ROUGHNECK: A DARK MOTORCYCLE CLUB ROMANCE (52 page)

W
hen I stepped
out of the bathroom, I heard scuffling from the bar. I never should have left her alone with them.

They were a pack of wild, drunken animals, and she was a young, sexy, defenseless girl.

There was no argument.

No questioning in my head.

I knew what I had to do and I
acted
.

The group had her pinned against the bar top. Judging by the muffled noises, a hand was clamped tightly over her lips. They were hungrily pulling at her miniskirt when the last one spotted me just a moment too late.

With a sickly crack, my fist connected with his face, sending the man stumbling backwards against the others.

Two of the assholes kept holding the poor girl down while the big one – probably their leader, by the looks of it – reeled forward with a roaring fist.

I sidestepped, tripping him into a table and sending the remnants of a beer splashing at my feet. Things were rapidly getting out of control. The bikers recovered quickly, lunging for me in unison.

Thinking fast, I stepped backwards but slipped on the wet floor. My head connected with a barstool, making me vulnerable just at the wrong time.

Someone grabbed me by the shirt as I tried to orient myself. A powerful fist smashed into my face, but I detached myself and head-butted the offender.

“
Fuck!
” The voice called out.

It sounded like the leader.

Good.

The other guy tried to lash at me as I clambered to my feet, but I ducked his strike. Using his weight to my advantage, I grabbed at his arm and knocked him off balance. Before he could regain footing, I drove his head straight down into the bar.

His skull connected with a resounding
WHAM!

The leader was on top of me again, as he tried to get in a solid gut punch. I took one in the ribs before managing to push him back.

My hand brushed against a dirty glass. It was a stray tumbler, fostering the last few, forgotten sips of dark liquor.

Perfect,
I thought to myself.

I smashed it hard against the side of his face.

“
Goddammit!
” He cried out as glass flew everywhere. “
You fucking SHIT!
”

I could hear a commotion from behind him. Lunging forward, I dove like a feral animal towards the two bikers still holding down the bartender.

She was kicking and fighting and had managed to bite the hand covering her face.

I aimed my weakened but effective punch at the distracted biker with the bitten hand, catching him just off-center. Stunned, he stumbled backwards against a low wall.

The bartender broke free from the other asshole, dodging around the rising leader and behind the counter.

Whoever this girl was, she was a quick and nimble little minx. She dove behind the bar.

The leader got in a few good licks at me before I grappled him down to the floorboards. He got the upper hand briefly, but I managed to force him onto his back, straddling him and delivering a few solid wallops to either side of his head.

I was just climbing up when I heard the scraping behind me.

Before I knew what was happening, the bar stool connected with my head. Falling, my eyes cast back to the bar. A beautiful yet frightening face was rising from behind the dark wooden counter with a beastly looking 12-gauge shotgun in her hands. An explosion rang out, the gun punching a large hole in the ceiling. My loudly ringing ears couldn’t mask the unmistakable sound of the pretty girl racking another shell.

…And then everything went black.

I
t was awhile
before Trent finally started to stir. The tiny, makeshift bed creaked with his sleepy, sluggish movements, and I firmly pressed my fingertips down over his pectoral.

“No. Stay down. Rest.”

He nodded quietly, relaxing back down.

I lifted my fingers from his chest. Even through his shirt, I could tell how built he was. He probably had a stack of washboard abs below.

Privately, I grumbled that it hadn’t occurred to me to bother checking that.

This guy was probably a muscle powerhouse beneath these clothes, and I’d missed my one chance to sneak a peak without him knowing.

“Do you want something to drink?” I asked.

“Water,” he asked.

I reached for the glass that I’d prepared and left beside him. Holding the edge to his lips, I carefully slipped him some of the cold water.

“Where are we?” He asked me, coughing.

“Where I live,” I answered truthfully.

We were in a backroom with a single window casting in moonlight from above. A bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling but I hated its sickly glow, so I relied on the natural light (or lack thereof).

Besides, I was used to moving around in the dark.

It made it easier to forget that I was trapped living in such a complete dump.

“I thought you were an asshole when you walked in,” I remarked. “You kept looking at me like I was a hot piece of meat... And then you go and save me from those fuckers.”

“Yeah, well…it’s been a weird night.”

“Tell me about it,” I agreed. “But listen. I need to check you out.”

