Crash (Brazen Bulls MC #1)(6)

Northbound US-75 was shut down for five hours. Emergency crews from as far off as Oklahoma City were on scene most of that time, trying to control the chaos caused by a f*ckhead with road rage—who’d left the scene of his destruction.

So much chaos and destruction.

Eleven people dead, including three of the bikers who’d been hit first. Twenty-three hospitalized, including the fourth biker, who’d lost one leg for sure and possibly both. Almost forty with injuries treated on scene, not including Willa, whose leg was thumping, but she’d declined attention for it. She still had three days of her vacation left; she’d intended to spend it puttering in her garden and doing some work on the house, but instead, she’d wrap her knee, pop a Percocet or two, and lie on the sofa with a book.

By the time the fires were out and all the bodies of the dead and injured had been transported from the scene, while the wrecker crews began taking charge, Willa was seated on the rear bumper of a paramedic truck, drinking a cup of watery rescue coffee and focusing on how the f*ck she was going to get home, so she had something to think about that wasn’t blood and death and hurt.

She could ask one of the cops—or hell, she could get a ride with this paramedic team, likely. Chase—the medic who’d helped her with Allison—was showing signs of interest in her, anyway.

But she wasn’t interested back, and she didn’t feel like deflecting any puppy-dog charm. He seemed like he’d be the puppy-dog type. Id est: not her type.

“Hey, darlin’.” The big Bull came around the rear fender of the truck. It was full dark, but the night seemed strangely bright, illuminated by the red, white, and blue lightning of a multitude of emergency flashers. And the yellow pulses of the lights on the wreckers.

She’d noticed the bikers—not just Bulls, but lots of patches—working tirelessly with the emergency crews, following their lead, doing what they could to help. Eventually, enough crews had made the scene that they’d pushed civilian assistance off, but most of the bikers still helped, checking on the people in the median.

“Hey. Radical, right?”

His grin snaked up one side of his face. That lopsided glide was the kind of expression that said two things about a man: first, that he was used to women being into him, and second, that he thought all those swoony women were as amusing as they were convenient.

Bit full of himself, old Radical the Bull was.

“Yeah. Just Rad for casual. You got a name?”

“Yeah, I do.”

When she didn’t provide it, his mouth slithered even higher. “Okay, darlin’. I came over to say Five-O wants to get the road open. They got us pickin’ up the wrecked Kawas. You want us to get yours, too?”

She hadn’t actually thought about her bike as something she needed to deal with. In her mind, it had been more like one of the injured than just a bent-up hunk of metal.

“Fuck.” She hopped carefully onto her feet—getting off them had stiffened her up some—and set the paper cup of tepid coffee on the bumper. “Fuck.”

“You local?”

She nodded.

“We got a shop over on Third. It’s no problem to haul it over there. Somebody’ll look it over, and we’ll let you know.”

He handed her a business card. She’d expected to see the bull of the club patch, but instead she saw the green dinosaur of the Sinclair logo and the words ‘Brian Delaney Auto Service’ in neat font. Under it, in italics, was the notation, Cars, Bikes, & Trucks Serviced. Below that, Conrad Jessup, ASE Certified Mechanic, and finally an address and phone number.

Conrad. Radical. Willa looked up. “Conrad?”

“Yeah, nobody calls me that, ‘less they’re lookin’ for a fight or lockin’ me up. Rad’ll do. You want me to give the go to take your little sportster with us?”

After hesitating without knowing why she was—she didn’t know where else she’d take her bike—Willa nodded. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, thanks.”

With that handled, she limped to the side of the road and scanned what was left of the cataclysm. Her poor bike still lay on the road, all alone now. Under her breath, she muttered, “how the f*ck am I getting home?”

“I can help with that, too, if you want. I was far enough back not to get trapped in the wreck. You don’t mind ridin’ bitch—if you think your leg’ll take it—I’ll ride you home.”

Rad had followed her to the shoulder. He stood at her side, looking down at her without a smile now. Just an open, interested expression. The strobing flashes of emergency lights brought him into stark relief and then into shadow, again and again. He looked damn tired himself, now that she’d noticed. And grimy. Soot smeared his face.

It was a good face—too rough to be handsome, in the classic sense, anyway, but appealing. He was older than she, maybe ten-ish years, so about forty; his age showed. She could see in the formation of the creases around his nose and between his eyes that he was a man who scowled a lot, and she could imagine that expression being intimidating, and yet now, with weariness relaxing his features, she could see that he also laughed and showed love. She’d seen a few versions of his grin by now, too, and she had read in those brash expressions that he was a man who enjoyed a good time.

Willa blinked twice and looked away. She was still in a bit of a daze, she guessed, because this was a damn strange time to be checking out a guy. But doing so had been…soothing. Distracting in a way she’d needed.