Exiled (Anathema Book 2) (8 page)

I turned
at an intersection between a darkened shoe-store and Goodwill, but red and blue
flashes of pure aggravation lit the street. I swallowed my curse. Unless they
were slipped enough money to plug their ears, the cops probably heard the
gunshots outside town. Now they watched the lone biker blasting through the one
stoplight town.

Discriminatory
bastards.

Martini
twisted behind me. “Uh-oh.”

I
gunned the bike before the cop realized he was in pursuit of a man who couldn’t
afford a reckless driving charge. Not when I was supposed to be dead. Last
thing I needed was Anathema, Temple, or the motherfucking Coup—the bastards who
split from Anathema in a bloody war—realizing I still breathed.

I
cut through a side street and waited. The cruiser missed the turn and pressed
forward, racing the wrong way. Martini swore. Two bikers chased the police, one
splitting at the intersection to the right, the other chasing my invisible
specter to the left. The first patters of rain struck the pavement.

“Son
of a bitch.” I shoved Martini’s grip away from my throbbing shoulder and cast
the bike down a second street. The roads narrowed away from the artificial
glare of the used car lot and beer distributor. Thin houses with metal awnings
and busted gutters lined the streets. I snuck into an alley and third road
without stopping, searching only for the threat of headlights or the shrill
warning of a siren.

The
headlight came first.

My
bike rumbled as I pushed through shadow and streetlight. I cut around an untrimmed
yard and blitzed behind an elementary school. The first shots ricocheted off
the road and through the siding of a decrepit split-entry. Martini’s scream
laced the air, crying my name as a third and fourth echoed far too close.

I
broke out onto a two-lane highway dissecting the town. The Temple fucker
followed, but his control waned. The road washed with the debris from a clogged
storm sewer. The bike spun out, and he dropped hard against the cement.

Just
in time for the flash of police lights to crest the hill behind him.

“Jesus
Christ.” I swore and pushed the throttle again. My bike surged forward, dipping
into shadows. The cop leapt from his vehicle, gun drawn.

I
had no idea which men went down and which one remained. It wouldn’t make a
difference. A man didn’t earn a Temple rocker without bloodshed.

The
main drag promised another highway entrance. I buzzed past the closed shops and
broken street lights without looking behind me. Martini shouted to turn as the
last bike lunged out of the darkness of a side alley.

A
bullet fired, crossing over my shoulder and shattering the one storefront with
enough merchandise sitting in its window to warrant a security system. Flashing
lights and shrieking alarms revealed our positions to anyone with half a brain.
It didn’t stop the gunfire.

We
had no other options. The Temple biker had the jump on me. He fired a shot too
close for comfort, too close to the unprotected woman holding my back. I juked
the bike.

Martini
squealed as the front wheel locked and the brakes skidded over rough roads. The
bike tilted and crashed. Hard. My injured shoulder bit the ground first, and
the dizzying clutch of pain punished like the bullet sliced through me again.
My head cracked next. That didn’t hurt as much. Figured it would, but rolling
through the dirt and sliding on the leather into a guardrail shook most of the
shock off.

The
man’s bike pulled up beside me.

I
had too many years in the business, too many close calls in the lifestyle to deal
with this bullshit.

My
gun, aimed, cocked, and fired before he even raised his weapon. The body fell
to the ground, crushed under his motorcycle.

He
wasn’t the bastard Sergeant-At-Arms.

“Fuck.”
I rose to my feet and spat. No blood on my tongue, though my head and chest
scoured with daggers. I guessed that was a good sign.

Martini
groaned from across the road. She hobbled onto her hands and knees. Her jacket
hadn’t torn, but her jeans were either covered in mud or a bloody mess. The
lightning didn’t flash to reveal it, but my stomach twisted.

She
was another innocent girl caught in a bike chase, trapped in the middle of a war
that hadn’t named her. It was too similar.

It
was just like Rose.

I
hauled her up. “Come on.”

She
gripped my hand and stared with eyes rounded in panic. Her gaze hardened with
each passing second. The silver cooled, stilled, and shattered, and I knew,
without a doubt, I’d earn that shrapnel as soon as she caught her breath.

“We
gotta lay low,” I said. “They’ll call the cops from every municipality from
here to Ohio.”

I
didn’t know how I talked. I didn’t know how I got on the bike, or why the
damage to the frame seemed only cosmetic. I wasn’t that lucky. Had to be
Martini.

