Too Wild To Ride (Steel Veins MC Romance, #1) (5 page)

Slam. That was the last one, next is mine. Any second now, I would hear the keys manipulating the lock and the door would be thrown wide. This was about to get messy and the odds weren’t in my favor. I had no additional ammo, just whatever was left in my gun. Five shots. I snapped the clip back in.

I wanted to focus but my thoughts kept drifting back to Star.  It felt good knowing she was OK, but I selfishly wanted her here with me. If anything could force me through a situation, it was knowing I had to protect her. Wishing I could put her in harms way was pretty fucked up, even for me. I couldn't help but want her near me, though.

I had to remind myself that she was gone. And that I'd ostracized myself from my family. What did I really have to fight for anymore? The fleeting hope that eventually, whenever I got around to not almost being killed that I might see her again? No, it was over. When the Lobos bursted in, I'd make them work for it. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

I'm sorry, Star
.
I'll miss you most of all.

The slam didn't come. There was shouting and bustling around outside. Had someone already called the cops? That wasn't it. More engines. It could've been Lobos reinforcements but no one ever does a hit piecemeal. They'd sent everyone they were going to send. I could hear the Lobos filing out of the room next to me, cursing in Spanish.

Knowing the Lobos would be too distracted to spot me, I opened the shade just enough to get a good look outside. Salvation rode in, in the form of the assholes that were sent to kill me. The Kill Team that Deadeye had sent after me had arrived. With them came a tidal wave of tension, threatening to crash over the Lobos. It was beautiful.

Seven of the worst psychopaths we had to offer dismounted and put on black masks. The masks were for intimidation and for their exit if, or rather, when the cops came. Kill teams never wore club colors either for the same reason. They didn't want to be associated with the club if the public saw them doing horrible shit. I'm surprised they even rode bikes. My crew always took clean
burner
cars. I saw their faces before they masked up and knew each and every one of those heartless killers by name.

Lorenzo walked the Veins up to spitting distance of the Lobos in the parking lot. Outnumbered two to one none of the Veins showed any fear or hesitation. They were here for me and they would lay waste to anything in their way. Fucking scorched earth if necessary.

Lorenzo was going to do the talking so he kept his mask off for the moment. He looked the same as the last time I saw him, minus a new scar on his cheek. He was tall, lean and clean shaven with short greased back hair. He led this team. There were five teams total. The
fist
of the Steel Veins.

The fingers were set up to fight other clubs, each specialized in something different. Lorenzo's was the most direct. Assassination. The pointer finger; they found and pressed out specific people and for the most part, they didn't give a damn about collateral damage in the process. My team was predominately demo but we were good enough with everything for the most part. The catch-all. We were the Steel Veins middle finger.

Everyone's guns were out but Lorenzo's, he lit a cigarette casually like he was waiting to catch a bus. Then he started talking. He was smooth, given enough time he'd work out an arrangement with the Lobos that allowed everyone to come out looking like they won, except me of course. I'd be dead.

Even if shit was calming down in the parking lot, no one on my level could hear the conversation and that made for a lot of itchy trigger fingers just waiting to scratch. The Lobos were rattled, they knew who these men were and even having them outnumbered, they probably wished they'd brought more guys. Sirens sounded across town, the cops were finally coming. You could almost smell the tension, it was thick in the air like gasoline on a hot day. It was time I cracked the door, dropped the match and got this party started.

“¡Vayan a chingar a su madre, pinches gringos cabrones!” I shouted curses at Lorenzo and the rest of the KT.  Still hidden in the room, I licked off two carefully aimed shots. One struck the tire of a KT bike, the other drilled a hole in the back of the Lobo talking with Lorenzo. Then Boom. Everyone exploded into action. Lobos up here unloaded first but were too amped up to hit what they aimed at.

The Steel Veins though, they cut with extreme precision. In a blink Lorenzo had his mask on and all the Lobos in the parking lot were dead. Bullets chipped the stucco walls all around me as I darted for the short hallway that led to the back stairwell, where my bike was parked. This was not a fight I wanted to stick around for if I could help it. Turns out I might have a date with a pretty girl after all. That is, if once all this was over, she'd ever forgive me for abandoning her.

