Never Love An Outlaw (Deadly Pistols MC #1)(21)

I barely had time to blink or wipe the latest cold rain from my eyes. His huge hand practically ripped me off the bike, and soon we were heading for the dingy motel office.

I stood like a zombie, listening as he made arrangements with the bored looking man working in the run-down place. The dumpy owner didn't see anything out of the ordinary. He mistook my tears for rain, if he noticed at all.

Cash and keys were exchanged. The gorilla's hand seized my wrist again, pulling me out, toward a small white door with its paint flaking off.

My stupor didn't lift until I realized he was about to push me inside, alone with him.

Oh, God. He reeked booze and motor oil up close. The way his eyes wandered while he fumbled with the key told me he wasn't sober. Small miracle we hadn't all died on the way here.

His reckless expression told me he had even less incentive to hand me over untouched. He wanted me before I reached my buyer, and the demon was obviously too stoned to care about the consequences.

The door popped open and he flipped me around. I hit the wall hard, his body pressed against mine, too clumsy and horny to even close the door.

“I've had my good eyes on you this whole time, bitch. Fuck, I can see why that bastard in Charlotte paid a pretty penny for you. The pimp said you'd never been f*cked before. Is that true?”

He didn't wait for my answer, and I wasn't giving him one. Both his sick hands fondled my breasts, squeezed them so hard I wanted to yelp.

I had to keep my guard up against my instinct to fight. If I made any move to push him, to kick him in the balls, he'd probably kill me.

Christ. Why was it so hard to get back to that numb, detached place I'd found in the storm?

“It'll be our little secret tonight, baby girl. Just you and me. The f*ckhead buying you won't know shit about what I do to you tonight. I'll leave you something sweet to remember when his floppy old cock's busy f*cking you. I hear he's an impotent piece of shit – likes to rough his girls up and get foot jobs.” He stood up straight, a tremor in his hands, his overgrown mustache twitching. “Never understood that shit. Tonight, little girl, the only shit I'll be doing with your feet is holding them over your head 'til you f*cking scream.”

I opened my eyes, ready for the horror.

But he wasn't looking at me. I thought he was about to put his filthy lips on mine, but he stood straight up, listening to the deafening growl outside our door.

Bikes. Lots of them.

“Shit!” he snarled, jerking away from me and reaching for the gun tucked into his belt. “If those boys got themselves in a skirmish with some other smartass f*ckers, I swear I'll wring their f*cking necks.”

His boot hit the door and it swung open. I screamed when he flew back a second later and hit the ground.

The bastard went down. He hit the floor with a resounding thud and didn't move. It wasn't until I saw the hole in his chest that I realized he'd taken several bullets, and my knees gave out.

I ducked, flattened myself against the ground, as several more shots went off outside. Men swore, talked in hushed voices, and then there were boots on the pavement outside.

At first, I thought the man who stepped through the door was one of the Deadhands' prospects. I whimpered and pinched my eyes shut, only opening them when his hand wrapped around my wrist like a vise.

“Get up, babe. Hope you've got my ring. I swore I'd be back for you.”

No way. It couldn't be!

But it was.

Skin, standing in the flesh, with several men I didn't recognize at his side. They all shared the same patches. It must've been safe, or else he wouldn't be tugging me outside to his bike.

“Come on. Hurry up. We have to get away from this place right f*cking now.” He helped me onto his bike and quickly fixed my helmet, throwing his on as he started the engine.

There wasn't time to ask any questions. What happened here was written in the bloody trails left outside from the two dead bodies. All the Deads were...well, dead. And I was safe, plucked from certain hell by this magnificent, mysterious biker man.

We went roaring into the rain, lighter than before. I didn't relish having more freezing mountain water splashed on my back, but it was a small price to pay for sweet freedom.

I clutched my purse between us, and held onto him tight. Skin didn't make me recoil the way that disgusting prospect did. Having my hands on him felt oddly natural.

I squeezed his body, marveling how easily he made me feel safe. Alive. Free.

With Skin's rock hard abs underneath my hands, I didn't need to search for the numb, black void that prevented me from going totally insane. I just leaned on his shoulder and breathed deep, taking slow, gradual breaths, inhaling his scent.

He oozed masculinity. Danger seeped out his veins like fine cologne. His scent conjured goosebumps, caused my heart to skip a few beats, sent thoughts into my head that I hadn't had since the night I screwed around with Crawford, before I was disappointed, abused, destroyed...

What the hell is he doing to me? I wondered.

My brain didn't want to think too hard. Riding with Skin put me into a trance. The rain tapered off. We rode at least an hour and a half in a heartbeat, back over the mountains, his brothers driving steadily behind us.

Their bikes never wobbled and they didn't shout. None of these men acted crazed or drugged up like the Deadhands, but I wasn't ready to let my guard down for anyone. I'd never seen a clean motorcycle club yet.