Untamed Hearts (BBW Biker Werewolf Romance) (2 page)

Adrian was here. That could only mean one thing.

He’d tracked her down and had come to take her back to the pack. And that was the last thing she wanted.

“Are you okay?” She was vaguely aware the guy at the counter was talking to her, but his voice was just a distant rumble. Every sense she had was focused on the man standing in the doorway. She took in the three-piece, custom made Italian silk suit, the pristine white shirt, and even though she couldn’t see his shoes, she knew they were also handmade, probably from the hide of some almost-extinct animal, and they cost more than what she made in a year in tips.

Eyes locked on Adrian, she started sidling down the counter. He was looking the other way and she’d made it almost all the way to the swinging doors to the kitchen before he turned in her direction.

Their eyes met, and she saw in that instant that he might not be so interested in taking her back to the pack. The look of recognition, quickly followed by pure black rage, told her he’d probably be just as happy to take her out back and get rid of her, slowly, piece by piece.

She had, after all, left him at the altar.

Her feet suddenly rooted themselves to the floor. Fear wound its numbing fingers around her body as he took a step in her direction.

He bellowed her name, his voice cutting through the clatter and din of the diner, and everyone stopped to look at him. In that moment of silence, she could hear her heartbeat, the sound of breath passing through her parted lips.

Adrian took a step forward, then another. Then stopped. His path was blocked by the guy sitting at the counter, who now stood facing Adrian.

“Hey, buddy. How about you leave the girl alone? Clear to me she’s not interested in you. And you’re bothering the other diners.” The guy’s voice was low, controlled, but radiated power. It didn’t hurt that he had a couple inches on Adrian. And that was bad. Adrian was vain about his height as it was.

“Like I give a fuck. And who the hell are you?”

The edge to Adrian’s voice was razor-sharp, and she recognized by the pitch that he was close to losing it. With Adrian, that usually left someone—usually her—bloody and bruised.

“I’m nobody. Just a guy trying to keep you from a mistake that you just might regret.”

Adrian barked out a cruel laugh, then tried to push past the guy. But the big hand on his chest kept Adrian from advancing. He looked down, his face darkening.

“Take your paw off my shirt, you stinking animal.”

The guy did remove his hand from the white shirt, only to grab Adrian’s tie. The crazy thought that the deep blood-red silk was one of his favorites flashed through her mind.

The guy jerked it hard, pulling Adrian forward. She almost didn’t see what happened, but the loud crack of bone against bone, along with Adrian dropping to the floor, told her the guy had given Adrian a professional head butt.

Before she could recover, the guy vaulted over the counter, landing lightly a few feet from her.

“Come on. He’s not going to be out for long.”

He grabbed her arm, dragging her through the swinging doors into the steamy and chaotic kitchen. Glen, the fry cook, gawked as they ran past, holding a spatula in one hand like some bizarre greeting, the eggs burning on the grill.

They burst through the back door into the alley. She blinked in the bright sun, momentarily disoriented. Then the full weight of what just happened crashed down and she sagged against the dingy cinderblock wall, knees as rubbery as the diner’s lunchtime Jell-O.

“Oh, shit. You really shouldn’t have done that to Adrian. Really.”

“Don’t tell me you’re worried about that asshole?”

She shook her head, hands resting on her knees. Fainting seemed an imminent possibility, but probably not the wisest move right now.

“No. I’m not worried about him. I’m worried about me...and you. When he wakes up...”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I’m sure you can...it’s just...”

“It’s just, he’s a shifter and you’re worried he’ll turn and tear my throat out? Like I said, I can...”

“Yeah, I know. Take care of yourself, being a shifter and all.”

For the first time, the guy’s cocky façade cracked and he blinked at her.

“You know? Since when?”

“Since today.” She held up her hand. “Since we touched.”

She suddenly stiffened, ears tingling. Over the noise of the diner’s exhaust fan, she heard the unmistakable bellow of Adrian’s voice calling her name. The guy’s head jerked up, so she was pretty sure he’d heard it, too.

“I need your help...um, what the hell is your name?”

