Outlaw’s Kiss Read online

  As she passed through the streetlight, a muscled figure stepped out to block her path. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and in the fluorescent light of the streetlamp she could see that his hard, angular face was carved into a deep scowl.

  Bridgette’s heart started to race. She’d imagined something like this happening a million times already ever since those men had shown up. But having it actually happen…everything was so sharp. Her spine had gone rigid.

  She wanted to just tear off running and hope she made it to her car in time. But the stranger’s hard eyes were on her, paralyzing her.

  “Where is it?” the man growled.

  General confusion trickled into her panic. “I—I have no idea—“

  “You know exactly what I’m talkin’ about,” he snarled, seizing her by the wrist.

  His massive hand dwarfed her slender arm, constricting around her brutally and threatening to crush her bones.

  She tried to jerk away from him, but he was too strong.

  “You listen to me, girlie. You’re gonna tell me exactly where you stashed it, or things are gonna get ugly. Understood?”

  She tried to kick at him, hoping to at least distract him enough so she could wrench herself free. But he didn’t even flinch, and instead dragged her over to the side of the building, slamming her back against the wall.

  She couldn’t get a good look at the man in the dim lighting, but she caught the glimmer of an earring, and she thought she could make out faint traces of scars on his face.

  He trapped her by the throat with one colossal arm and leaned in close. So close that she could smell his rotten breath on her face and feel his thick, bushy beard against her forehead.

  “You ain’t gonna try that again,” he growled. “Now tell me where it is or I start breakin’ bones.”

  Bridgette tried desperately to crane her neck around. The street was always abandoned at this hour, but she thought she saw headlights. Heard the roar of an engine. There was a chance someone was around, someone who could call 911.

  She sucked in a deep breath and let loose a piercing scream.

  The hand around her throat tightened, cutting off her air. She tried to claw at her assailant, tried to stop him, but he held her pinned like a little bird against the wall.

  She could feel her vision blurring and her strength failing. Then there was blackness.

  When she came to, gasping for breath, she found herself slumped against the wall as some new muscular figure tussled with the creep who’d assaulted her.

  The new man was a good few inches taller than her attacker. Though his build was less hulking, he seemed sturdy. More than able to leverage strength and speed to keep the upper hand.

  Her savior ducked and dodged his opponent’s punches. Then he socked him square in the jaw.

  Her attacker crumpled to the ground as the new man shook out his hand, which was likely still stinging from the hard blow he’d dealt.

  “You all right, sweetheart?” he asked. His voice was deep and rich. Familiar somehow.

  “I’m fine,” she answered, rubbing her sore wrist a little before touching her tender neck, trying to assess the damage. “Thank you so much for stopping him. If you hadn’t come, I…well, I don’t know what would have happened.”

  “Don’t mention it.” He turned to her, casting her a smile. But he froze as soon as he met her eyes, his lips falling flat.

  She froze, too, and her heart started pumping again. Hard. Her hands balled into fists at her sides—an automatic response to so much anger coursing through her.

  After all these years. After everything he’d put her through.

  Kyle stared at her, dumbstruck.

  Chapter 2

  Falcon

  Falcon took another long drag off the butt of his cigarette before dropping it to the sidewalk and grinding it beneath his foot. He was still on his first pack for the day. Fucking progress.

  “You sure it was Martin’s guys?” he asked.

  Benny scuffed his boot against the sidewalk, still scowling at the ground. “I know it was, man. I would know those weasel-faced bastards anywhere.”

  Falcon resisted the urge to slip another cigarette from the pack he kept tucked against his chest. He was gaining his self-control back bit by bit, but what Benny had told him was putting him over the edge, and that meant another smoke was that much more tempting.

  It had been six years since he’d last seen the drug lord. He instinctively lifted a hand, brushing it across the thick, ridged scar that ran from the bridge of his nose all the way to his right ear. What he wouldn’t do to get his hands around the bastard’s neck…and now Martin and his boys were stirring up trouble in his hometown.

  Falcon leaned back against the warehouse wall. “Shit,” he muttered. “They say what they were after? He’s not still kicking over rocks looking for me, is he?”

  “Nah, man. My buddy said he forgot about you soon as he realized the cops weren’t coming for him and his product. I told you that years ago. You’re still good. All I know is they’re looking for something that got stashed or stolen. It was a big package. Martin’s going to be out a shit ton of money if they don’t get it back.”

  Falcon ran a hand through his thick black hair, trying to decide what to do.

  Goddamn it. Six years was no small amount of time, and they said time healed all wounds, but he still had no desire to go back home. There were too many bad memories there, too many mistakes, too much bitterness. He didn’t want to relive the darkest part of his life.

