'Then pack her up, she's coming with us.' I can feel my brows shoot up half way to my hairline.
'Huh?' is all I manage. I can see Killer smirking in the background, like he knows something I don't. Fucking hate that prick. And that expression.
'There's been a tip off, this place is done. You think she'll talk more, she can do it at the clubhouse.' I swear under my breath, but Aric ignores me. He knows I don't have any real attachments to this place. I notice a shadow pass across Killer's face at Aric's pronouncement.
'Where the fuck is he going to keep her at the clubhouse?' he spits out, and I realize that Killer was pretty sure that he was going to get to see me kill Wren tonight. Sick fuck was probably getting off on the idea too. A slow grin worms its way across Aric's face and I frown, my eyes narrowing. I don't like the look of his expression.
'Bruiser's room, of course,' he says with a shrug, tossing his empty beer bottle into the sink. 'Bruiser wants to fuck her; he might as well do it in his own bed. Five minutes,' he tells me, striding out of the house. After throwing a dark look my way, Killer stalks out after him. Fuck. I need to make sure Wren falls in line and gets the fuck out of here with me. Then I need to figure out a way to keep her talking once we’re back at the clubhouse. Just until I figure out a way to convince the Shaws that we don’t need to kill her. Yeah, because that’s going to be a piece of fucking cake.
I take the stairs two at a time, tossing my things into a duffel bag before heading to the attic. Wren hasn't moved. Her ass is still glued to that motherfucking chair. Her head whips around when I enter and she blushes, her eyes unable to hold mine. Embarrassed that the others saw her with my hand in her panties, I think. Fuck, I frown at that. I don’t like that they saw that either. Not sure why I care. I’ve fucked plenty of groupies in the main clubhouse bar. I think I just don’t like that they saw her come. For whatever reason, that shit feels personal. Private. Just for me and no one fucking else.
'Get your shoes on,' I tell her, slinging the duffel bag across my shoulders and crossing my arms in front of me. Something in my eyes must scare her because – for the first time in fucking days – a look of fear flashes across her face and she scampers over to the bed like a frightened rabbit. She pulls on her shoes and socks, reaching under the pillow for a necklace that I don't remember seeing and then hurries over to my side. I grip her upper arm as I guide her out of her prison cell and down the stairs.
She breathes in deeply when we get outside, and I'm reminded that apart from her daily trip to the bathroom, she hasn't been out of that room in over five days. She still looks scared shitless as she takes in the other five bikers, who are now dousing the house in gasoline, before Killer smirks in my direction, tossing a cigarette onto the doorstep. The fire takes immediately, flaring up in front of us. I shove my duffel bag into one of the leather saddlebags on the back of my Harley, swinging my leg over it. The other rigs are circling around and out of the yard.
'Wren,' I call out, as she tears her fascinated gaze away from the fierce blaze. She runs over and hesitates for the barest moment before she swings her leg over, climbing onto the bitch seat on the back of my rig. A place no woman has ever sat before.
As I gun the engine, she wraps her arms around my waist and clings on for dear life. We tear out of there, chasing after the other rigs, putting distance quickly between us and the house now engulfed in flames. An explosion rents the air as the fire reaches the barrels of gasoline I left around the house for this very purpose, and Wren screams, burying her face into my leather jacket and tightening her grip. I'm fucking rock hard at her touch. This is going to be a long fucking ride to the clubhouse.
Chapter 7
WREN
Our entire journey to wherever we’re going, surrounded by five other bikers, is terrifying. This is my first motorcycle ride. Figures, since I seem to never do anything by halves. I'm sure most people's first rides are easy. Like, along the coast or something. Not tearing away from an exploding building that I'm pretty sure I was meant to die in. I try to glance around me, take in my surroundings and figure out where the hell we’re going; but we’re flying along the road, and the wind stings my eyes, so I keep my face buried in my monster’s jacket, while I cling to him for dear life.
Finally we arrive at our destination, but it isn't exactly what I had pictured. We roll up through guarded gates, parking beside a long line of gleaming motorcycles. Then my monster gently pries my hands from his jacket and climbs off his motorcycle, pulling me with him. Wherever we are, it looks like a warehouse with an auto garage attached to it. An auto garage with soccer mom's minivans spilling out of it.
From the way my father talked, I figured all they did was criminal things. Now I’m not so sure, because I don't think soccer moms would use a criminal auto garage. I’d say that maybe my father was mistaken, but that wouldn’t explain the leather clad, armed sentinels at the gates. The gates which ominously clang shut behind us. My monster pulls his duffel bag from one of the leather bags that is strapped to the back of his motorcycle. Just looking at that machine has my legs trembling, remembering our terrifying ride.
My monster places a hand on the small of my back and propels me forward, towards the converted looking warehouse with a porch. I guess that to anyone watching, it would look like he was manhandling me; I suppose that is what he means for it to look like. But actually, his touch is very gentle, and the only reason I stumble is because my stupid knees lock up. When I do stumble, he grabs my upper arm, glancing down at me briefly with raised eyebrows before pulling me along with him. My legs finally agree to work, and I have to half jog to keep up with his long strides. I’m not short; but my monster towers over me.
When we enter the warehouse, I realize that this must be the Wild Hawks clubhouse. It looks like a very large, very seedy biker bar. There is a long bar, stocked with all kinds of liquor, running along one wall, with stairs to an upper level behind it. Chairs and tables are scattered around the room, with two pool tables and a jukebox. A large, shiny motorcycle is displayed over in one corner on a kind of viewing platform, and the walls are decorated with pictures of motorcycles, some of them being straddled by very scantily clad ladies.
There are a number of leather clad people in here, and, weirdly, one Southern belle dressed for tea. Everyone's eyes turn to my monster and me, and an array of looks flow across the crowd. They range from surprise, to suspicion, to hatred. The hatred's just for me, I surmise. As we move forward, towards the stairs, the crowd parts for us, like river water parting its flow around a rock. I don't think that has anything to do with me though. Most uneasy looks as we pass are cast at my monster, and I realize that a majority of these terrifying looking men are scared of him. I think back to what he looked like when he first stepped into that room and I was so sure he was there to torture and kill me, and I understand their fear.
We hit the stairs and the eyes follow us as he drags me up, down a corridor past a number of doors. Then he comes to a halt, jerking me to a halt also, opening the door in front of him and shoving me through. The room is dark initially, until he flips on the switch and I blink at the sudden light; black dots clouding my vision until I blink them away. He slams the door behind us, locking it, and then crosses the room to dump his duffel bag on the floor next to a doorway, which I assume leads to an ensuite bathroom. I stay where I am, my eyes taking in my new surroundings.