"At this time, I imagine only one is sober enough. I guess I should tell him anyway," she mused, shooting off a much shorter text than my own. "For the record, don't you ever put your hand over my mouth like that again," she said, resting her phone on a ledge to give us the barest amount of light, just enough to allow us to see each other's faces. "Unless you want me to break it," she added, chin angling up.
"You're welcome, by the way," I shot back.
"For what?" she snapped, rolling her eyes. "You're not riddled with holes, so you didn't actually protect me from anything."
"I pulled you off that fence," I said, voice raising. "What the fuck were you even thinking?"
"Oh, gee, I don't know. That staying in a dead-end alley with an active shooter pinning us in was maybe more risky than climbing a puny little security fence?" Danny said, voice getting louder to match mine. "I don't know what kind of white-gloved training you got, Little President, but it clearly didn't prepare you for a real-life shootout."
"Cut that shit out with the name-calling, Danny. I've had e-fucking-nough of it."
"Yeah? Well, how do you think you're going to stop me?" she asked.
And right then, right that very moment, that was when I lost my motherfucking mind.
Because I figured out how to stop it.
With my mouth.
On hers.
Chapter Three
Danny
I'd be damned if I let Fallon know that I'd been scared. Practically pee my pants scared.
I mean, I was getting to know the town. But it took a lot longer when you didn't grow up somewhere to learn all the intricate ins and outs. It left me at a distinct disadvantage during an emergency sort of situation. Which left me doing the unthinkable. Relying on Fallon to guide me.
Though, apparently, it was the clueless leading the clueless because he got us into not only one, but two, dead-ends. It was actually kind of impressive, to be honest.
But, yeah, I'd been freaked.
And because I learned a long time ago to cover any soft emotion with something harder, I did the only thing I knew how to do in that sort of situation.
I lashed out.
It was my default setting.
Distract, deflect, and deal with it later.
Unfortunately, Fallon wasn't one of my men. He didn't just have to take it, or try to make the situation better.
No, he could lash right back out.
And to be fair, the man had some points.
I hadn't been using my most rational brain right then.
When it came to survival instincts, my scales were more heavily tipped toward fight than flight. But when your attacker was invisible, just a shadow in the night, you had no choice but to default back to your only other option.
Flight.
It wasn't a rational move by any means to climb that fence. But it was the only way out that wasn't running directly into a spray of bullets.
And as much as I hated to admit it, when Fallon grabbed my waistband and yanked me off the fence, well, it had sent a shot of desire through my system. It wasn't that I liked being manhandled per se, but I tended to like aggressive men. The alpha in me responded to the alpha in them, I guess.
But then, oh, then he did the unexpected.
He used himself as a shield to protect me from the bullets.
Sure, he was rough and rude about it, but he'd done it.
I was nobody's delicate flower. I wasn't the kind of woman most men felt the need to protect with their very lives. Hell, my own men had my back, sure, but they didn't use themselves as a shield in sticky situations, either. Because no other MC president would expect that. And I'd always made it clear I wanted to be treated just like they'd treat a man in my same position.
So I'd never known what it was like to have a strong man protect you. Which meant the flood of warmth in my chest was completely unexpected, off-putting, and yet comforting. Strangely welcome, even.
And, damn him, he smelled good up close.
I'd crossed paths with the guy dozens of times since moving into town. We'd always managed to trade nasty remarks and toss around sarcasm and thinly veiled threats. But I'd never once been close enough to know what the man smelled like.
It was a mixture of leather and some sort of woodsy soap.
Simple and masculine.
Which was what I liked.
I could never get into guys who used more personal care products than I did, or smelled like a bottle of Axe body spray like we were teenagers again.
Did I take a couple of deep breaths to take in more of that scent? I'd never admit it aloud, not even under duress, but yes, yes I did.
You know, before I remembered myself, that is.
Then I went ahead and got us the hell out of Dodge. At least temporarily.
I didn't want to admit this either, but I was glad Fallon had his men heading out to check shit out. Not because my men weren't every bit as capable, but because I imagined mine were too drunk to do a halfway capable investigation. The older generation of Fallon's club were likely all home in bed, getting some sleep, and would be sharp and keen-eyed.
Especially because we didn't know who the shooter was shooting at.
Either one of us could have been the intended target.
Or both.
You couldn't rule that out, either.
But with his men on the way, we would get some answers. And we wouldn't be sitting ducks for much longer.
The relief of that mixed with the lingering adrenaline-laced fear still coursing through my body was what had me snapping at Fallon who, objectively, hadn't actually done anything wrong.
One minute, we were yelling at each other.
The next, his hand was grabbing the back of my neck roughly enough to hurt, and his lips were crashing down on mine. Just as roughly. Bruising, really.
The shock shot through my system, making my whole body jolt at the contact. But the shock was quickly chased away with something else entirely.
The knife's edge of desire—sharp, burning, piercing through me.
His teeth nipped my lower lip hard enough to drag a gasp out of me before his tongue moved inside to claim mine.
I kissed him back.
It wasn't my proudest moment, but there was no denying it, either.
I kissed him back. Just as hard. Just as eager. Just as heated.
"That," Fallon said, pulling back, looking down at me with heavy-lidded eyes. "That is how I'm going to stop you," he told me, smirking.
It was the cockiness that managed to break through the haze of desire clouding my better judgment.
"You should—" I started, arm raising, hand cocked. What can I say? I hadn't exactly been taught healthy coping mechanisms for my anger. Who would have taught me? The bikers who were constantly going at each other? Not likely.
But I barely got my arm halfway up before Fallon was grabbing it at the wrist, yanking it high while he shoved me backward into the wall, pinning my wrist above my head against the rough wall before his lips slammed down on mine again. Harder, hungrier, rekindling that desire throughout my system.
It was an oppressive weight on my lower stomach, a clawing, undeniable need between my thighs.
A rumble moved through his chest as a moan escaped me, betrayed me.
My free hand rose.
To push him away, surely.