Outlaw's Bride Page 2

  I dated a bad boy, an outlaw, a man who'd probably strangled guys almost as big and bad as he was with his bare hands.

  Roman picked me up a couple days later for a ride on his Harley, and the sweet autumn breeze blew through my hair. Having my hands wrapped around his body was sheer heaven. On his bike, holding him close, all my problems faded into a big fog of masculine spice and rippling muscle.

  Roman saved me from having to think. With him, I didn't have to worry about the bad economy, my pissed off cousin, or hurtling toward permanent farm girl status.

  I didn't fret skipping college, or feel my stomach twisting in knots when I remembered the only places hiring in Redding were even scarcer and lower paying than Uncle Ralph's ranch.

  Him and his bike took me away from all that. He teleported me to an alternate universe of motor oil, dark inks, and pounding hearts, a paradise so awesome I never wanted to come back.

  One evening became two, and then an entire week of hard riding, hard fucking, quality time together.

  Roman picked me up every sunset, and we tore through the countryside on his bike, occasionally stopping in town for drinks or food. It always ended the same way – my bare ass bouncing beneath him in the bed, or sometimes in the tall, cool grass.

  We fucked our way to happiness. We used sex to wipe ourselves clean. Me, with my boredom and mundane worries. Him, with his dark biker obligations, his mysteries, the scary warrior bloodlust I saw darkening his hazel eyes.

  Club business, he said, warning me not to wander too deep into his world. And I didn't because when we were alone, the only business he had was me.

  We fucked underneath the stars and in his little apartment. We kissed until each other's taste was inscribed on our brains forever. We fucked until neither of us knew night from day, right from wrong, heaven from hell.

  One day, he woke me up early at his place. I wiped the sleep from my eyes, and realized he'd just ended a call.

  “Get moving, babe. I gotta get you home.” The tension in his strong face told me something was wrong, but he wouldn't say what.

  I kept pressing him about it the whole ride home. My heart thudded like never before on the bike, and it had nothing to do with the road tearing by underneath us.

  I was scared for him, terrified at his silence.

  When we pulled up the dirt path to my family's farmhouse, he ripped off my helmet, and told me he'd call me later. I couldn't let him leave without trying one more time.

  “Roman, please...what's the big secret?” I asked, frustration heating my blood. He gave me the same icy stare and looked away, mumbling something about it being nothing I needed to worry about.

  I grit my teeth. “Fine then, keep it to yourself. Guess you can tell me now, or I'll just find out later when I come by the clubhouse.”

  Shaking his head, he got off his bike, and grabbed me by the shoulders. Then he shook me – and I mean really shook me – so hard I stumbled back scared.

  “Don't you fucking dare,” he growled. “Not now. I told you the rules our first night out – I come to you, Sally. Never the other way around. There's a damned good reason for that, and I need you to fucking listen.”

  “Listen to what? How can I trust you if you won't tell me what's going on?”

  “It's club business,” he snapped, making me hate that two word sucker punch for the first time. “Not yours. I've gotta put my brothers first, second, and third. That's what a man does when he's in the Grizzlies MC.”

  Thanks, I thought, feeling the chill realization of how far down the ladder I must be.

  “I swore an oath to this patch.” His right hand formed a fist and slapped his chest, right where he wore the roaring bear tattoo underneath his shirt. “What's going on today's between brothers only. You've gotta understand that. Look, you know I like you a lot, but I can't fucking bring you into a world where you don't belong. I'm not gonna be responsible for you getting hurt.”

  Hurt? So, it was just as bad as I thought. Maybe worse.

  Without another word, he turned his back, and began revving his engine.

  Fuck it. I went after him, too upset to worry about the loud motorcycle drawing Uncle Ralph's attention from the fields. He'd look at me with horror if he knew I'd been hanging with a Grizzlies MC man for more than a week.

  But it didn't matter. Him leaving did, especially when the chill current swept up my spine, telling me this could be it.

  Whatever was going on threatened to pull him away from me forever. It scared me senseless.

