Burned (Devil's Blaze MC, #2)(34)

“Whoa there! I got you. You should have waited on me. A woman like you with that fine little body, you aren’t made to handle big rigs like this,” Mr. Hands says, and surprise, his hands go around me and hold me by my ass.

I jerk away from him. “I’m fine. Like I said, this is a no-go for me. I’m going to go find a different ride. Thanks for your help back there, but I think I’m done with men for a while.”

I push away from him and turn to walk back to the road. Hopefully the next person to pick me up won’t be some horny trucker with an overactive libido. Or an axe murderer; not really wanting that either. I make it a few steps when he grabs me from behind. This time, his hands are on my boobs. What is it with my luck lately?

“I’ve got a ride for you, sweetness. I got a nice long hard ride for you.”

Oh, God.

“Listen. You don’t really want to do this,” I warn him.

“I do, and I can guarantee you that I’ll make you want it too,” he says, and yeah, that pretty much seals his fate.

No one is making me want shit.

I bring my elbow back and slam it into his abdomen. I stick my ass hard into him while he’s bent down. My hands go up behind my head to lock around the back of his neck and I use the force of my body and his motion to propel him over my head. Really, my self-defense instructor would be proud. He falls to the ground in a puff of dust, looking up at me like he can’t believe what I just did. I use that same foot to slam down on his crotch, grinding the steel-toe so damned heavily, I figure his balls might burst. He cries out, which brings me a small level of joy. He’s curled into a ball now, but I know he’ll get up quick, and because Torch has my clothes and took away the weapons I normally carry, I’ve got to move fast. Shit. Shit. Shit.

I run—well, mostly hobble—to the big rig. I climb up on the driver’s side. The key is still in it. I can drive a six speed dually; surely this can’t be that much different, right? Luckily, it’s old-school; no fancy push-buttons, so I’m not completely lost. I’m ridiculously helpless at backing up anything with a trailer, even my jeep, so I cut the wheel deep and pray. I manage to only side swipe the back end of one car before I complete my turn, then go back onto the road. I won’t be able to drive this for long because soon, I’m sure the cops will be on my ass. Still, if I can manage ten minutes, that should get me on the freeway and off to the next exit. Hopefully I can find another ride, or else a less conspicuous car to hijack. It takes some gear-grinding, and each time I have to use the clutch, my foot screams in agony. Despite it all, I find my groove and get the hell out of dodge.

Today is not starting off well. Then, I notice the trucker’s cellphone on the dash, and smile. Maybe it’s getting better.





“What the f*ck do you mean you lost her??” Skull screams over the phone, and when I say scream, I actually mean it’s more like a cold, monotone question that’s meant to leave the person he’s talking to dead. That’d be me.

I just had to break it to him that Katie got away. I questioned the diner and found out what route that trucker normally takes. The waitress helped me where the others just looked at me like I was insane. The waitress made it clear that she’d like to nurse me back to health—especially my damned cock—and it pisses me off that the f*cker crawled up and hid! My cock has always been a shower, strutting his magnificent self like a proud peacock and demanding the ladies’ eyes. The last two months, he’s changed somewhat. Nothing interested him—until Katie. But never in my life has he revolted when a woman reached out to pet him. Shit! That crap has got to change. Maybe they have electroshock therapy for your dick. I could get that desperate.

“Are you listening to me *?”

Shit, Skull. I don’t think he’d like to hear me say no. “I am, boss,” I lie. “I promise you, I got this. I already have her hunted down. I’m heading there now,” I assure him, and yeah, I’m lying out of my ass. I know a general vicinity though, and really, how hard can it be to hide a yellow eighteen-wheeler? Shit.

“You better, motherf*cker. If I lose my chance to grab ahold of Beth—I mean, my daughter—I will end you. Entiéndeme?”

“I got it, boss. I’ll have her by nightfall.”

He hangs up, and I hope like hell I do have her, because if I don’t, I wouldn’t put it past Skull to come down here and hunt down Katie himself. I still have the urge to protect her and that’s f*cked up. But boss isn’t thinking clearly. He might say this is to get his daughter, but I know it’s to get Beth. He wants his daughter, I don’t doubt that for a second. But… Beth. He wants Beth. What the f*ck he’s going to do with her when he gets her all depends on exactly what the f*ck caused her to run in the first place.

The damn jeep is sucking fumes, so I decide to take the next exit. Just another f*cking reason to hate cages. If I was on my bike, I’d have already eaten up the interstate. I make a right towards the Shell station, groaning at the backed up traffic. There must have been a wreck. Hopefully I don’t run out of gas while I’m waiting for it to thin out; that’d be the f*cking cherry on top of the shit pile that has been my day. My knuckles are bruised, I’ve got a headache from hell, and my f*cking ribs are sore. Motherf*ckers must have kicked me while I was out.

Traffic slowly starts moving. There’s a policeman directing all the traffic into one lane. As I get closer, I can see why, and I feel a moment of complete and utter f*cking joy. There, surrounded by cops in the far lane, is an eighteen-wheeler. Not just any eighteen-wheeler, but a f*cking bright yellow one.