"Well, I mean, that sounds … that sounds fine?" I said, torn between desire to stay, the logic of what Reign was saying, my instinctual urge to leave as soon as possible, and suspicion over the happy coincidences that had led me to this perfect situation. The phrase "too good to be true" came to mind.
"What you really ought to get is a bike," Reign said, suddenly, a glint in his eye, his smile spreading wider. I scoffed.
"Are you kidding me? I'm trying to keep a low profile, not announce myself to every town I go through. Besides, I've never even ridden on the back of a motorcycle before," I said. I knew he wasn't being serious, but the idea drove a thrill of fear through me. I was telling the truth; I'd never been on a motorcycle, they'd always scared me. The thought of being exposed and moving so quickly … it wasn't for me.
"Bikes are easy to ditch when you need to. And people are less likely to mess with you. And, damn but it feels good, girl. You don't know what you're missing," he replied, the smile now planted firmly on his face. He looked me up and down, almost as though he was judging whether or not I was worthy of a motorcycle. Clearly, it was his whole life; you don't go around joining biker gangs if you don't have some love for bikes. But it wasn't a love I could share with him. Not at all. I shook my head.
"Really, though, you've never been on a motorcycle before?" he asked, the smile fading slightly as he looked at me, a more serious expression in his eyes.
"Nope, never have and hopefully never will," I said, starting to get a bad feeling from the way he was looking at me.
"Don't be too confident about that," he said. "We're taking you out tonight."
"Oh, no, really, I don't … ." I started to say, panic fluttering into my chest as I imagined myself riding on the back of a Harley. Not my cup of tea. I didn't care how damn charming this guy was, and how much he was promising to help me, I'd be damned if I let him coax me onto a death machine.
"How can you know you don't like it if you've never tried?" He asked, entirely serious now. He had a point, of course, but you could say the same thing about a lot of things. I've never tried raw, rotten tuna, but I don't have to try it to know it's not something I want. I told him as much, but it didn't sway him.
"Baby, you just gotta understand. It's not scary. It's … it's freedom. Pure, absolute, unfettered freedom. You got the road in front of you, the wind at your back, you're like a bird," he said, now leaning in close across the table.
I jumped in my seat as I felt his hand land on my knee and pulse, sending a shockwave through my body. I could remember, all too well, what he could do with those hands. His palm slid upwards slightly, rubbing my thigh through my jeans. I wanted to remain focused on our discussion of how I was going to get over the border, but he was making it very, very hard.
"You get that engine between your legs and you feel so powerful. You feel like the whole damn world just opens up for you. Like you are doing exactly what God put you on this earth to do. You can't imagine how good it feels … " he said, his hand now moving even further up my thigh. My heart sped up. I could hear his voice in my ear as he leaned closer and closer, tugging me towards him like a rope across the table, making me lean in farther. He could have been reciting the dictionary and I would have been enthralled.
"The night sky above you, all the stars, the cool air, baby, you're gonna love it, I promise, you won't believe how much you're gonna love it," he whispered, his face now only inches away from mine. He closed the gap slowly, my eyes half-closing as I let myself be lulled by his voice and by his hand rubbing me.
Our lips met, parted slightly, and I tasted him like a fine wine, sipping him slowly, our tongues coming together in a gentle waltz. Oh, God, but he was a good kisser. I felt like my head was lifting off my shoulders, that my whole body was full of warm lava, slow-moving pleasure rippling through me. He broke away, the smile returning to his face.
"I can't," I said, slurring my words slightly, intoxicated by him.
"I want you to," he said in return, his voice inviting no arguments. I didn't have any. As much as I tried to fight it, he had me wrapped around his finger. I would have jumped from the roof of the bar if he'd asked me to. I just wanted to be close to him again, to wrap my arms around him, feel him fill me up in that wonderful way, the heat of his skin against mine making us sweaty and sticking us together as we twirled, naked, across a bed …
His hand moved from my thigh to my hand, grasping it firmly.
"Trust me," he said.
I nodded, felt almost like I was outside of my body, watching myself agree to do this crazy thing that was so "not me". But, deep down, some part of me wondered if I really even knew who "me" was. Maybe the "me" that I should have been all those years with Jeremy was the sort of girl who would accept motorcycle rides from sexy men. Maybe that "me" wouldn't have found herself in this situation in the first place.
13
From across the crowded bar, he watched them. No one noticed him. People rarely did. He was very good at going unnoticed. Just another rough looking dude in the lawless desert, someone you wouldn't ask for credentials. Tough enough to blend in, with a pocketful of lies to cover his tracks if anyone started getting nosey.
He was aware of everything going on around him, but his focus was trained on the couple – or at least, they looked like a couple – in the corner. The woman, dark-haired, tan, and shyly smiling; the man, tall and lean and bold. They were speaking close, like lovers, but something about their body language told him that she was being talked into something she wasn't wholly sure of. But that wasn't important; what was important was the way the man was looking at her, the way he leaned into her, the way you could almost feel his desire to reach out and stroke her cheek.
He was the man to get to, and it looked like she was the way to get him. The stranger watched as the girl nodded, agreeing to whatever deal they'd struck. Reign, the man's target, was clearly pleased as he fairly leapt from his chair.
A moment later, he was talking to the female bartender, someone the man had earlier pegged as a potential tool in his game. But it was clear that while Honey had some place in the club, and in Reign's affections, she was neither as compelling or easy a target as this Latina-looking newcomer. The man watched as Honey smiled and laughed and disappeared behind the bar, re-appearing with a helmet and jacket.
Going for a little ride, the man thought, taking a sip of his beer. It was skunked. The bar was shit. It was a wonder that this club was still around, if their bar was any indication of their ability to keep their shit together. He'd been casing the place for a week already and hadn't been served a single drink that didn't taste like the glasses were washed in nail polish remover. But, despite their crappy bar-running skills, the club had managed to spark the interest – or ire – of the man's employer.
From what he knew, which wasn't much, the Black Smoke Motorcycle Club had recently moved into his employer's territory with their trafficking business. The man didn't care much about the details. They didn't matter. He was a hired gun, that was all. He didn't care a whit about trafficking, human or otherwise.
He knew, from his own research, that the club he was currently working for – the Immortal Soulz – had a reputation for roughing up their "passengers", and were even involved in the sort of trafficking that put fourteen-year-old girls in especially nasty situations. As far as he knew, the Black Smokes were a little more humane in their treatment of illegal immigrants. But he didn't care about who was the good guy. He was gonna make a lot of money by screwing with the Black Smokes, and that was all that mattered.
He had to find out more about that girl. Judging by the bruise on her face, and the strange way she'd hugged that duffel bag to her body when she first came into the bar (he was a very observant man), she was running from something pretty gnarly. And anyone running from something gnarly had a weakness that could be exploited. And if he could exploit her weakness, he could exploit Reign's weakness. It would have been foolish to go straight for the club's aging president; he could do just as much damage going after the front-runner.
He knew her room number, and he had a lock-picking kit burning a hole in his pocket. Not that the locks here would cause him much trouble. Most likely they were as crappy as the beer.
He finished his drink just as the girl and her beau left the bar; he counted the seconds as they passed. One minute, two minutes, three. Outside, a bike engine kicked up, hummed in neutral for a while, and then roared off. He stood and slipped away, inviting not a single curious glance on his way out.