Outlaw’s Kiss Page 3

He spotted the guard smoking around the other side of the building, gazing off into the distance. He knew he didn’t have much time, so he hurriedly scanned the parking lot. There were a few assorted cars parked around, but they were likely locked, and he couldn’t waste time checking.

  Then he spotted it. A chopper. If he could hotwire it in time….

  He stole one last glance at the guard before sprinting over to the motorcycle. Thank God they’d let him keep his shoes. He bent down and retrieved the copper wiring he always kept taped to the inside of the tongue—an old habit that had gotten him out of a couple of fixes over the years.

  He dug under the shroud of the motorcycle, pulled out the cord he was looking for, and arced the wire between the two top ports. Wasting no time, he straddled the seat and pushed the ignition. To his immense relief, it roared to life.

  The guard had noticed that. He saw the lit cigarette fall from the man’s mouth, but he didn’t wait for him to reach for his gun.

  Instead he kicked up the stand, gave his new ride some gas, and tore across the lot toward the nearest road. He heard a few gunshots behind him, but nothing hit. He roared out a victory cry as the wind breaking over him whipped at his eyes, sending his tears of relief streaming behind him.

  From there he’d stopped at the nearest gas station to get himself oriented. He found out that he was just twenty minutes out of town. He had no cash, no ID, no credit cards on him. They’d stripped all that from him before locking him in the basement.

  He hated what he had to do, but there was no other choice. His parents were broke, and he’d never gotten along with them. He had no relatives who could lend him cash. And he didn’t have time to waste. Martin was likely on his trail. He had to put miles between him and home, and fast.

  He wasn’t about to worry Bridgette. The less she knew, the better. She didn’t need to come looking for him only to end up in Martin’s hands. So he sped back to their apartment, snuck in while she was still sleeping—she’d always been a heavy sleeper—and gathered up every last bit of cash he’d stashed in their dresser.

  He would have left her something, but there were only a couple hundred dollars there, and he would need every penny to get himself out of town.

  He did let himself have one final good look at her. She lay cocooned in blankets, her beautiful red locks framing her delicate face. He knew he’d probably put her through hell, but at least now, lost in her dreams, she looked at peace.

  “Bye, baby girl,” he whispered to her, and blew her one last kiss.

  # # #

  After that he’d ridden south, far south, down to the border, where he hoped to bury his old life and start fresh. He’d found work with a group of bikers that served as drug runners from Mexico up to the States.

  They were a small operation, a motorcycle club known as the Raging Reapers, but they kept themselves independent of the messy politics between the cartels and rival kingpins. And for the most part, they all stayed clean.

  It wasn’t long after joining the Raging Reapers that Kyle became Falcon. The prominent scar on his face—and the other, lesser marks on his arms and chest—along with his fierce reputation as a man you didn’t fucking mess with, led his brothers to refer to him as such.

  Falcon was bitter and distant for a while, still torn up over the life he’d given up, but after a few close calls on the road, his fellow Reapers learned that his loyalty ran deep. They kept using the nickname they’d bestowed on him, but they uttered it with respect.

  For six years he ran drugs with them, growing harder with each passing year. He loved the Reapers, but the work started to wear on him. He never touched the product, but he did take up drinking, and his once light smoking turned heavy.

  And then Benny called him one day. All the Reapers knew about Falcon’s history with Martin, and occasionally they would pass on whatever rumors they’d heard about the kingpin and his operation. Mostly it was just tidbits, but when Benny called, he’d insisted it was urgent. Falcon hadn’t been far out from Benny, and he preferred talking face-to-face anyway, so they’d met up in one of the storage yards that one of their suppliers sometimes used.

  That was when Benny told him about Martin and his boys stirring up trouble in his hometown.

  “You didn’t hear about anyone stealing from him, did you?” Falcon demanded. He didn’t want to go looking for a fight, but he wasn’t going to have the bastard who’d taken so much from him having free run of his town.

  “No way. Martin’s massacred people for less. He’s got a reputation. But he could be keeping it quiet, too, to keep people from getting ideas.”

  Falcon slid his hand to the .22 pistol holstered at his side. The hard lump was there; he felt reassured. “You sure Buddy can handle the run for me?”

  “Yeah, man,” Benny reassured him. “He don’t mind. You sure about this?”

  Falcon nodded. “Thanks for the info.” He clasped Benny by the forearm and met the man’s eyes. He’d saved Falcon more than once, and he’d been the first of the Reapers to treat him like a full member rather than a newbie or outsider.

  “Any time. Just don’t come back with a bullet in your back.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Falcon watched Benny kick-start his bike and head off. He drew another cigarette from his kutte, deciding that one more before hitting the road wouldn’t kill him.

  He took the first drag deep into his lungs, trying to absorb the meaning of his decision. Likely he was going to confront Martin, or at least a few of his men. A risky move, but things were different now.