  “Wait!” I yelled, stepping in front of the bike before he could dart away. “Will I see you alive again? Just tell me the truth. Just that. Please, Roman, don't do anything that'll get you killed. Please.”

  Frustration stormed in his eyes. “You'll see me in one piece if you step outta the way right fucking now. I'm going, babe. Don't make me run you over. I've got my orders. Yours are to calm the hell down and let me go. I'll be back for you. Promise. Right now, there's shit I have to do, and nobody's standing in my way. Not even you.” His cold, angry voice chilled me.

  I wilted. My feet dragged on the ground as I reluctantly stepped away, watching as he sped off without so much as a wave goodbye.

  I thought it was the last glimpse of him I'd ever have. Forever.

  Turns out, forever was actually a little under two years.

  Weeks rolled by, and there was no call. No note in the mailbox. No breaking news in the paper or on TV about a bloody battle that left men dead anywhere in NorCal.

  Nothing.

  I couldn't take it. I had to find out what happened.

  My next visit to the clubhouse was a fucking disaster. I drove in about a month after he disappeared, circling past the gruff faced guards by the gate, hoping I'd see some sign of him.

  But if I did, that would've been worse. If he'd chosen this way to dump me...

  I bit my lip, trying to keep it together, especially around all these scary, rough strangers.

  An older man with long gray hair named Blackjack answered all my questions. Thank God, because he was the most approachable of the bunch. He told me Roman was in prison, part of his service to the club for...God only knew what.

  “Club business,” the weathered warrior said.

  I hated those two words before, and now I fucking loathed them. For any woman unfortunate enough to be in the Grizzlies MC's orbit, it was like having the door slammed in her face.

  Of course, I broke down in my car. I wasn't just chasing him because I wanted to find out he was still breathing, though that was a big part of it.

  I had something to tell him, a slow motion disaster building by the second.

  “Why are you crying, girl? Look at me.” Blackjack's eyes were surprisingly soft, far kinder than any ruthless killer's had any business being. Looking at the ENFORCER patch on his cut told me he ranked higher than Roman, which probably meant he'd been into even darker things for far longer.

  “That's my business,” I said. “Mine and Roman's. Is there an address where I can reach him? Maybe visiting hours or something?”

  Blackjack shook his head. “It's too dangerous. Where he's going, rival gangs use visiting time to sneak up on a man and cut his throat. He knows to keep his head down, refuse everybody, even from the club. Sure, the guards will come in blazing, but by the time they break up the fight, he'll be bled out like a slaughtered hog if somebody gets a lucky stab.”

  Jesus. Telling him in person would've been hard enough.

  Now, this old vulture was telling me I wouldn't get a single chance for nearly two years? If ever?

  “Stay there a second,” Blackjack said after a moment, watching new tears pulling at my eyes. “I'll get some paper and pass along a PO box where you can send him letters.”

  I hated sitting there and staring at the clubhouse wall. A huge mural of a ferocious grizzly bear leered out from the side, its mouth stretched wide, ready to devour everything. Right now, it was chewing my world apart, piece by bloody piece.


  I barely knew the club, and I hated it. I certainly wouldn't be the first in Redding to feel that way. Uncle Ralph told me they were no good, though my cousin, Norman, always said they were the only thing stopping even bigger rotten apples from rolling into town and taking over.

  My Uncle only had me take the truck to their shell repair shop because the other guys in town screwed him over one too many times. Talk about a dismal situation when the most honest mechanics around were honest-to-God outlaws, smugglers, and possibly murderers.

  It was surreal. A few weeks ago, I'd been scared to death over Roman going off for an evening, wondering if he'd come home alive. Now, after hearing about jail, I knew I'd be feeling my nerves burning out for the next twenty-two months.

  He's not the only one in prison. You're going to pay for your mistake, I thought.

  Karma's come to collect her debt, and it's him. He's gone. You're going to do this alone, whether you see him alive again or not.

  My thoughts pulled knots in my intestines. Or maybe it was just the changes in my body, the shadow left in my flesh by too many unforgettable nights with a bad boy.