In the dim lighting, I saw his lips curl into that cocky smile again. “You don’t need my permission for that.”

“Ugh. Not like that,” I corrected. “But you took a beating there. Like a fucking champ, I’ll admit. Still, I need to take a look at your head. You might have a concussion.”

“Explains why my head hurts so much,” Trent laughed painfully. “Go ahead, doc.”

He slowly pulled himself to a seated position, and I helped him out of his shirt. After telling him to close his eyes briefly, I flicked on the overhead light.

Oh sweet Jesus.

He was temporarily blinded, but I adjusted quickly – fast enough to see how amazing his powerful, rugged build really was.

There could barely be an ounce of fat on this guy’s body. He was all muscle – built to last. His sinews rippled just below the skin, pulling taut as he shielded his eyes. His powerful shoulders and tight pectorals were to die for.

Turns out that I had been completely right about his abs.

You could probably slice onions on them.

“Are you done checking out the goods?” Trent chuckled arrogantly. That stupidly sexy smile of his curled along his lips again.

Ugh
.

“You’ll stop talking if you want my help,” I warned him.

“Alright, alright…”

I pulled down my medical kit from a shelf. Popping it open and spreading a few supplies along the bed, I sat down beside him and dabbed rubbing alcohol onto a cotton ball.

“This might sting a little,” I explained.

“Pfft. I can take it.”

The slight waft hit my nostrils as I pressed it to his cheek, bringing me back to when I was a child. It was one of the few memories that really stuck out, patching up my stepfather after one of his famous barroom brawls.

I shook the thought from my head. I couldn’t help but wonder why alcohol seemed to be the common denominator in pretty much everything I did, despite how much I hated the stuff.

Dabbing lightly, I checked his cuts and bruises. After applying some of the rubbing alcohol to his wounds, I ducked out of the room and came back with a hot, soapy rag.

“Nothing broken,” I observed. “Worst thing I’m seeing is a few deep bruises and the lump on your head. Still not sure about that concussion, but you don’t look too worse for wear. It’ll hurt later. But you probably don’t need a doctor.”

It was clear that he was starting to finally remember things as I cleaned him up.

“What happened after I hit the floor?”

“You’d be surprised how fast a bunch of fat ass bikers can run when you point some buckshot in their direction.”

“Remind me never to piss you off,” Trent said, letting out a low laugh. “Did they hurt you?”

“I’m fine, thanks to you,” I replied.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. You were a beast. You kept taking punches and returning them harder. Those bikers weren’t exactly pushovers. And you took on
four
of them at once.”

“You had two of them distracted.”

“Still. That’s no easy feat.”

“You sound impressed,” Trent said, cocking a smile.

“Maybe a little, but let’s not forget that I saved your ass too. With a shotgun and everything. I mean, I’m not gonna lie, it was pretty epic. You should have totally been there, instead of unconscious.”

He smiled at me for a moment, before the grin faltered. “What about the bikers, though? Are they coming back, or…?”

I shook my head. “Called the Sherriff. He picked them up on the interstate headed west. They won’t be bothering me or
anyone
else for awhile.”

We sat in silence for a moment while I wiped him down. There wasn’t a lot more I could do. He was going to need some painkillers for the morning, which I didn’t really have access to, so… yeah.

“So, who
are
you, anyway?” I asked him.

“I already told you. I’m Trent Masters.”

“Yeah. Doesn’t exactly really ring a bell.”

He flashed a cocky smile, as if he was about to announce himself as the lord of some distant land. “You ever heard of
Trent Masters and the Whiplash?
”

I laughed aloud.

I didn’t think this could get any dumber.

“Yeah, your name probably would have tipped me off if that meant
anything
to me.”

Trent looked a little disappointed.

“I figured,” he murmured with dejected irritation. “If you didn’t recognize me when I came in, you probably weren’t going to, anyway.”

“So, enough with the bullshit. Who
are
you? What’s this about whiplash?”

Trent grinned cockily. “We’re a rock band.”

“Funny,” I chuckled. When his grin only grew wider, my face only hardened. “Wait, you’re
serious?
But I’ve never heard of you…”

“You’re right. I
clearly
made that up. I mean, I can’t imagine how a tiny, backwater town halfway up the ass of Alabama might have missed a band that tops the hottest Top 40 stations.”

“I’m more of a country girl,” I conceded. “But we
get
radio here. Wait…”

It started to dawn on me.