  # # #

  He’d always been a bit reckless. He’d started dealing pot on the side in high school just to make a little extra cash. He’d smoked a little himself. His girl hadn’t minded the occasional bowl herself, if he remembered right. It wasn’t like he’d been running a meth lab or looking for serious trouble. It wasn’t his fucking fault that trouble had come looking for him.

  He’d been a stupid kid caught up in a puppy-love romance with his high school sweetheart. They’d ditch class to go for rides out of town through the endless stretches of Texas countryside. If he concentrated hard enough, he could still recall the sublime feeling of her tiny arms wrapped around his waist for dear life, the press of her body against his back, the way she would nuzzle her head against his shoulder and beg him to go faster.

  The fragrance of her shampoo was tangled in those memories, too, linked to the velvety warm press of her lips and the soft fullness of her body. Some days he thought he would have married her. If things hadn’t happened as they had.

  He hadn’t wanted to leave, especially not without a word to his girl. Thoughts of her still gnawed at him at night when he lay awake in bed, no one at his side, his mind humming too much to sleep.

  But leaving had been the only way.

  It had been his own damn fault, in a way. He’d been twenty and off on another one of his rides. This time out to a cluster of abandoned industrial buildings southwest of town. The complex had been a shell for years. The decline of the steel industry had left them empty and decaying and virtually unsellable. The chain-link fence that enclosed the property had toppled over in many places, and even the padlocked main gate leading into the area had rusted out to the point that anyone with a little muscle could push it open and enter with a full motorcade.

  Falcon, who’d still gone by Kyle back in those days, liked the place because it was out of the way and he could do whatever the hell he wanted away from prying eyes. Mostly he would just go there to smoke, but sometimes he’d load a few empty bottles and cans into his side bags along with his little .22 pistol for some target practice.

  The cops had spotted his bike once and written him up for trespassing. Luckily he’d left his weed tucked away in his favorite spot in the warehouse. After that, he’d always been careful to drive his bike around back, out of sight, so no one would bother him. Which had been fine, until the day he had the bad luck to be there when the local drug cartel planned to make a sale.

  He’d
been hanging out back by a few rusted industrial storage barrels when he’d heard the telltale rumble of tires over gravel. He’d pressed himself against the side of the building, keeping out of view as three long black cars rolled into the open area between the cluster of facilities.

  He’d known immediately this was bad news and he shouldn’t have been there. He’d thought about kick-starting his bike and getting the hell out, but too many action movies made him think twice.

  They’d see him, and they might decide to hunt him and take him out to keep him quiet. So instead he’d decided to keep crouched behind the building until they’d finished their business. Then he’d leave, and no one would know he’d been there.

  Kyle watched the two groups fan out facing each other. There had been two men in business suits—one thin, tall man in a sleek white suit and a blood-red tie, the other a portly man in a tailored black suit. Both had worn sunglasses. Alongside each of them had been a handful of bodyguards carrying semi-automatics.

  Kyle hadn’t been able to make out the words the men exchanged. He’d been too far away, and they spoke too quietly. The man in the white suit had motioned to one of his guys, who’d brought a big black duffel out of the car and tossed it at the black-suited man’s feet. One of the black-suited man’s guards had shifted his weapon to one hand, unzipped the duffel, and given a short nod to his boss, presumably affirming the quality of the product being traded.

  Then, without warning, the black-suited man’s bodyguards had opened fire on the white-suited man’s guys, and in seconds, before they’d even been able to react, they all lay dead in the dust, blood still pouring from the bullet holes riddling their bodies.

  Kyle had backed up fast at that. Animal instinct had taken over, and he’d wisely chosen flight rather than fight. Waiting be damned, he’d told himself. He wasn’t about to get wasted by some kingpin’s henchmen, not that day.

  But in his panic he’d turned and kicked one of the half-rusted barrels that were scattered all over the place. The resounding metal ringing had drawn the kingpin’s men, and before he could hope to book it, he’d found himself staring down the barrels of four different guns manned by four ruthless killers.

  He’d had no choice; he’d put his hands up and plastered on a brave face because he wasn’t about to let anyone see how close he was to pissing himself.

  The man in the black suit had taken his time picking his way through the carnage over to the side of the building where his men had cornered Kyle. His leathery face had remained unperturbed, and he’d looked for all the world as if he was just taking a leisurely stroll, admiring the locale.

  “Well, well,” he’d begun, coming to a halt just a few feet away from Kyle. He removed his sunglasses, folding them with great care and slipping them into his pocket.

  Kyle had immediately seen the contrast between the man’s collected expression and the fury burning in his eyes. His stomach had tightened painfully at the intensity of the hatred that blazed there.

  “Who do we have here?”

  Kyle glared up at him defiantly, refusing to speak.

  The man locked eyes with one of his men and jerked his head forward. Kyle had been a skinny kid in those days, scrappy enough in a pinch but too small to hope to fight off the ripped killer who moved forward to grab him.

