Shelter From The Storm (The Bare Bones MC Book 6)(32)

“Have I?” He didn’t look at me, but I could tell pride was swelling his ego. He was really such a haughty, arrogant bastard. Why did I like him? Because he’d appeared to save me, like a knight in shining armor?

“What town did you live in?”

His ego deflated a tiny bit. “Taos,” he said sullenly.

“And where did you graduate law school?”

“Columbia.”

“Oh yeah? Did you know Andy Hacker? He was Columbia law.”

The haughty look returned. “My dear. I took my degree in ’05. I was at least five years before any of your friends.”

That was true. We had turned into a food court with trucks emanating mouth-watering, smoky scents. I was as ravenous as the next girl, but I wouldn’t let a burrito deter me. “Okay, well, Fox Isherwood is obviously not your real name.”

“No, it isn’t. Like you, I chose a literary last name when I went on the run. I take it you like Doctor Doolittle?”

It was a feeble attempt at changing the subject. “Yes. I read them all when I was like six. Now, I really insist you tell me your real name. Tit for tat.”

“Quid pro quo? Do you eat beef? These shredded beef tacos look—”

“Listen here, Esquire whatever your name is, I demand you tell me right now what your real name is! Or I’ll…I’ll…”

Fox turned to me, patiently looking at the sky. “Or you’ll what?”

I realized it was pretty foolish—and futile—to threaten a sicario. Or a lawyer. But I had to finish what I started. “Or I’ll f*cking go ride off with someone else and never talk to you again.”

A storm cloud came over his face. This was a sight no one ever wanted to see. His aristocratic nostrils flared, and his pupils became pinpoints, black holes. He gripped me by the upper arms and moved me away from the line of folks waiting for tacos. “Listen. I am officially your only protection between here and that gun for hire with the holes in his jaw and his arm disintegrating.”

Maybe it was the truth of Fox’s words. Or maybe I was just being a petulant baby with Ben Wa balls rolling around inside of me. “Oh yeah? Well, see how much I care!”

And I stomped off. Yes, I stomped. I fisted my hands and stomped precariously in the brand new boots I wasn’t used to yet, sort of slipping on some waxy wrapper on the street and literally running into some guy who resembled an original Allman Brother. I couldn’t tell if Fox was following me what with all the people and yelling swirling around me. But I knew I was about to burst into babyish tears.

It had all been too much for me. Getting inappropriately swept away by a f*cking hitman, of all people, a secretive guy whose real name I didn’t even know. Granted, no one knew my real name either. He must have his reasons. But his remote attitude last night, then his cavalier one today, as though he knew I’d f*ck him just because he was so damned great—that, and the bottle of Blue Nun, it all got to me.

Boiling tears were just welling in my eyes when I heard some guy yell, “Hey, Pippa!”

I stopped stomping. Through the blur I saw a guy in a black leather cut waving cheerfully, a giant red beer cup in his other hand. A girl standing next to him called out,

“Over here! In a rush?”

I thought I recognized her. Tracy. The guy must be Wolf. Trying to seem inconspicuous while wiping my tears with the back of my hand, I went over. They were waiting in line for some crap or other. Under his cut, Wolf sported an official rally T-shirt that said “Home of the Burning Bike.” He already had a Run-a-Mucca pin clipped to his do-rag.

He said, “Hey Pippa, you coming to the tattoo contest tonight? Tracy here’s gonna get a skull and crossbones tat with my name on it.”

Tracy didn’t seem too sure of herself. “Well, maybe. Or it could just be the head of a wolf.”

Wolf was unfazed. “Hell yeah, that’d be good too. We need to commemorate how I saved Tracy from some drug-riddled shooting gallery down in Tucson. We were lucky to get out of there alive. Man, semiautomatic machine gunfire, flying bodies, and smoke were everywhere!”

“Yeah, well,” Tracy said fondly, “most of that was due to you.”

Wolf seemed to remember. “Oh yeah. That’s right. So Pippa, you want a beer?”

“Hell to the yeah. I need something to settle that bum wine I drank last night.” I guessed Fox wasn’t coming for me, but I felt better now that I was with friends. We started to walk to a beer truck.

Tracy had to ask, “So where’s Fox?” She giggled. “What an appropriate name. I don’t usually go for redheads, but that guy is one massive hottie.”

I was glad when Wolf called, “Hey, Tracy. Should I put this patch on the back of my cut?”

I squinted at the patch he held up from a vendor’s table. It said, “If you can read this the bitch fell off.” My jaw hung open, but Tracy laughed good-naturedly.

She said, “Hell yes. You can put it next to the one that says ‘Mouths Don’t Get Pregnant.’ Whoa!”

One moment Wolf was standing there, an inane grin on his face, holding up the offensive patch. The next moment he’d nearly jumped into a burly biker’s arms—and the biker shoved him back.

Why did Wolf jump into the biker’s arms? The next thing I knew, a vaguely familiar form stood where Wolf had been, his spindly arms and legs pinwheeling like an acrobat. It was like Tobias wasn’t sure whether to kick or punch Wolf, but was afraid to do either.