  “Here you go,” Blackjack said, sticking his hand through my car's open window. I felt so tiny in my own crappy rust bucket after driving Uncle Ralph's truck most days. “Write him anytime. I'm sure he'll answer you. Remember, the boys who run that place read everything before it gets to him. My number's there too. You really ought to call it if you need anything, rather than coming to the clubhouse. It's a bad time for too many outsiders.”

  I blinked. Blackjack put both hands on the window's frame and leaned in. “There's things going on in this club right now. That's why our boy's in jail. We're not interested in babysitting civilians, or receiving them at all unless it's absolutely necessary. You look like a smart girl, and I know he wouldn't want you fucked over by any bad business that isn't yours. Stay away from this patch for awhile, Sally. If you care about him at all, you'll listen.”

  I didn't say another word. Neither did he.

  A crater blew open in my heart. Two years. No contact. No way to reach him at all except a note by pigeon that would be intercepted and poured over by the guards before it ever made it through.

  No privacy. No help. No more loving – if I could call whatever we had that without being totally delusional.

  As soon as Blackjack walked back into the garage, I turned my car around and waved to the prospects manning the gate. I couldn't wait for it to slide all the way open before I gunned it out of there, fighting the fiery tears in my eyes.

  I was alone. The sooner I learned to accept it, the better.

  I didn't send a single letter the entire time. I couldn't bring myself to pick up the pen, couldn't put my hands on the keyboard. It would've written the lamest note in the world, and also the one guaranteed to stop my heart when I thought about how he'd react.

  Two long years passed in a painful haze. I tried to forget, at least until he got out. IF he got out...

  We never spoke once. Not until last week, when I finally mustered up the courage to walk into the clubhouse and try to tell him everything I'd been terrified to say by letter.

  He'd only been free for a few weeks. His twenty-two months in prison were a lifetime to me.

  I'd heard the rumors around town. The Grizzlies were fighting for their lives the past few years. They'd been warring with everybody across the wild west, rival MCs like the Prairie Devils up in Montana, and bigger worries closer to home. Nothing hit them harder than the Mexican cartels coming north, muscling in on the territory they'd held for decades.

  Every other week, there was a new gruesome headline. Missing people on both sides of the border, bombings and gunfights in every major city, especially Sacramento and LA. Thankfully, the war zone hadn't really hit Redding yet.

  Oh, except for the club's infighting. Their old President, the notorious old thug named Fang, was deposed. Blackjack took over the entire national organization, and he'd made Redding the MC's permanent headquarters.

  Change was in the air, and nobody on the outside knew what it meant. Not yet.

  Now shops funded by the Grizzlies MC sprang up all over, gun shops and strip clubs and biker bars. They cleaned up other dirty clubhouses as far as Klamath Falls and San Diego, and even ran a few charity events.

  No one was going to roll over and call these guy heroes. Honestly, it didn't take a perfect vision to see through the PR stunts, and some of the new businesses they'd helped set up were likely fronts for money laundering.

  Other things stayed the same.

  Their cartel wars weren't over. New violence somewhere in the state cropped up every week, except now it sounded like the Grizzlies were beginning to gain the upper hand.

  Me? I stayed out of it.

  There was plenty to keep busy. I'd never grown beyond the ranch, and now I was managing a lot more of it since a stroke took Uncle Ralph's life last year. Cousin Norman and I shared the farm, managing the machines and the family's old employees, including a few younger guys who'd become hangarounds with the Grizzlies MC.

  They were my source for most of the rumors. I never contacted Blackjack or anyone close to Roman, deciding to keep my distance until I was good and ready, and Roman was free.

  Days passed. I heard he was back in town, and apparently the club's Enforcer now.

  It took an entire summer week to gather my courage. I let Norman know I was going into town for a few things, but really, I was heading for the clubhouse.

  The fresh paint on the place instantly looked brighter when I pulled up. Two prospects were guarding the gate, and I struggled to explain who I was while they gave me cold, skeptical stares.