  He wasn’t some young, scrawny kid. And he wasn’t alone. He had the Reapers behind him now. Whatever he needed, whenever he needed it, his brothers would be there, ready to stand by his side.

  He exhaled slowly, watching as the smoke concentrated into a thick, opaque cloud before dispersing.

  He was going home.

  Chapter 3

  Bridgette

  Bridgette just stared at Kyle, thoughts flying through her mind like startled birds. He was alive. He was here. He’d possibly saved her life. He’d left her.

  That last one stuck, rising above the rest, resounding in her mind and gathering power with each repetition until it had consumed her thoughts, clouding out everything but her concentrated fury. He’d left her.

  “What in the hell are you doing here?” she spat out. She shook with rage, every inch of her body trembling as she stared up at him.

  The years had changed him. There was no boy left in his face or on any inch of his body. Every part of him was harder—chiseled cheekbones, a sharply angled jawline, bands of muscle that looked strong as steel cable. Even in the dark haze of the night, in the shadow of the fluorescent streetlight, she could make out a faint pattern of scars on his face, and one long angry-looking mark that ran over his cheek all the way to his ear.

  The sight of him made her heart beat faster, but not just because of all the hurt and holes he’d left in her life. Beneath the anger, there was a sweet relief in seeing him alive again, and a telltale spark in her belly. The sight of those piercing baby-blue eyes still had an effect on her, even when she knew it shouldn’t because he’d hurt her so badly.

  But she’d be damned if she let him know she still felt anything for him.

  Kyle’s shock evaporated slowly, replaced by a cool mask of calm. “Saving your ass, apparently.” He whipped back to gesture at the man he’d just cold-cocked, but Bridgette’s assailant was scrambling to his feet, and in the next few seconds he was high-tailing it down the street.

  Kyle watched him, his lip curling in a snarl. He looked as if he wanted to chase the man down.

  “Yeah, thanks for that,” she snapped. “I’m so grateful. It almost makes up for walking out on me six years ago. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I thought you were dead! I called the cops and everything! And you know what they told me, Kyle? They told me that my no-good drug-addled boyfriend probably just got cold feet and split. That you robbed me blind and
moved on to the next woman without a second thought. And guess what? I believed them. I still believe them. So you’d better have a damned good excuse for showing your sorry ass back here—“

  “If my ‘sorry ass’ hadn’t shown back up, sweetheart, you’d be dead or tied up in that guy’s basement.” Kyle stalked forward.

  She retreated automatically, and in a few paces he’d maneuvered her against the wall, trapping her, one hand on each side of her head. He could see the strain of his arms as he leaned in close to her, nearly suffocating her beneath his body. Close, but not touching—and the empty space between their chests seemed to crackle with electricity.

  If they touched, something would ignite.

  And his eyes. She could feel the intensity of his gaze as he stared at her and only her, fixated. It was hard to meet that raw power head-on, so she resorted to looking through him.

  She could smell the leather of his kutte, the lingering odor of cigarette smoke, and beneath it all a familiar muskiness. It was how she imagined a heady red wine must smell to an alcoholic going on six years sober. A primal part of her wanted to bury her head against his chest and revel in his return. Quitting him cold hadn’t been easy.

  But she pushed that impulse away. He’d still walked out without a backward glance. And now here he was, pretending to be some white knight riding in on his horse….

  “So this is it?” she demanded. “You’re not even going to say you’re sorry after everything you put me through? What are you even doing here anyway? How did you know where to find me?”

  “I wasn’t looking for you. I just rode by and saw what was going on. And no, I’m not going to say I’m sorry for doing what I had to do. You don’t even understand. I fucking had to leave. I had to protect you.”

  She snorted. “Protect me? You left me with nothing. Our landlord, Ken, you remember him? He threw my shit out on the street. I had to move back in with my parents until I could get back on my feet. I was a wreck. Every time the phone rang I turned into a nervous mess. I hoped it was you calling with news. I was terrified it was the cops calling to tell me they’d found your body. If you wanted to protect me, you sure as hell did a shitty job of it. You destroyed me. And now—I don’t know what the hell this is, but I’m not buying it. You can turn your ass right around and ride off into the sunset, hero. I don’t need you to save me.”

  She tried to push past him, but he placed a hand on either side of her, trapping her. “I already have saved you, Bridgette. That’s the only reason I left. Listen, I’m staying at a place in town. Why don’t you come back with me so we can catch up?”

  “Get out of my way. I have to pick up my kid.” She ducked under his arm, heart still pumping hard. He’s not worth your time, she told herself. He proved that six years ago.

  Kyle caught her by the wrist, stopping her. “You have a kid? Whose?”

  She tried to pull free of him. “None of your business. Let me go.”

  “Whose?” he repeated, his voice throaty and dangerous. “Are you seeing someone else?”

  “Are you deaf or just an asshole? I said it’s none of your business.”