“Gunner Hastings. You’re Jillian?” He pointed to the name tag, now hanging askew on her uniform. She glanced down, yanked it off, and pitched it into the dumpster.

“Actually, no. It’s Claire. Claire Emerson.”

“You usually use an alias?”

“Only when I’m on the run. So, can you help me?”

“On the run from him?” Gunner jerked his thumb toward the diner. There was a loud crash, a yell she recognized as Glen’s, and then the sound of a body taking a punch. She didn’t think it was Adrian on the receiving end. She straightened and moved away from the diner’s back door.

“Yeah. Can you help me?”

He hesitated, and Claire thought he was going to bail on her. But he grabbed her hand, pulling her down the alley, talking fast over his shoulder.

“Can you ride a motorcycle? I’ve got mine at the shop just around the corner.”

She nodded, which he missed in their headlong dash onto the sidewalk of Lindhurst Street, now pulled in his wake down the block toward Hearne’s Bikes.

They burst through the front door, past a cramped and dusty seating area, and through an open doorway into the shop. Gunner guided her through a welter of bikes in various stages of repair. A skinny kid looked up and flung himself out of their way, the metallic clang of a tool hitting concrete echoing loudly as he watched them race by.

“Gunner? What the hell’s going on?”

A man stood in the doorway to what looked like an office, holding something greasy and metallic in his hand.

“Reece, change of plans. Taking the rest of the day off. Gotta...give a girl a ride, um, somewhere.”

Gunner managed to get all this out without breaking his stride. Claire got a look at the guy named Reece as she flew past. Mouth open, he followed their headlong dash through his shop.

“Bike’s out back.” Gunner slammed through a metal security door and they popped back out into the bright sunshine. Claire saw the bike, a big Harley, lurking in the shadows of the dead-end alley.

Gunner finally let go of her. She waited, shifting anxiously from foot to foot while he pulled back the chain-link security gate at the mouth of the alley, half expecting Adrian to appear any second. Gunner ran back to the bike, wheeled it forward, and climbed on. The Harley came to life with a deep rumble. To Claire, it sounded loud and powerful and a lot like escape.

“You got some kind of plan other than just running?” Gunner shouted over the noise of the big machine.

Claire hiked up the skirt of her waitress uniform and got on behind Gunner. She’d ridden bikes before, but this thing was massive.

And so was Gunner. She leaned forward across his broad back, her lips close to his ear.

“My apartment, for a start. Then...” She shrugged and leaned back.

Gunner turned, giving her a look that clearly said he thought she was crazy. But he gunned the big machine, dropped it into gear, and then they were gone.

G
unner knew the guy was a shifter the minute the door opened. His scent was so strong it rolled off him in waves. Gunner thought the guy was either supremely confident no one would notice—or care—he was a shifter, or he was so out of control he wasn’t even trying to mask himself.

As it turned out, he was out of control. Gunner had been close to a few loose cannons in his life, and sometimes he fit that description. But this guy was beyond anything he had ever encountered. For a brief second, he’d debated if he even wanted to get involved.

But the look on the girl’s face told him there was no way he could just sit there and let the guy do whatever the hell he was going to do. For one thing, she was clearly terrified of the guy. For another, Gunner was pretty sure if she ran, he’d never see her again.

And that wasn’t something he was willing to let happen.

So he’d stood and turned, facing the guy. And bit back a laugh. The guy was a good half-foot shorter than Gunner, dressed in some high fashion suit and tie, with shoes so polished they practically glowed. Either he had a lot of money and didn’t mind flaunting it, or he was trying to make up for the lack of stature—or lack of something else—with the flashy clothes. As far as Gunner was concerned, neither mattered. All that was important was keeping himself between the guy and the girl.

The shifter radiated rage like a blast furnace. When Gunner put his hand on the guy’s shirt, he caught a glimpse of just how wound up the guy was. It wouldn’t have surprised him if the guy shifted right then and there. He was on the edge, and the least provocation could push him past his limits. Something needed to be done, and it needed to be done now.

“Take your paw off my shirt, you stinking animal.”