The
rain sheeted against the rode as I drove us to the next town through blurred
vision and a ringing in my head that I’d only stop with a sharp knife. Martini was
bleeding. I sure as shit couldn’t ride. The police raided the highway, and
Temple scoured the town looking for the scrap of clues the cops forgot to pick
up.

We
needed a place to hide if only until the hornets ceased buzzing and the rain
stopped falling.

A
neon yellow sign advertised a motel. It paid by the hour, but I wasn’t worth a
good room. Martini held on tight as I parked and stashed the bike behind the
enclosed dumpster.

Every
movement dug that reaper’s scythe deeper into my flesh. I leaned on the door to
the lobby and forced my way inside. Martini’s quick steps scampered beside me.
I tossed a handful of wet twenties at the acne-scarred college bro staring at
us through bloodshot eyes.

“There’s
two hundred.” I grunted. “Put down any fucking name. Tell anyone we’re here,
and I’ll cut out your tongue.”

The
kid reached for the lobby phone and paled. Martini hopped onto the counter, too
petite to lean over without kicking her feet off the ground.

“Hi.”
Her voice purred like a cat in heat. “We had a little scrap on the road. Lost
control of the bike, can you believe it?”

She
bit her lip, but the streak of dirt over her cheek, nose, and forehead dampened
her charm. Her hair smoothed behind her ear, dripping wet. She appeared little,
lost, and frightened, and I wondered how the fuck the clerk didn’t immediately
call the police.

“Can
you get us a room? We’d like to clean up?”

“I...”
He swallowed, glancing from her to me. “I can call an ambulance?”

I
didn’t want to shoot my gun again, but Martini laughed. Her sweetness burned
away any of the road grime and mud in her hair.

The
kid melted.

“No
ambulance. We have bad insurance.” She winked. “Don’t worry about us. I’ll take
care of him.”

He
tossed a key on the counter. “Uh…Room Three. Be out by eleven.”

She
grabbed the key and bathed the boy in a smile so sensual he blushed. “Thanks,
sweetie. You’re a lifesaver.”

Martini
took my arm and forced me to follow. The room wasn’t much, but the instant the
door closed every nerve ending in my body exploded in a bombardment of pain. She
locked and chained the door. I pointed to the windows and collapsed onto the
bed.

“Curtains.”
My patient voice was a gift, one not stolen by the scream of profanity hailing
my mind. “Turn out the lights.”

Everything
burned, ached, and throbbed. The mattress cradled me about as good as the
gravel on the highway. But a bed was a bed. I didn’t care if the world spun
itself into oblivion as long as I got to rest.

The
phone in my pocket vibrated. The new message flashed white on the too-bright
screen. I read the message before I realized it was more painful than the burn
of the road.

I
sang @ a real club 2night! My big brother should watch the video. You’ll be
proud!

She
meant it when she signed the text—
<3 Rose
.

It
was easier to face the uncertainty of passing out in a shady motel with the
cops and a murderous MC prowling the streets for me than it was to reply to the
message.

I
shoved the phone in my pocket.

Then
I welcomed the black.

Run.

The
hotel room was too quiet after the roar of the road and the crack of gunshots
and thunder.

I
had to find somewhere safe to stay, a place where I could wash the blood off
and hide from the most terrifying mistake of my life.

The
sugar crash caught me first. Then the shock. Then the crippling, nauseating
fear.

I
spent ten minutes in the bathroom heaving up every scream I swallowed on the
road. I used the next ten to scrub Route 19 out of my legs. Cleaning up after a
disaster came as easily to me as closing my bar. I wasn’t about to panic yet.
Now wasn’t the time to whimper about the crash, surrender to the brutal freaks
that chased us, or worry about the man who saved me by murdering two bikers.

Worse
things had happened to me in the past. Hell, worse injuries and crashes too. I
lived with Sacrilege long enough to understand what scars were earned and which
were self-inflicted.

I
loved the club. I loved the bikes. I loved every single thing about the lifestyle
and the road and the family built within the ranks. It was Goliath I didn’t
love, and, Christ, did he make it hard to leave.

I
edged out of the bathroom. My warden-turned-hero passed out on the bed. He
hadn’t managed to pull himself onto the mattress. Both of his legs hung over
the side. His leather was beat too. Scratched and torn and probably covering a
dozen bruises on his muscular form.

He
took the brunt of the crash. I heard him strike the guard rail, but the gunshot
was all that echoed in my ears now.

I
didn’t know who Noir was.

I had
never heard of Temple MC.

I
doubted Kingdom would care about our accident.

