Exiled (Anathema Book 2) (4 page)

“Baby,
how much do you love me?” He asked. “Will you do this for me?”

The
word hung in the air. I answered reflexively. Like I had a choice.

But
my reaction was genuine. My relief quick. His favor was the first taste of
freedom I had in months.

It
was my chance to leave him.

And
nothing would stop me from getting free.

A
woman sat on my bike.

It
was the most dangerous place in the world for her.

Had
a man trespassed, he’d be laid out on the concrete cradling a broken nose and
counting the teeth scattered on the pavement.

But
the blonde leaning against the handlebars gave me a fucking smirk. The kind of look
that gripped a man by his jeans and twisted until he handed over his wallet or
fell in love. She mugged with a smile, charmed with a twirl of her hair, and
saved her perfect ass from my temper with an arching eyebrow.

She
was the type of pretty worth a night of regret, but I knew better. Pretty was
about as good for my bike as a ride on dry gravel. I jerked a thumb over my
shoulder.

She
spoke first.

“Hi.”

Disarmed,
and she didn’t even throw a punch. The leather jacket tailor-fit her frame,
snug against a thin waist and swelling hips that promised endless trouble. Her boots
had heels, probably to pin down the men who fell for her siren song. Her jacket
wasn’t zipped, but a pink, silk scarf tied over her neck and obscured the
cleavage from her plunging neckline.

She
was the most beautiful woman I’d seen in three thousand miles and thirty-eight
years.

And
she sat on my bike.

“Get
off.”

I
counted the seconds her silver eyes dared to meet mine. She glanced down, batting
her thick lashes as she studied the ground with a bite to her lip and another
squeeze on my jeans.

How
fucking old was she? College probably, though I doubted many people in the coal
mining town saved their pennies for higher education.

“I
can’t get up.” Her lips puffed into a perfect pout.

She
didn’t want to play this game with me.

“It’s
real easy, Darling. Stand up. Get the hell off my bike.”

“I
told you. I can’t.”

Those
silver eyes pierced my patience, daring me to haul her over my shoulder. I
considered it. She thought she could tease without consequence, thought she’d
handle how I punished little flirty girls for playing a game they’d never win. She
crossed her ankles and settled in. Defiant.

I
hardened.

And
I hated myself for it.

“Get
off the damn bike.”

“They’re
waiting for you inside the garage.” The woman teased me with a glance over my
leather. “I won’t let anyone touch your ride.”

A
scratch to the paint would be nothing compared to the bruise on her ass.

The
bag weighed heavy. I didn’t ask what a busted-up garage with more weeds in the
parking lot than customers wanted with a laptop. Half of their windows cracked
and shattered, and yellowed paper curled beneath the broken frames. The rusted body
of an old Chevy blocked access to a broken bay door. More than fuel and oil sullied
the air.

No
wonder the girl sat on my bike. It was the cleanest place to rest that tempting
ass.

“Entry’s
around the side,” she said. “I’ll wait here.”

At
least she had sense enough to keep out of the MC’s business even if she thought
her bones were made of concrete. My jaw tensed.

This
wasn’t what I was expecting.

Then
again, I didn’t have a right to expect anything after leaving Anathema. The
road dulled only so much pain, and every bump in the asphalt ached in my
healing shoulder. When the bullet struck me, it was courteous enough to divert
away from any major arteries. It didn’t kill me, and more importantly, it
hadn’t hit her. Anathema’s last gift to me was ripping the slug out of my arm,
but the wound it left behind required more than a handful of antibiotics and a
tumbler of whiskey to manage.

Death
had to be cleaner than this life—easier than running packages cross-country and
dealing with disorganized and desperate MC’s with half the discipline of Anathema
and all the aggression of the remaining leadership.

Most
men lived for the job.

This
wasn’t living.

The
money I made and the men I contacted and the miles I rode existed only to pass
the time. But it wasn’t on my side, and the days my father served protected him
behind unbreakable walls and bribed wardens. We both had debts to our name, but
mine would last long after he repaid his to society.

The
garage was a bad front, but in this area, even the cops struggled to survive.
Bad money traded between both sides of the law, the same greasy dollars trapped
in a cycle between drugs and women, cash for beer and a kid’s braces. The bikes
loaded into the bays were missing parts and covered with dust. Waiting for the
money to replace broken starters, or probably stripped to pay for something
else.

The
further I ran from home, the more familiar everything seemed. My family fought
the same poverty. I got out of jail at twenty-one and learned quick how a heavy
a burden real-life was. My father did what he did best to get money, and my
brother injected courage into his veins to do what my father asked.

And
Rose?

The
first time I met her she was four years old and playing under the bar with a
one-armed doll while Mom served more than drinks in the back room. She smiled
because she didn’t understand, and her giggle was a sweet sound after those
years in prison.

I
didn’t know what to do after she hugged me, so I stole a TV and pawned it to
buy the kid her first real stuffed animal—something fluffy and pink that
smelled like baby powder. It didn’t matter where it came from. I owed her that
much, something to hold onto at night when Dad beat the shit out of Mom for
spending all their cash on more drugs.

The
officers of the Sacrilege MC waited in an oil-stained break room. The fridge
hummed, but the fluorescent lights zapped in the bulb’s death throes. Four men sat
in silence.