  “Goddamn it. I told you—I left to protect you, not because I was done with you. Your business is still my business. If you’d just let me explain—“

  She turned sharply to face him, pinning him with her eyes. He met her gaze, unperturbed. “There is no explanation that you could come up with that could possibly excuse what you did to me. I was headed to college, Kyle. I had a future. We had a future. I’ve spent the last six years digging myself out of the hole you left me in. Nothing you say is going to undo that, so save your breath.”

  “You don’t understand,” he growled, his grip tightening around her wrist. “If you would just shut up for two seconds and listen to what I have to say—“

  “There you go, hearing only what you want to hear. I’m not wasting another second of my life on you—“

  He let her go, stepping back, hands lifted in concession. But his face had contorted into a look of frustration, and the tension in his posture was obvious. “Fine. Sorry I butted in. I should have just left you to enjoy your hot date, huh? Was he more your type, Bridge?”

  “Oh, screw you,” she bit out, turning on her heel and marching toward the parking lot. Deep down, though, she really hoped Kyle had scared her assailant off. She still had a few hundred yards to go before the safety of her car.

  “Rot in hell, sweetheart,” he yelled back.

  She heard the roar of his bike engine. She fought the urge to turn around and catch one more glimpse of him. She’d given him power over her for too many months—years, even. She wasn’t about to go back to pining after him. She was her own woman now, and nothing he could say could change that.

  She reached her car and slid into the driver’s seat, hitting the power locks immediately afterward. She inserted the key into the ignition, but she didn’t turn it on immediately. Instead she gripped the steering wheel and forced herself to breathe.

  She hadn’t felt this way since he’d first left. Back then there were times when she felt that if she didn’t force herself to concentrate on the mechanics of her lungs—breathing in, breathing out—she would suffocate. She’d gotten into the habit of measuring her inhalation and exhalation by counting.

  It was a rudimentary kind of meditation that helped her to clear her mind of all the potent emotions tangling there. Now she took it up again, hoping to slow the rushing of the blood in her veins, to abandon the resurgence of anger and anguish brought on by Kyle’s return.

  What was he doing here? Not looking for her. He’d looked too surprised when he’d first recognized her. And what was that bullshit he was trying to feed her? He’d left to protect her.

  Right. There was no doubt in her mind that was some pretty lie he’d concocted to ease his guilty conscience. Maybe he decided he’d been too dangerous for her and had taken himself out of the picture, which was nothing more than a romanticized version of what he’d actually done. He’d chosen himself over her.

  And what was all that about going back to his place and explaining? Did he think he could pick her back up, just like that? Smooth everything over with a few words over drinks?

  In. Out. She forced herself to focus on the expansion and collapse of her chest, and nothing more. It wasn’t her problem now. So what if he was back in town? It didn’t mean she had to have anything to do with him. She’d moved on. She had Gabby to think about.

  Gabby. He couldn’t know about her. She’d seen the jealousy and suspicion light up in his eyes when she’d mentioned her daughter. It was the only excuse he’d need to force his way back into her life, and she didn’t need that. More importantly, Gabby didn’t need that. And Gabby was all that mattered. She’d protect her baby girl at all costs.

  After a few more quiet moments, when Bridgette finally felt strong enough, she pulled out her phone and called Marcy.

  “Bridgette? Oh, hon, I didn’t think it would take this long to get things ready. I’m so sorry—“

  “Oh, no, don’t worry about it. It’s my fault. I…ran into someone. I’ll be over in ten to get Gabby.”

  “Are you okay? You sound…shaken.”

  Bridgette drew a final calming breath. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a long night.”

  She hung up and turned the key in the ignition. Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Simple Man” blared on over the speakers. The familiar guitar line washed over her, erasing some of the tightness in her shoulders. She dialed the volume up, letting the music replace the lingering uneasiness swirling in her mind.

  She would deal with all this later. Right now she had to focus on getting Gabby home and to bed.

  Chapter 4

  Falcon

  Falcon stopped outside the bakery, taking a moment to admire the storefront. It hadn’t been hard to find out where Bridgette worked. Asking around town had been easy enough. It was a small place—small enough that the few people he’d run into had shot him dark, disapproving loo
ks, as if they knew everything about his personal history with Bridgette. Not that he cared what they thought.

  He hadn’t expected anyone to point him to a bakery, let alone a bakery Bridgette owned. She’d done pretty well for herself, all things considered. She’d always been a phenomenal baker.

  What he didn’t understand was why Martin’s guys were hanging around, harassing her. It made no sense to him. He was sure Martin knew nothing about her; he’d taken care over the years, keeping an ear to the ground just in case the drug lord had taken a renewed interest in hunting him down.

  He trusted the Reapers, being in the business of running for different cartels and knowing about his personal history, to tell him if they heard of anything. Besides, if Martin was interested in Bridgette, he would have had her taken by now. From what Benny had told him, they seemed more interested in finding something rather than someone. The whole thing didn’t sit well with him.