  But as soon as I said “Roman,” the man who's name patch said Stryker walked over and punched the button. The gate slid open, and I walked through it, leaving my car parked on the curb.

  It was early evening. Two men were arguing over drinks at the bar. I'd never been inside the place before, and it was about what I expected. Dark, smoky, dizzying.

  The sharp stink of booze and testosterone clung to the air, and I stumbled forward along a narrow corridor, trying to get my wits.

  “Sonofabitch!” A man growled. “Hey, lady! Look out!”

  Something sharp whizzed past my face. There wasn't time to dodge, or even wonder if it was a bullet. It smacked the wall just a few inches from my head, a long metallic dart, lodged in the wood like a stray missile.

  An angry looking bald man looked at me, straightening his cut. When he saw it hadn't taken out an eye, he spun around to face his partner, a strong, younger man I'd seen riding around town.

  “Asshole! What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you trying to get somebody killed?” Baldie slapped both hands against his brother's chest.

  The other man took a swing, missed, and drunkenly hit the floor. Before I knew it, I was watching a mini-biker brawl, two men on the floor cursing and throwing fists.

  Ugh. Not exactly how I wanted to re-introduce myself to Roman and his friends. I was about to say something and try to ease the scuffle when I heard footsteps.

  I looked up, and there he was, coming toward me. My heart thudded like a bomb's aftershock, and it didn't let up until he'd closed the gap between us, two fucking years apart.

  Roman and I locked eyes. The words I'd practiced so many times died on my tongue.

  I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe how he'd changed. Could I even believe my own eyes?

  Was he always so huge – or did prison add a few inches to his bulging muscles? His face looked tougher too, accented by a few more lines in his forehead, a sharper angle to his powerful jaw. He'd probably just passed his thirtieth birthday in jail, and he had all the insanely hot finishes of a man aging into his prime.

  Jesus. Before I came here, I told myself over and over I wouldn't feel the old heat. This was going to be business like, personal, but I wouldn't let my old attraction take over. Not before I saw what he was like.

  Yeah,
good luck with that.

  As soon as his dark hazel eyes sucked me in, I lost it. The tattoos on his muscular arms rippled in my peripheral vision, forcing me to remember those hands on my body. They'd held me down so tight while he fucked me, fingered me, warming me up for that battering ram between his legs.

  The men stopped fighting when they saw him coming. The young guy with the sandy hair helped himself up, holding onto the bar, nursing his ribs after they took some cringe-worthy kicks from Baldie. One look at Roman, and he started shaking, making excuses.

  The bald guy retreated behind the bar, fixing himself a drink. Roman stormed right past his beaten up brother, giving him a quick shove, muttering when he tried to stand up. “Get the fuck outta my way.”

  I'd stolen all his interest. While we stood there staring at each other, lost in our memories, everything else in the clubhouse might as well have been happening on the dark side of the moon.

  “Sally.” I flattened myself against the wall the instant he said my name.

  It wasn't just his body changing behind bars. Prison or age deepened his voice, given it a smoky richness to go with the deep baritone he'd had before. My mind went wild, recognizing the same wicked cadence and thunder I heard that summer when he growled into my ear, ordered me to suck his cock, to come each time he fucked me senseless.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  Good question. My lips tasted bitter against my tongue, as if they didn't want to move, didn't want me to remember why the hell I'd come to confront him.

  “I had to see you. I heard you were out of jail.”

  “Yeah, word spreads fast.” He folded his huge arms, and his biceps bulged so thick I swore they'd bust his seams. “What the fuck is this? I'm surprised you showed up. Pretty sure you'd forgotten my ass when I didn't hear from you. It's been – what? – two goddamned years?”

  Ouch. Steeling myself for this crap before I walked through the door was completely different from actually facing him. The lump in my throat didn't want to go down, and it had to before I could form words.

  “I'm sorry, Roman. When I heard the news from Blackjack, I didn't know what to do. He said I couldn't see you in person, told me it wouldn't be good to visit you –“