I met
the president—Sam “Harbinger” Ferrero—a few days before the meet. The former
mill worker was laid-off when the industry failed. He was too old to return to the
forge and too proud for social security. He laughed when he should have thrown
a punch, but I had my fill of violent presidents who fought first and snuck in
a second shot before the dust cleared.

The
other three were strangers. A blonde kid sat on the counter, pants covered in
grease. He couldn’t have been over twenty-five, and his only patch labeled him
as
Red
. He didn’t focus on me, not when his attention was reserved for
the behemoth threatening the room. I didn’t blame him.

The
hulking beast was more freak show than genuine bulk. He glared with all the
subtlety of a charging bull and the intelligence of a rutting cow. Some fool gave
him a vice-president patch—probably because he wasn’t trusted with anything
beyond what his knuckles scraped.

Christ.
I escaped from one bloody asylum only to land somewhere between a meth lab and
a double homicide. I set the bag on the table for Sam and his treasurer, a man who
served in Vietnam and twitched enough to signify most of him was still in the
damn jungle.

Sam
took the laptop and nodded as he pushed the power button.

“It’s
working. Pay him.”

The
veteran offered me an envelope. Inside was more than they made in a week. Not
worth a hand-me-down laptop but a steal for what was on it. Bank account
numbers, blackmail, rival club info. All the same to me as long as I got paid.
The money was enough to feed me and collect for Rose. She wasn’t a kid anymore
and didn’t need dolls, but she could use it for books and tuition, guitar
strings and amps. Maybe a plane ticket when she realized trading one fucked up
family for a fling with Anathema’s president wouldn’t help her any.

“Good
to see you again, Noir.” Sam gestured for me to sit. “You’ve been trustworthy.
Dependable. That’s rare around here.”

I
didn’t want to stay, but the couple grand in my pocket was reason to be polite.

“That’s
just good business,” I said.

“Think
you can do us one more job?”

My
shoulder ached. Rest would help—time in a hot shower with enough pain-killers
to ease the aching pinch. Two worked to stop a headache, but a handful of
Tylenol PM helped to black out the guilt.

“Where
do I go, and when do you want me there?” I asked.

Sam
grinned, but he was the only one. While Frankenstein lumbered in the corner,
Red stared through Sam’s head like he was aiming a gun. He reloaded his gaze at
the behemoth. The Vet said nothing, tapping quick, anxious fingers against the
table.

Dissention.
Insubordination. The resentment staining Sacrilege MC would crumble the
decrepit garage into rubble. I saw what happened when clubs tore apart and brother
fought brother.

No
one would win and no one could help, even when they thought they had a solution.

Especially
when they thought they had a fucking solution.

“This
delivery will be a little different,” Sam said.

I
didn’t like different. The laptop made me nervous enough. Men like Sam and his
rag-tag club didn’t do
different
. They did meth and weed, stolen TVs and
cigarettes.

“I
don’t need the details,” I said. “If it fits on my bike, it goes.”

“Good.
She’s already on your bike.”

A
dozen profanities shot through my head. “Forget it.”

Behemoth
snorted. Red finally gave me an appraising look.

“You
haven’t heard the proposition yet,” Sam said.

“I’ve
heard enough. We’re done here.”

“She’s
part of this deal, Noir. Listen to me.”

He
wouldn’t say anything worth hearing. The envelope bled through my vest. I
tossed the money on the table.

“I’m
not interested.”

Behemoth
spoke. His words grunted through pure testosterone and nothing else.

“You
said he wouldn’t ask questions.”

“I’m
not asking questions. I’m telling you. I want nothing to do with that girl.”

The
thought soured my brain. I carried drugs and murder weapons across state lines,
stolen credit cards for pimps and pharmaceuticals for sick kids. There was a
time my conscience never slowed me.

That
had changed. So many things changed. Now I knew what happened to scared little
girls stuffed on the backs of motorcycles. I learned that lesson too late, but
I’d be damned if I let it happen again.

“Sit,”
Sam said. “Please.”

“I
don’t traffic women.”

Behemoth
lunged. “You callin’ my girl a whore?”

The
knife twirled into my palm quicker than the giant moved. I aimed, and the point
of the blade dug into his neck.

The
vet hopped from the table too fast. “Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

“Whoa
now.” Sam eased between us. “Goliath, Noir ain’t said nothing about Martini.
Let me handle this.”

Goliath
snorted. He deliberately leaned into the blade. A bead of blood stained his
thick neck.

“We’re
not asking you to traffic her,” Sam said. He waited until the knife fit in its
sheath. “You just gotta take her to Kingdom. She’s a...token of good faith while
we move on the next phase of our agreement.”

I
ground my teeth. “She’s collateral?”

“Yes.”

“She
know about this?”

“Of
course.”

It
still didn’t sit well with me. A cute girl like that with an ass that promised
a better ride than a Harley had no business getting passed club to club.

Sam
kept his voice calm. “We just need you to take her to Kingdom. They’ll give you
five grand for the ride, and you’ll be on your way.”

“I
don’t transport passengers.”

“Even
for five thousand dollars?”

“Take
her there yourself. It’s only a couple hours north.”

“Can’t
do that.” Sam tapped his nose. “We technically don’t have any contact with the
Kingdom MC. This is all...covert, for the moment.”