The
mysteries tied into a knot bigger than the one tangling my stomach. Everyone
was in so far over their heads they’d be lucky to keep it attached to their
neck once everything went south.

I
had to leave. It was my only option. As always, I had a plan. And maybe I
cracked my head on the road, but I saw my opportunity.

I’d
run.

I’d
get far away from Kingdom and Sacrilege while Red found the money to buy my
freedom back.

I’d
call Sam. Tell him about the crash. About Noir dumping the bike. Then I’d lie
and tell Sam Noir died on the side of the road. I just barely managed to crawl
to a hotel where I tended to my wounds and survived the raging concussion
blasting at my head.

If
Noir resurfaced, I’d claim I didn’t have time to take a pulse, what with the
police and multi-mile shootout targeting my back. If he didn’t...then it all
worked out. I’d escape, he’d clear his conscience of trafficking a woman club
to club, and Kingdom would eventually get their money.

A
win was a win, and I was so tired of losing.

I
grabbed my bag, but it hurt just to swing it onto my shoulder. The bed looked inviting
with the more injuries I discovered. But I raced the ticking clock and the
frantic clutch of my heart. Both pounded entirely too fast.

Noir
shifted. He grimaced against the mattress. His arm tucked awkwardly at his
side.

The
purse was heavy enough, I didn’t need any more burdens weighing me down. He risked
his life for mine. He raced to a safe place, paid twice what the room cost, and
waited until the doors were locked before he finally passed out. He saved my
ass and he left most of his on the road as a result.

He
bled through his shirt. I dropped the purse on the floor.

I’d
regret it. Sure as hell, five years from that moment, I’d be counting my
bruises and cursing my younger self for being such an idiot.

The
bathroom only had two stiff washcloths, but I didn’t dare call for room
service. I filled the ice bucket with hot water and wished for better soap than
the dry bar. Noir hadn’t moved. I double-checked to make sure his chest still rose.

There
was a lot of man under the leather, but, from where I stood, all of it had
pulled through. A small trickle of blood dried on his cheek, mixing with the
rough stubble. I had no idea where the blood came from, but there was more
hidden beneath the layers.

Layers
that had to come off.

I
edged closer, washcloth in hand. He didn’t respond to my nudge. Losing
consciousness was probably a sign to get him to a hospital, but I doubted he’d
let any doctors examine him or nurses poke into his history.

“Noir?”

Nothing,
and the cut on his forehead oozed blood and dirt from the road.

It
wasn’t like I hadn’t stripped an unconscious man before. Goliath had a bad habit
of passing out in his clothes. Slipping him naked into bed sometimes tricked
him into thinking he had gotten laid.

I
rolled Noir, pulling his jacket off. Even unconscious, he groaned when his
weight settled onto his left shoulder. His shirt came next, though I had to
bend his body up as I peeled the dirty, bloody material over his hardened
chest.

The
shirt dropped to the floor.

Jesus,
who the hell was this man?

Hardened
muscle, scars, and ink. If I learned nothing else about Noir, his body told me he
was a man built by violence, toughened through battles, and decorated with
harrowing tattoos. Rows of jagged stripes, coiled tribal markings, and the
emblem of a terrifying demon riddled with scars and brandishing two crossed
swords marked his skin.

Beneath
the demon, the darkened letters revealed the past he wanted to hide.

Anathema
.

His
MC.

He
had partially blackened the etched markings on his bicep. The ink only covered
a quarter of the tattoo. He hadn’t finished destroying his past. Hell, he
hardly started it. Whatever Anathema was, whoever Anathema was, he hadn’t the
courage to completely separate from its grip.

No
wonder Red didn’t trust him. A man
was
his MC, especially when he got in
deep enough to etch his body with the markings of the brotherhood. He honored
his two prison sentences with tallies on his rib cage, and banded most of his arms
and chest with hard, tribal stripes.

This
wasn’t a man who walked away because he met a lovely lady and settled down.

Whatever
happened to him had been as brutal as the old, healing injury to his shoulder.
I recognized a bar top surgery when I saw one. The gunshot wound was stitched
by an unsteady hand, and judging by the jagged scarring and untended wound, I
guess he hadn’t received much mercy—from them or himself.

“Who
are you?” I whispered.

He
didn’t answer. His chest rose in shallow breaths. A bruise colored his side the
same shade of black and blue that decorated my body. He bled more than me. I
wet the washcloth and lowered a trembling hand to his skin.