  The bodyguard smashed the butt of his gun into Kyle’s stomach, knocking the air out of him. The guard took advantage of that moment to loop his arms beneath Kyle’s, lifting him up in front of him like a shield and locking his hands behind Kyle’s neck in a Nelson hold. The position left Kyle face-to-face with the drug lord, and a prime target for the remaining henchmen.

  As Kyle recovered from the blow, the man in the black suit drew forward until nearly touching Kyle. “I asked a question. Now, Bryan can start breaking fingers, or you can just answer me and make this easy on yourself.”

  “Kyle Parker,” he grunted out. “And I didn’t see nothing—“

  The drug lord let loose a cold laugh. “Now, we both know that’s not true. You’re telling me Georgie didn’t send you out here as insurance? That you just happened to be snooping around here today? Oh no, my friend, I’m not stupid. Now, you’re going to tell me who sent you and who’s sticking his fucking nose in my business, and then one of my boys is going to put a bullet in your head.”

  Kyle’s blood turned to ice. “Killing me’s not a real good motivator,” he growled. His words came out a lot braver than he felt.

  The drug lord grinned, flashing bleached teeth that were as white as bone against his tanned face and black mustache. “Oh, it’s going to be after my boys get through with you. You’re going to be begging for that bullet. I got all the time in the world, you see. And even if you don’t crack on your own, I’m willing to bet good money that you’ve got someone out there that you care about. A mother. A sister. A girl.”

  Kyle couldn’t keep himself from reacting to that. He struggled against the man holding him, but there was no getting out of his grip.

  The drug lord’s grin widened. “That’s what I thought. So, you can save me and my men some time and just tell me right now, or things can get ugly.”

  “No one sent me! I come here sometimes—”

  “Wrong answer.”

  # # #

  They’d tied him up and thrown him in the trunk of a car. It had been a long, bumpy ride to some unknown destination. They’d blindfolded him and led him indoors and down a flight of stairs into a dark basement lit with flickering fluorescent lights and furnished only with a metal table. The place looked like it had been ripped straight out of a crime drama.

  Then the torture began. They kept him down there for days, carving into him, pummeling him until he was coughing up blood. His whole body was covered in bruises. The drug lord—whose name he’d learned was Martin—was sure Kyle had been sent by a rival gang who’d been tipped off about Martin’s plans. The kingpin was convinced there was a mole in his organization, and he wasn’t going to rest until he’d ferreted him out.

  Martin’s men handled most of the dirty work, but occasionally the man himself would roll up his sleeves and get involved, especially when his guys proved ineffective at getting the name of a loved one out of Kyle.

  One day, Martin had come in waving a long, wicked-looking buck knife.

  “How is our tight-lipped friend holding up?” he’d asked saccharinely. “Comfortable, Kyle? I hope they haven’t roughed you up too much.”

  Kyle could taste nothing but blood in his mouth. Every inch of him screamed with pain. But his pride kept him strong. He spat across the table at Martin.

  Martin only laughed as two of his men moved forward to hold him in place. One locked Kyle’s head in place in his vice-like grip.

  Martin circled around behind Kyle and gently laid the blade of the knife against his cheek. “You have a name for me?” he asked. “Or am I going to have to ruin that pretty face of yours?”

  Kyle bit his tongue. And Martin cut deep.

  When the drug lord decided he wasn’t getting anywhere, and he was tired of carving Kyle up, he left him tied up at the table, bleeding, letting his men resume the torture.

  Kyle had held out as best he could. On the outside he kept his cool, repeating over and over that he wasn’t sent to spy. But inside he was a nervous wreck. With every passing hour the sickness in his gut grew. He was certain that at any moment one of Martin’s thugs would haul Bridgette down in front of him, sobbing and terrified, and there would be nothing he could do to save her.

  He didn’t give up on escape. He could see Martin was losing interest in him, either because there hadn’t been any retaliation since the bad drug deal or because he had other things on his mind.

  And one night the opportunity came. After a scheduled trip to the bathroom—a leaking toilet in an unlit closet—the man Martin had left to guard him left his restraints just a little loose and stepped out for a cigarette break.

  Kyle was able to work himself out of his restraints fair
ly quickly. He didn’t know enough about the location to seriously plot an escape. He decided he would have to wing it and hope for the best. They would either shoot him or catch him again. Things weren’t going to get much worse, and at least if he died, there was no chance Bridgette would get caught up in this mess.

  He crept up the stairs. It looked like some kind of office building, but the inside was gutted. The whole place was quiet—mostly abandoned. He started to think he’d caught a lucky break. He slipped outside into the parking lot, every inch of his abused body protesting. He gritted his teeth, and pushed through it, thinking of Bridgette. He had to get out and get himself far away from her. It was the only way.