“Wait, no, there’s this one rock song that comes on every once in a while, what is it…I can never hear the name, they never announce the band or the song title…”

“How’s it go?” He asked.

“Nuh-uh. I can’t sing.”

He shrugged. “Recite some lyrics.”

“Um.”

I thought for a second.

“Reeeeaad my bones, whispered, taken?”

Trent laughed with amusement.

“That’s…wrong. That’s
really
wrong. But yeah, that’d be us. You’re talking about a song I wrote,
Wicked Wilds.
”

“I see,” I thought aloud. “So, that’s
you?
”

His eyes glistened with delight. His voice began to sound more familiar now – it could definitely be close enough to be behind that song. I mean, I hadn’t heard it
often
, but it was one of the few rock songs that really drew my attention.

It had always been sung so soulfully.

The singer’s voice really rang with emotion.

But he could still be making this shit up. Wouldn’t be the first time some asshole came into my bar pretending to be something he wasn’t.

“Sing it,” I demanded, crossing my arms.

He looked surprised. “You want me to sing for you?”

“If you expect me to actually
believe
this bullshit you’re spewing, then yeah, I definitely do.”

“You
do
realize that people usually pay me thousands of dollars to sing, right? And I just saved you from, from…”

“Classy as
fuck
, Trent,” I laughed. “You’re right. You just saved me from being raped. Low blow,
much?
But I distinctly remember whipping out a shotgun when you went down, so I think you and I are
one for one
. Besides. I don’t think it’s that big a request. You’re making a total fuss over a few lyrics?”

Trent flashed a grin. “Good point.”

“So, go on, then,” I waved at him with my wrist. “Prove that it’s you. Work your magic.”

“What if I’m an impersonator?”

“I’ll know if you’re full of shit.”

Trent shook his head, smiling softly. He looked deep into my eyes, as if searching to see if I was being serious. After a moment, he smile settled in a big, arrogant grin.

“Fine. Have it your way, then.”

While I sat next to Trent Masters, he turned to me, looking deep into my being, and his sturdy voice yarled the rugged chorus to his
alleged
rock hit single:

“
Reeee-yee-yee-ead my bones… broken, laid, and / Heeee-yee-yee-eed my moans… whispered, taken / Seee-yee-yee-eee my frown… buried, bathed in / Feee-yee-yee-eel my crown… dust and vapor”

Trent’s deep voice rang in the small space, digging into a dark octave and pouring out his very soul against the walls.

My head flashed to the alternative rock heroes of the Nineties –
Pearl Jam
,
Soundgarden, Stone Temple Pilots
, guys like that
.
They’d never been my jam, but as I listened, I knew the truth. I was tending to the wounds of a real-life rock star.

He was so young, and oh so fucking hot.

Maybe I could give up on country… Just this once…

“You believe me now,” he smiled cockily.

“That’s…definitely you, on the radio.”

“Me,
and
my band,” he added.

“What the
fuck
are you guys doing here in the middle of nowhere?” I asked breathlessly. “I mean, what brought you to
Riverton?
How did you wind up in
my
bar?”

“We’re playing the
RipFest
, just an hour or so over from here. It’s the biggest music festival in the state. The after-party wasn’t my scene. I decided to hit the road and find somewhere a little quieter to nurse a beer.”

“Well, if you wanted quiet, I guess you probably picked the wrong bar…” I told him.

“No...” Trent said, his hand covering mine, “I think I came to the right place.”

I gulped. It was a total move, but it was
working.

“Is that so,” I strained to say dispassionately.

“Yeah,” he agreed, his widening smile exposing a few bright white teeth. “That’s so.”

I knew how he was looking at me. His eyes tenderly slid along the curvature of my skin. I could have stopped him… I should have stopped him… The problem was, I
wanted
him to look at me like that.

Goddammit, I want him.

I want him BAD.

And the worst part is…he knows it.

As my throat grew tight and my cheeks reddened, I became suddenly aware that I was still dressed for work… Barely. My shirt was torn half open by the bikers, exposing the pink bra beneath. The miniskirt had hiked itself up my thighs as I patched Trent up. Now I was sitting in bed beside the hottest hunk of man flesh I’d ever laid my eyes on.

And the very same man had an infuriating, damning look plastered on his face. I could feel it, burning down in his gaze as he looked at me.

That smug look that just screamed
victory.

Fuck me.