Muscle.
He was all muscle. Every last inch of him. I rinsed the bloodied cloth in the
bucket. The cuts along his skin stretched tight over his pecks. The drying crimson
matched the black letters of his club, the intimidating demon staring with
lidless eyes, and the echoes of his past injuries streaking his flesh with
white remembrance. I gently rubbed the old injury, and his abs tightened.

So
did mine.

Because
that
was a smart reaction after the bullets flew and the bikes chased.
It didn’t surprise me that I’d get tingly studying the body of a dangerous man.
He was covered in ink, blood, and scars. He had that bit of grey in the hair
leading from his navel below the waist of his pants. And he ran from every kind
of demon, including the one tattooed on his chest.

I
always fell for the same breed of man.

And
look where that got me.

Mopping
up blood in a shady motel room.

Getting
traded to an MC for God-knows-what reason in a deal the devil concocted.

The
last thing I needed was trouble with another renegade hard-ass who struck
first, lived in anger, and then demanded I apologize with a mouthful of his
cock.

Once
upon a time, that treatment excited me. But now?

Noir
was
trouble—a lifetime of risk wrapped in leather and inked with every
warning for a girl to stay away. A man didn’t build that muscle in the name of
vanity. He didn’t suffer through untended bullet wounds in his shoulder because
he was afraid of doctors. And he didn’t run, fight, and murder men from Temple
MC when they challenged him in a diner.

He
knew who those men were. Scarier yet, they knew him. My hand stilled.

The
trade with Kingdom wasn’t the worse mistake Sacrilege made. Hiring a desperate
man like Noir would only end in bloodshed.

The
washcloth dipped into the water. I held my breath and reached across his chest,
just barely rubbing the smudge of blood and dirt from his injured shoulder.

His
eyes flashed open. Darkness, like the smoke of a roaring inferno, blackened his
unfocused gaze. I screamed as he slammed his hand against my neck and tangled
his fingers within the pink scarf. He yanked, pulling tight on the silk before
driving me into the bed under him.

His
gun pressed against my temple. His grip tightened over my throat.

Noir’s
body pinned me against the mattress. Every muscle in his form tightened,
forcing me into submission. I fell limp against the sheets.

Staying
still was wise.

But
I wasn’t wise.

I
was a hopeless, utter, unfortunate lunatic. Not even a romantic.
Nothing
about the heat coursing through my veins was romantic. My stomach bundled into
a knot of unsettled nerves and distrust, but the tingling shame shaded me as
pink as the delicate scarf wadded in his hand, holding me against the bed like
he claimed the collar, leash, and every binding that rendered me helpless under
his power.

My
breathing stuttered to a stop. His fingers hadn’t loosened, and the gun against
my head locked steady, unlike the ravaging trembles which assaulted his aching
body. I reach for him. I didn’t speak. I didn’t move.

I
waited.

I
let him pin me.

I
submitted.

Like
a
fool
.

Was
this how I’d always end up? Trapped under a hardened body? Desperate to feel
the unrelenting pressure of a man possessed with more strength and bestial rage
than affection?

I
never wanted gentle. I looked for raw power, brutal dominance, and unrestrained
passion.

Everything
inside me clenched with a sudden need.

The
gun lowered, but his hand didn’t move. He allowed me a breath. The air
vaporized the instant it touched my parted lips.

Noir
scowled as he blinked. He had trouble focusing, but the hard line of his jaw
flexed as he stared at me. His gaze shifted from my face to the silk he gripped
over my neck, and then down. The cute vest and little t-shirt I wore revealed
my curves. He saw through the tightness of my jeans. One of his legs slipped
between mine when he pinned me.

I
reacted in pure, wanton instinct—a reaction born of the darkest, most sensual
recesses of my mind. Noir’s weight rested over me. His body covered my
trembling. His strength overwhelmed mine. My heart thudded hard enough without
the threat of the gun or his hand.

His
eyes deepened in shadow, cloaked in whatever haze of memory that trapped him
within violence. He hadn’t attacked me—he defended himself. The weapon tossed
away. His vision cleared.

He
didn’t move.

Neither
did I.

Heat
passed between us. The adrenaline of the chase poisoned my judgment, and Noir’s
victory shrouded him in a lust I recognized. His was the desperation of a man
who celebrated life with parted legs and murmured words. Our bodies shifted. A
shudder rolled through him.

I
didn’t know what I expected. I didn’t know what I needed. The brutal honesty of
his excitement pressed into my thigh. I shuddered. He leaned close.