Never Have an Outlaw's Baby (Deadly Pistols MC #3)(40)

Riding helped. So did the dog at my feet, who came over when I dropped on my ass, rocking the shitty bed. Bingo whined, forcing me to scratch his head.

Aw, f*ck it. Today, I sat up, leaned down, and hugged the greedy bastard.

He licked my face once before I pulled away.

I loved him because he didn't ask stupid f*cking questions, or bust my balls over the past. He loved my sorry ass because he didn't know any better. Didn't understand how permanently f*cked up I'd gotten three summers ago.

Damned dog knew too much about me. Only one person walking this planet really did.

I'd pushed her away. Fuckin' flung her outta my life like she'd burn me down.

Just like I swore I always would if I ever saw her face again. Summer had the only face in my memory as cruel and unforgettable as Freddy's.

I couldn't get her killed, letting her back, and I'd make her hate my evil ass more than she already did.

But f*ck, why had she come back? Nothing made sense about it.

Why the hell had she tracked me down after three damned years of nothing?

Bingo whined again, licking my hand, just like he could sense the hell roiling my mind. I looked down into his sad, dark eyes, smoothing his fur 'til I saw that tail wag.

“Don't worry about it, boy. I'm just flushing some shit.”

Some shit. Yeah, f*ck me.

If only it were as easy as pulling a damned lever.

No, ever since she'd come to me, not once but f*ckin' twice, pushing deeper into my world at Grandpa's home...I'd been the one who walked away covered in shit.

Five more minutes, I sat with my dog, the same nightmares stewing in my brain. Decided I only had two choices.

I could throw the dog a bone, walk out to the bar, and steal a bitch from Lion, Tin, or Sixty for the night. I could try for the millionth time to bury my ruined life and wake up with another hangover and an awkward little girl hanging around my neck.

Fuck that. It hadn't worked before, and it damned sure wasn't gonna start.

Option B was even more f*cked up, but at least it'd be a stab at something different, instead of the same old shit that never worked.

Right about now, Option B sounded pretty f*ckin' good, because it meant answers.

Standing, I patted the big dog's head, then walked him over to the cushion in the corner, laying him down for the night. “I'll be back in a few hours,” I said, reaching into the cabinet and pulling out a treat.

A couple minutes later, I had my helmet locked on my head. My bike droned steadily on the open road.

Normally, the purr comforted me, no different than every other brother wearing this patch.

Didn't do a damned thing for me today except ratchet up the tension, add to all the bitter questions sticking like gum in my throat.

I had to find Summer. Had to ask her why the f*ck she'd come back. Had to know why she still wanted these lips on hers when it was totally obvious she'd kissed a dead man who wanted nothing to do with her.

Something about all this didn't add up. And if I couldn't figure out my own shit, like the Prez wanted, then at least I'd take a crack at hers.



*

Seddon never paid anybody shit. Knowing how harsh our old hometown could be, plus seeing the rusted out shitbox she drove, I knew she had about two places she could be staying with her money, if she hadn't blown town already.

I came up empty handed at the first place, a run down dump just a few blocks from the Heel. The ratty looking bastard at the front desk told me nobody named Summer Olivers ever checked in.

Second motel, a strong runner up for cheapest shit stack in town, turned up the same damned thing. An old, middle aged woman with a thick European accent told me there wasn't anybody with Summer's name staying there, even when I asked her twice.

What the f*ck? She'd either changed her legal name – not too f*ckin' likely – or somebody else had brought her here on their dime, under their name.

The hairs on the back of my neck pricked up.

If she was here, then I definitely wasn't leaving empty handed.

I'd walk the whole damned lot, crawl up on that cracked balcony, and look through every f*ckin' window if I had to, just to find her.

Figuring out what the f*ck was going on here wasn't just about me anymore. It might easily be club biz, too, and I never defaulted on the patch.

I'd parked my bike next to the front door. Decided to take it down the next street, put it out of sight, in case there was anybody here waiting for the Pistols with a bullet. I was rounding the corner, pulling out toward the road, when I saw the shit in the bushes.

A greasy looking sonofabitch crouched down. Hiding. A rifle in his hands, perched on his shoulder, one eye on the sights.

The laser cut straight through somebody's window. How bad did I want to bet that was Summer's?

Revving my engine told me. I didn't stop, didn't think, didn't second guess as I plowed my bike straight into the shitty crop of trees.

Fucker never saw me coming. He screamed when my front tire rolled over him. I punched the brakes, stopping me from skidding into the wall.

I jumped off, holding my arm over my mouth, fighting smoke and dirt kicked up in the air while I went for my nine. Had to kick a couple branches aside before I felt the gun on the ground.

My boot knocked it further away from f*ckface, who was on his side, his leg torn to shit, looking at me.