Gunner reacted, instinct and intense dislike for the guy fueling his actions. Grab the tie, yank hard, and aim for his nose. There was a satisfying crack as his head connected with the bridge of the guy’s nose. He was out instantly, sagging against the tie. Gunner let go and the guy hit the floor, blood pouring out over his nice white shirt.

And now Jillian...or Claire, as it turned out...was on the back of his bike as he wove through lunch hour traffic, burning through yellow lights, leaning hard into the corners.

It was pretty clear Claire had been on a bike before. She moved with him around corners and wasn’t clutching him in a death grip like some girls did. But she was holding on tight, and despite their speed and the cars honking around him, not all of his focus was on the road.

Gunner was acutely aware of her arms around him, the soft press of her breasts against his back, her warm hands on his stomach, just above the button of his jeans. When she’d hiked up her skirt to climb on behind him, he’d caught a flash of a long leg and a creamy-skinned, luscious thigh. Several inappropriate thoughts ran through his head.

The big yellow taxi was in front of him almost before he could react. Braking wasn’t an option, so he gunned the machine, leaning hard, swerving left around the ass end of the cab. He drew a deep breath as they rocketed through the other side of the intersection and made the effort to pull his mind away from Claire’s attributes long enough to not get them killed.

She’d shouted the street name in his ear, back when they were still traveling under the speed limit. He knew the area, and it wasn’t long before he was cruising down Belmont Street, past the red brick apartment buildings that had seen not only better days, but better decades. He felt her hand move away from his body and she pointed to one of the cookie cutter buildings.

He saw an alley and turned down the shadowy canyon that ran between her building and its neighbor. He could see traffic at the other end, meaning they had an escape route, and behind her building he found a small, garbage-strewn courtyard, weeds growing with abandon.

He swung into the courtyard, making a tight circle across the gravel and patchy, brown grass. Claire was off the bike before he’d killed the engine. He kicked down the stand and climbed off.

She’d climbed a set of cracked cement steps, and he was right behind her as she pushed through the door into a dim hallway that smelled like cat urine and cooked cabbage.

“Why are we here? If you’re in such a hurry, I can take you anywhere you want to go.”

She was fumbling with her keys in front of a nondescript door, the number eight missing but the ghostly outline still visible on the dingy wood.

“I need to get my stuff and my money. It won’t take long.” She slammed the door shut behind him, throwing the deadbolts. “I’ll be right back.”

Claire darted through a pair of curtains into what he thought was probably the bedroom. He heard banging and thumps and sighed. No woman he’d ever known could pack in less than an hour.

“So, you want some help...” He parted the curtains, stepping between them. And stopped dead.

Claire stood in the middle of the room, in just her bra and panties. Gunner blinked once, and without thinking, let out a low whistle.

“What the hell? I’m getting dressed here.” Claire grabbed the sheet from the bed, struggling to cover some part of her body with it.

“Sorry. I just wanted to see if you needed any help packing.”

“I’m packed. Turn around, damn it, so I can finish getting dressed.”

Gunner turned his back, but the image of Claire was engraved in his mind. The body he’d imagined beneath her waitress uniform was a far cry from what he’d gotten a good look at. The curves were there alright, but it was pretty clear, even in the dim light from the cloudy window, that he’d underestimated just how beautiful she was.

“So you’re packed? That must be a new record somewhere.”

He heard the rustle of clothing behind him, and it took all the control he had not to turn around.

“You ever heard of a bug out bag? The preppers have them. Well, so do I.”

“Preppers?” He frowned, trying to gauge where she was with getting dressed. Time it just right and he might catch another glimpse. Then he mentally kicked himself. The girl was obviously in danger and all he could think about was what she looked like in her bra and panties.

“End of the world people, doomsday preppers. You know, survivalists. You can turn around.”

She was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on a pair of Doc Martens.

“Anyway, a bug out bag has all your essentials for survival, for a few days at least. Mine’s a little different, since it has pretty much everything I own.” She nodded to the duffel on the floor at the foot of her bed. He hadn’t even noticed it. He’d been to blown away by the sight of Claire.