I was just testing the placement of my hand on the gun when there were footsteps coming down the hallway, making my stomach tighten as I scrambled back up onto my feet as the footsteps moved into the bedroom I'd walked through.
I was aware of him for a full couple of seconds before he realized I was there, giving me a chance to take him in.
He was tall. Taller than me, and I'd always been tall and a bit lanky. But he was solidly built as well, wide of shoulder, narrow of waist, with what looked like some impressive biceps under the sleeves of his tee.
Whoever he was, he had rich, dark skin and long, black dreads, with a carefully styled, but short, beard, full lips, brown eyes, and a nasty-looking scar on his throat.
Good looking.
Stupidly good looking, actually.
But when my gaze slid from his face toward his body again, there was a gut-punch sensation as I realized what else he was wearing aside from his jeans and tee.
A black leather vest.
Only, they didn't call it a vest.
It was a cut.
It was a symbol of his membership of the bike club.
I managed to hide the gun behind my back before his gaze finally moved in the direction of the bathroom. And therefore me.
There was a silent moment while he looked at me, taking me in.
"There's always one," he mumbled to himself, moving into the doorway, resting his forearm on the doorjamb, leaning his upper body inward slightly. "The upstairs is off-limits," he informed me, in a tone of resigned annoyance. Like, perhaps, the party hadn't been as enjoyable for him as it had been for the other partygoers.
He had a nice voice though, full of bass, and smooth at the same time.
Not that I should have been focusing on his voice. Or his face. Or his body.
The more I did that, the more "real" he would feel to me. Which would make what I had to do all the harder.
Then again, no matter what, it wasn't going to be easy for me. I wasn't the kind of person who could kill easily. Hell, I caught spiders and relocated them. Sure, I squealed and shrieked my way through the whole process, but I got it done.
I would shake and maybe even cry my way through this, but, again, I had to get it done.
"How am I supposed to get out after shooting a biker in his own home?" I'd asked when the orders had been given to me.
"Can't imagine how that's my fucking problem." That was the only answer I'd gotten.
It was why I'd chosen to wait the two days, even though it made me sick. Because I'd heard there was going to be a party. And, typically, a party meant a lot of loud noises. Ones that might help muffle the gunshots, at least enough to allow me to sneak away in the confusion.
I mean, if I didn't get away, it would be alright. So long as I took out one of them before the others got me. At least, I thought it would work with that.
I was suddenly more than a little upset that I hadn't had the forethought to really ask specific questions.
It was likely because of all the trauma.
But I was pretty sure that even if I died while getting the job done, everything would turn out alright.
I mean, not for me and this guy.
But there wasn't much I could do about that now.
"You good?" the guy asked, brows pinching as he looked at me.
I understood the question. Even in the cold room, I could feel the sweat dripping down my back and chest, felt it glistening on my brow and the tops of my cheekbones. I was also trembling. I felt it on the inside, in my muscles, in my bones, but it was possible I was shaking outwardly as well. And judging by the panic coursing through my system mixed with the lack of sleep and food, I imagined my face didn't look great either.
"Baby?" he asked, face growing concerned as he pushed off the doorjamb. "You're shaking. Did you take something?" he asked, taking a tentative step forward, seemingly aware how I might feel trapped if he got too close too fast. "Did someone slip you something?" he added, taking another step forward.
God, he was being nice.
Why did he have to be nice?
It would have been easier if he was an asshole.
Well, no. It probably wouldn't have made a difference.
It was going to be impossibly hard no matter what he was like as a person.
Do it.
The little voice was a choked, desperate sound.
But it was now or never, wasn't it?
My stomach twisted hard as my arm moved out from behind my back, lifting, straightening, aiming the gun.
"Whoa whoa," he said, stopping to hold up his hands. "Hey, it's alright. I'm not going to..."
The rest of his sentence was cut off as my sweaty finger slid to the trigger and pulled, leaving me surprised with how easily it engaged, making a bullet burst from the gun.
I watched in horrified disassociation as the man's body jolted back at one side, making it clear that I'd managed to hit his arm a second before I saw the bloodstain blooming across the material of his tee.
"Fuck," he hissed, surprised gaze looking at me.
I didn't even remember thinking about it, but my finger squeezed the trigger a second time, the sound deafening in the small space.
There was an explosion, then a thumping noise as the second bullet whizzed past the man to wedge into the wall behind him.
My heart seized in my chest, realizing I missed.
And that the man, bullet wound and all, was coming at me.
I aimed again, then squeezed the trigger a third, and final, time.
Chapter Two
McCoy
It was a never-ending party.
Normally, I wouldn't complain. We'd all been working our asses off for a long time. Everyone had earned a chance to let loose.
Between opening The Shop and helping Sass open up and run her parts store on top of all the work that came with running our less-than-legal pursuits, everyone was due for some fun.
I would have been down there with them if I hadn't just got back from a drop with Huck and Che. And while those two were off relaxing with their women in their respective separate spaces away from the noise and people, I was stuck in a house full of strangers when all I wanted was a good night of sleep after being on the road for almost twelve hours.
I'd tried to be a good sport about it, spend some time with the guys, but in the end, I'd decided to head up, lock the door, and see if I could sleep through the racket.
I hadn't expected to run into anyone. As a whole, everyone seemed to just know that the second floor was off-limits during a party.
Then again, I wasn't exactly surprised either.
What was surprising, though, was who I came face-to-face with.
And that was the goddamn prettiest woman I'd ever seen. Which was saying something. I'd grown up in fucking Miami. Beautiful women were everywhere, and often wearing very little.
This woman, though?
She was gorgeous enough to wipe the memory of all those others right out of my head.
She was tall and on the thin side, wearing a simple tank top and shorts that put a fair amount of her golden skin on display. She had her medium-brown, curly hair kept just barely brushing her shoulders, framing her softly rounded face with full lips, high cheekbones, and a slight smattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose, almost as if someone gently flicked a small paintbrush over her skin, giving her a sweet, soft look.