I thought the same thing, simply because he looked at me a certain way? It always felt like more. But it never has been. And after he found me taped to the chair I was so hurt and vulnerable. I might have read too much into that kiss. I might have seen what I wanted to see.

If I turned toward him now and he pushed me away? If he reminded me to keep it simple? I want to pretend I’m not, but the truth is that I’m still hurt, I’m still vulnerable—and that rejection might kill me. And I don’t know if I could hide the pain this time. Not when I’m feeling so fragile.

So I won’t throw myself at him again. If Gunner meant anything by that kiss, then
he
needs to step over the line between us.

But he doesn’t. Instead he lies beside me, his fingertips drawing absent circles over the side of my ribcage. Quietly he says, “I fucked up by sending you those messages.”

I turn my head on the pillow, searching through the dark to make out his expression. There’s nothing. Just angular shadows upon shadows.

“I don’t have a real excuse,” he continues and his body is rigid with tension beside me. “Just that your first text came in right after I found his phone and I was still trying to figure out what the hell had happened. Plus you’d just heard about Red and I didn’t want to add worry to your grief. I thought it wouldn’t matter, just one time, and then I’d find Stone. But I didn’t. So it just…snowballed.”

I look up at the ceiling. “You still wouldn’t have told me he was in trouble, would you?”

“No. I’d have said he was out of touch, on club business.”

God, I should have known. Because that’s the same thing Stone would have said. But I’m not angry now. I’m hurt that he kept the truth about Stone from me…but I understand it, too. Maybe more than he realizes.

Because I know a lot about what my brother does for the Riders and I never tell my parents any of it. I hide so many things that might otherwise worry them.