Never Have an Outlaw's Baby (Deadly Pistols MC #3)(4)

I froze, beating feebly against his back. His hands moved swiftly, defiantly, rummaging up my back, reaching for my bra.

This. Can't. Be. Happening.

Oh, but it was.

The bad day I'd tried to turn around was about to get a whole lot worse. I didn't have any hope of fighting off this drunken animal.

Time to scream. I opened my mouth and screamed bloody murder, until it seemed like my lungs would rip in two.

“Ah, f*ck! You'll bust my f*cking eardrums. Shut up!” He clumsily stuffed a hand over my mouth.

My vision blurred, and time seemed to slow down. He pushed me against the counter, holding me down, running his filthy tongue along his lips while the meat sizzled behind him.

I was too stunned, too terrified, to hear the freight train barreling toward us. The door burst open, and a split second later, they were on us.

Two big men clad in leather slammed into the frat boy so hard I nearly went flying to the ground with him. I caught the edge of the counter, screaming, and watched as two of the meanest looking twins I'd ever seen laid into the drunk.

I didn't need to see their faces a second time to know my would-be monster had just gotten himself into a universe of hurt.

The Taylor boys were bad news. The worst, actually, ever since they'd both joined the Deadly Pistols MC, a biker gang just over the border in Tennessee.

Rubbing my eyes in disbelief, I took a hard, long look at the killer angels in front of me.

I saw double. They were identical, except for the wild ink going up their muscular arms.

Twice the savage energy, twice the grief, twice the primal beauty.

Ruggedly smooth, chiseled as the Blue Ridge Mountains. Both boys were bigger than life. Just walking, talking, ass-kicking contradictions who swept in like a hurricane and left legends in their wake.

Seddon didn't have superheroes, and too many petty villains to count. But we did have the Taylor brothers, Jackson and Freddy. For this little town, they were enough, a two man freight train who left shattered bottles, blood, and desperate women wherever they went.

They'd come into the bar before, and barely said a word. Sometimes with their grandpa, Don. I'd served them once or twice, losing my usual pleasantries in sheepish whispers. They usually found a quiet corner and talked among themselves, asking for beers and shots of whiskey, sometimes a burger or two on the side.

It wasn't my first time seeing them. But never like this.

Seeing Jackson give me the evil eye, sizing me up, before his face smoothed back into stoic calm...that was new. So was destroying a man in front me. The cold efficiency in every blow they pounded into the frat boy made me gasp.

It all happened so fast. They'd saved me, but I had to remember, these weren't good men.

Supposedly, they'd done all kinds of terrible things. I believed the legends, sure, but I also knew they tipped well.

Like, really well.

My best day ever working here was the last time I'd waited on their table. I'd feared the worst, tip-toeing around with their orders, triple checking to make sure everything that came out on my tray was picture perfect.

There hadn't been a single complaint. Instead, I'd found a tip for the same amount as their tab waiting for me after they left, leaving my jaw dragging on the floor.

Now, they finished laying into the devil rolling on the ground, begging for his life before each brother delivered a couple more kicks to his ribs. Frat boy couldn't breathe, much less whine anymore.

I backed away slowly into the corner, wondering if they were about to kill this kid in my kitchen.

Jackson and Freddy weren't much older than the college boy, come to think of it, but they carried themselves like men in every way. They seemed older, darker, somehow wiser.

If it wasn't for their patches, I wouldn't have been able to tell them apart. They were both as big and beautiful as they were dangerous, two hazel-eyed, dark haired brutes packed with muscle.

Jesus, how was I supposed to talk to them if I couldn't remember them by name? Think, Summer, think.

Once, Uncle Robby spelled it out. He told me Freddy had the dagger on his leather cut, underneath his name patch. Jackson wore the smoking pistol, and he'd recently added two more, blood red patches underneath his name. Both skulls.

They'd taken road names since joining the Pistols. Anybody who didn't address them properly was begging for trouble.

JOKER, Jackson's patch said. Freddy's said PIECE.

Two ridiculous, weird biker names that should've left an ordinary person rolling their eyes. But there was no laughing, no doubt, no derision while they brutally knocked some sense into the jackass on the floor.

“That's enough, brother. We don't wanna lay him out. Can't have this little cocksucker bleeding all over the f*ckin' kitchen back here,” Piece growled, pulling back his twin brother.

Joker wanted to keep going. He stepped away reluctantly, his clenched teeth showing in a rough smile. He looked at me, stepping out of his brother's hold, extending a hand.

“You all right? We both came running, soon as we heard the scream.”

My lips trembled. I'm fine, I wanted to say. Just brush it off like it was no big deal, but my eighteen year old brain cracked.

“No!” I squeaked, tumbling forward into his grip.

He held me. That shocked me to hell and back.

Jackson “Joker” Taylor was the last man in the world who should've swept a crying, down-on-her-luck teenager into his arms. But he did, swallowing me up in a bear hug as big as the world, holding me as all the crap I'd suffered for the last year or two came pouring out.