Never Love An Outlaw (Deadly Pistols MC #1)(30)

When I came in to clean up, streaked in grease and oil, I found her in my room, a notepad and pen in her hand. She'd barely opened her eyes and muttered a few words this morning. I'd left her the paper and told her to start working on a plan that would get her parents' attention, without getting our club busted by any boys with badges.

“Didn't know you were into mud running,” she said with a smirk, as soon as our eyes locked.

I gave her a stare. “You've still got your sense of humor. That's good. What else have you got?”

I walked over and ripped the notepad outta her hands. She yelped protest, but I ignored her as I flipped the pages, staring at a few lines of neat cursive scrawled several pages in.

It looked like the start of an outline, a bunch of question marks – never a good sign.

“Skin, give it back! I promise I'll read you everything. I'm having a hard time...”

“Yeah, no shit,” I said, my eyes scanning what she'd written. “Letter to the press...anonymous call from a truck stop...dropping you at the Knoxville police in nothing but a sheet and a note stuck to your back.”

I looked up as she grinned uncertainly. “Come on, baby. You're a smart girl. I know you can do better than this. What else have you got?”

“That's it,” she said, blushing.

Bullshit. The way she jumped up from the bed and started tearing at my hands when I flipped a few more pages said otherwise. I pushed her away easily and turned my back, only stopping when I flipped another page and saw my own face staring back in dark ink.

Shit. It was good for an amateur. She'd done me realistic, capturing my intense eyes and all the little details on my mug in all its glory. She'd even gotten the scar going down my cheek, the long gray line I'd taken in a knife fight several years ago with another drunken punk one fine night.

“Fuck me. What the hell is this?” I spun around, confronting her.

She looked like she wanted to sink to the floor. “I got bored. I used to sketch sometimes. It was a good way to pass the time at Ricky's place, and during long, boring lectures when I was in college. There isn't much to draw around here...so I did you.”

I snorted. She looked on in horror as I grabbed the page carefully and tore it out of her notebook, then a few more pages I threw at her as I folded up the drawing and stuffed it into my pocket.

“This is all you get. No more distractions. I need ideas, babe, and you're the one who knows your family better than we do. Let's get this thing done so you can go home.” I watched her nod weakly. “Relax. I ain't gonna throw you over my knee and spank your ass red or anything. Let's keep this professional.”

“Professional?” she repeated, a sharp edge entering her voice. “If that's what you want to call keeping me here against my will and asking for these stupid ideas on the fly – okay. Sure, I can do professional.”

Her sass pissed me the f*ck off. Why couldn't she see I was actually trying to help her, trying to save both our asses from this quagmire I'd chosen to get us into by saving her from the Deads?

“Look, you're gonna do this for me, Megan. This isn't a negotiation.” I gave her my coldest look, forgetting about her wounded state. “I've got shit to do for the club. I'll bring you a burrito, and leave you alone to think so you can get some ink on paper.”

Her blue eyes flashed fire. Hate. I watched her bottom lip sink into her mouth, like drawing blood was the only thing keeping her from going at my face with her sharp little nails.

I turned around and walked the f*ck out. Got a couple steps down the hallway before I heard her slam into the door.

Beating, punching, kicking, screaming.

She was so loud, so shrill, so desperate, my brothers heard it all the way in the bar. They looked at me like I'd just dropped some poor bastard in front of 'em. Sixty flashed an uneasy smile, before hiding it a second later behind a fresh shot of whiskey. Crawl pretended I didn't exist.

Firefly cocked his head as I sat down next to him. Our huge Enforcer looked at me, the dark, sandpaper stubble on his chin twitching.

Fuck his amusement. Fuck his laughter. This shit wasn't funny. Not for me, not for Meg, and not for the club.

“Brother, you've got one f*ck of a problem on your hands,” he growled, slapping me on the shoulder. “Let her beat herself stupid. She'll give up after a few more minutes. These chicks only make it worse if they get their claws in you. Trust me.”

He talked knowingly. Just then, I didn't really give a shit. I grabbed the nearest bottle of cheap, off brand whiskey and popped the cap. There wasn't time for a shot glass. I filled my mouth with fire and pushed it down my throat.

Only a snort. I'd learned my lesson that first night with her in my room. Shit, she could've killed me while I was passed out cold on the floor from this cheap swill. She hadn't, though, and that said something too.

“Whatever. Getting my dick wet is gonna be the first thing on the agenda once she's handed me our cash. The Prez'll throw us a bone before we get down to business. We'll celebrate. We'll drink and have a hog roast, bring the old girls to the clubhouse.”

I wasn't kidding. I fully meant to f*ck every drop of frustration out of my balls once my bird was mended and out of her cage.

No, f*ck mended. That wasn't my problem. Her folks were rich – they'd buy her the best shrinks money could buy to get her head working again.