Never Love An Outlaw (Deadly Pistols MC #1)(31)

The second she walked outta this clubhouse, she wasn't my problem anymore.

Too bad you can't stop thinking about it, a dark voice said in the back of my mind, telling me how f*cked I was. You care too damned much. That's dangerous.

“Sure, brother, just as long as the Deads don't crash our party first,” the Enforcer said, knocking back another drink.

I watched Firefly grab the bottle and polish off the kerosene before I could get a second shot. Fuck.

The guys laughed while I walked behind the bar and dug around, finding nothing but beers and half-depleted drink mix. Shit had officially gone from bad to worse.

I couldn't drink her away, couldn't f*ck her out of my mind, not 'til she gave me what I needed. Worst of all, I couldn't stop thinking about her.

I swung my fist across our shell of a once proud bar. Several bottles crashed onto the floor and shattered. Firefly beamed death at me, shaking his head, his fist visibly flexing, a reminder that he wouldn't hesitate to keep shit in line, including me.

“Somebody tell Tinman or Lion to clean this mess up the next time you see 'em. I need to make a run.”

I made a hasty exit before they could give me anymore shit. Maybe I deserved it, yeah.

Maybe I deserved all this horseshit for letting her get to me, trying to play hero, landing the MC in deep.

I headed into town to pick up food, wondering if I'd have to fight her to eat later if I stopped at one of the little watering holes there to finish getting drunk.

I'd find some way to forget her, and all the nasty shit she made me think about. I had to, if I wanted to get through this alive and keep my sanity.

Poor, desperate, stubborn Megan wouldn't bring me down. I'd dump her off as soon as I could, collect the reward, and get on with the life I'd dedicated myself to.

She wouldn't strap me down on any big karma wheel and spin it 'til it ripped my damned limbs off. I'd always been a Pistol, by blood and by patch. I'd be one 'til the day I died.

I'd be a f*cking fool if I let myself go to pieces over this ungrateful whore.





V: Caged Dove (Megan)


I wasn't sure when I finally gave up trying to beat down the door. The first few times I hit it, the rotten thing creaked and bounced on its old hinges, feeding my fantasies that I might actually smash my way out of here.

Of course it was insane.

I was too enraged to think about how I'd get through all the raging bikers outside, or how I'd ever find my way home if I escaped by some crazy miracle.

I embraced the anger, lived it until my shoulder burned so hot I couldn't even feel it.

Rage was all I had. When I was screaming and slamming my full weight into the door, hopeless and desperate, I didn't have to think about my miserable situation.

I didn't have to remember Ricky's vicious abuse, or how my friends and family hadn't done enough to track me down after I disappeared. Didn't have to remember I'd ended up as nothing more than bait for this disgusting motorcycle club, or how badly my stomach growled. It hounded me to shut up and take the food Skin would inevitably bring.

Skin. Fucking Skin.

Officially the last man in the world I wanted to think about, including Ricky.

I hated him, right down to the pale scar on his stupid self-righteous face. I hated the way my body reacted to him, the way I craved his warmth. I hadn't meant to roll into his arms last night.

It wasn't supposed to happen. And I definitely wasn't supposed to like it so damned much.

I'd woken up with him this morning, relishing his heat, feeling far safer than any woman should with a man holding her captive.

Truth be told, I hated him because he wasn't another greedy, abusive * like Ricky. He saved my life, and now I owed him and the rest of his nasty looking friends.

Moral gray area? Oh, yeah.

I couldn't sort the rights from the wrongs anymore. All I wanted was to go home and forget this nightmare forever, and if the bastard was going to make me plan everything out in meticulous detail, well...I would.

I'd show him I could get the money from my family with ease, if that's all it would take to get him out of my life forever. Ignoring the ache in my bruised arm, I flopped into the chair and picked up the pen and paper, using a magazine behind it for writing support.

I was completely ready to write down the first thing that came to mind. If my brain wasn't fresh out of ideas, stuck in this impossible situation.

Seriously, how the hell did he expect me to just collect the reward money and shuttle it to him without people asking questions? The minute I stepped through the family gate, I'd be bombarded. I'd probably have to face more questions than hugs and kisses.

I was about to break the pen off in my hand when I heard the lock jingling, and a second later, he stepped through the door.

The bastard had returned.

We barely spoke over the next half hour. He didn't even ask me about the paper in my hands, just passed me a bag from the same Mexican place we'd eaten at last night, and walked into the bathroom.

I ate my taco salad in silence. My face burned every time I looked up through the open door, staring at him in the steamy shower.

I hated him. Jesus, I did.

But just then, I hated myself even more for being completely unable to keep my eyes off him.

What the f*ck was wrong with me? I'd barely escaped Ricky and all the cruel men who'd used me, and there I was pining after one more.