Most of the pieces in my master plan were set, but the dominoes fell almost faster than I could get out of the way of. I could hear the cops arrive. The gunfire renewed. It was pandemonium. Perfect for an escape. I tucked my piece, stuffed my vest and took off. 

The only way out took me past the parking lot. Bodies were littered everywhere. I weaved between cop cars as more joined the fray. Anyone that could get to a bike scattered. A bullet skipped off my exhaust pipe as I rounded the corner. I swerved and another completely took my damn side mirror.

Even with a little breathing room the shots still flew by, someone was hot on my ass. I got low and fast. My bike sliced through the narrow gaps between passing vehicles.
Come get me, asshole.
It was cat and mouse through the busiest streets of Vegas. Granted, that wasn't saying much but it was my best chance to lose the tail. If I could get to a straight stretch this guy wouldn't be able to keep up.

Most clubs were very formal about which bikes were allowed. It was mostly just Harley with an occasionally smattering of other American bikes like Indian or Victory. Lately some of the fringe chapters, like ours, were getting a little more relaxed with that shit. Whenever I rode to conferences or did multi-chapter Steel Veins rides, I'd always bust out my Harley. When it was just chapter business, my Kawasaki Ninja was king and fuck anyone that said otherwise. The handling on my Ninja was tighter, it was easier for me to maintain and it could fucking smoke any other bike. On the highway, I was untouchable. I just had to make it there first.

We blew through lights and signs. I heard the guy chasing me clip a jaywalking pedestrian. We had to keep the speeds down due to the clogged intersections with the early lunch rush. The metal route 85 sign shined like an angel's halo, one more turn onto the on ramp and I was a fucking ghost.

That's when my rear tire exploded. It was just an incredibly lucky shot or incredibly unlucky, depending on which end of the gun you were on. My beautiful Ninja jackknifed then flipped end over end. I was thrown into the side of a school bus that was turning the opposite direction. This late in the day, the kids must've been heading out for a field trip There was a choir of screams inside as I hit the thin, yellow sheet metal and shattered some windows on the bus. I prayed that I didn't inadvertently hurt any of those kids.

“Hey, Poet.” Most members outside our chapter knew me better by my handle: Poet, or just
Poe
if they were clever or lazy. I liked to read  in the quiet times when we were waiting around for shit, so usually there'd be a worn paperback sticking out of my back pocket.

“Rocks...” I groaned. I knew it was him by the sound of his voice.

I can honestly say I've never hit a bus before. My head rang. Vision blurred. My whole body was on fire but miraculously nothing felt broken. I was fading, on the verge of passing out completely. If I did I was never waking up again.

Rocks was about as smart as a sack full of his namesake but that didn't matter because he was efficient. He was given the name because he was sent to jail for killing two men with a palm-sized chunk of granite. It was club business, but he willingly took the fall. Rocks was loyal to a fault. 

“Nothing personal, bro. Deadeye's orders.”

“Yeah, just make it clean.” I rolled over and leaned back on my knees. It was a good thing we were going slow or else I would've been paste. For all that mattered now. “We got kids watching. Think of your daughter.”

“Freeze—” A ballsy security guard from the bank across the street barely got the word out before catching a round in the throat. For a man who liked getting his hands dirty, Rocks was a hell of a shot. My gun had slipped out and bounced well out of reach when I hit the pavement. There was no way I could get to it. Rocks was just too fast. The bus driver was telling the elementary-aged kids to get on the floor but most of them just stared on crying.

“Naw shit! Sorry, kids,” Rocks apologized through his black mask. “ Looks like we gotta do this quick. When you get to Hell, Poet, keep my seat warm for me.”

Out of nowhere a tan, four door sedan plowed right over Rocks. His head whipped forward  against the road like a watermelon on a rope. Then he immediately disappeared under the chassis of the car with several bone-splintering crunches. The mangled wreck that came out the other side was wet and all the wrong angles. A mockery of the human form. Rocks bitterly clung to life for a few seconds but it was no use. I guess he'd be the one keeping my seat warm in Hell.

The car came to a screeching stop and the passenger door was kicked open.

Was that Star?

“Get in!” she cried, with equal parts horror and excitement.

I hobbled to my feet, grabbed both my gun and Rock's gun and threw myself into the car. “Take 85!” She took off before I could even get the door shut. Holy shit. Star just killed someone. How the hell was she even here? Whose car was this? I had a few questions and she was saying things too but I had too much trouble thinking. Hitting that bus really fucked me up. Was this all just a deadman's dream?

My vision tightened to a pinprick, and then blackness took me.

I
had a dream once when I was very little that always stayed with me. I typically didn't remember my dreams at that age. When I started college, my roommate was all about studying the meaning of dreams. The “Gateway to the Subconscious” was a club she had that held its meetings in my dorm room. I hung around with them more out of boredom than any real interest, and because they always brought weed with them. I just couldn't get into the dream stuff, though. To me it was all just a messy filing system that organized the days events and occasionally it hiccuped. Still, this one hiccup stayed with me for some reason. I never gave it much thought until recently.

I floated through this endless hallway, or maybe fell, I wasn't sure. Doorways that led to different paths that my life could take, closed on the right and left as I reached them. I was able to catch the briefest glimpse into each one just before the way was shut. The rooms were lush. Full of color, life and warmth, but somehow they seemed alien to me. As if they were a painting of a memory.

Deep within each room there was a distant form beckoning me. A being of swirling, blackish smoke that coalesced into a dark parody of myself. She was barely noticeable at first. An errant splotch  on a beautiful horizon that lingered just within the fringe of each discarded life. Then she stepped forward, regarding me with the resignation of inevitability. It chilled me, so I pushed on faster.

As I traveled farther down the hallway, that same figure in each room I passed, stepped ever closer to the doorway before being blocked at the last moment. Faster and faster I fell. More closing doors flew past. All these chances at different lives slammed shut. I was now afraid.

I realized I had been the one closing these doors all along to stop the dark version of myself from getting out. When I reached the end of the hallway, at breakneck speeds, there was only one door remaining. It opened before me, the dark figure stood expectantly. Her wispy arms set wide, waiting in an open embrace ready to receive me.

All of my anxiety drained away. I was filled with a sense of belonging. As I collided with her, I came to realize that I was the impostor. This dark form was the real me. Together, as one, we tumbled into the starkly empty room behind her.  She whispered in my ear the following words. “Welcome home, my love. You've been gone too long.”

Then I woke.

*  *  *  *  *

I
just killed a man. The words buzzed around my head like a mosquito. Murder was so heavy and foreign to me that I didn't know how to deal with it. I pushed it away as much as I could but I might as well have been standing against the tide. The big waves were going to crash eventually, I was already starting to feel sick.

But not that sick. Not nearly sick enough.

I drove absently. The scenery blurred. I passed by cars on the highway like they were parked. The fingertips of my right hand lightly traced the hard lines of Remy's chest and abs through a ridiculous, crimson red, collard uniform shirt. I could only guess as to how he had come by it. Remy had passed out almost immediately after he'd gotten into the car. Like he'd been waiting for me to arrive before succumbing.

Even after stealing the vehicle, I never really expected to see him again. He could've fled in any direction. The city was very small but it was still incredibly lucky that he raced by me on my way to the motel. Almost like I was meant to find him. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. I needed to touch him for this to all
feel
real.

Our car did long S-curves in between the sparse islands of traffic. I had just killed a man. When I thought about it my skin crawled a little, but I think it was mostly because of the sound when it happened.

A dull bump when I hit the biker, followed immediately by a sharp crack. A tire popped the car up a bit, over one of his limbs as he was dragged through. I could feel his body under my feet, through the floor. The car came back down, like I was a large steel mallet and he was an uncooked, bone-in chicken thigh. I heard the weight shatter everything. When we pulled away, the red smear filled my rear view mirror. It looked like he was a popped ketchup packet.