Damon:A Bad Boy MC Romance Novel(72)

22





Silas' plan was convoluted, but to him it seemed easy as pie. He assumed   –  from snippets of overheard conversation  –  that little Gabriella was  planning on ditching Ditcher's Valley in short order. He'd already  convinced dear Jeremy to wait until the right moment to strike  –  a hard  task, to be sure, but one he'd handled with admiral tact.

It was a good plan. Not a perfect plan, but then again there was no such  thing as a perfect plan. Silas had been down enough roads to learn  that. Like that rap song said, you can plan a pretty picnic but you  can't predict the weather.

But all Silas had to do was be patient, be alert, be cautious, and be  smart. And he already was all those things. Even if he couldn't pull it  all off, chances of his own demise being a part of the catastrophe that  would ensue were slim. His biggest asset, greatest skill, was the  ability to get his ass to safety before it ever felt heat from the  flames.

He might leave a lot of bodies in his wake, and he might end up no  richer than he'd started out, but he'd live to work another day. And his  was not the sort of industry where you could write a Yelp review. His  clients got the references he wanted them to get. As far as anyone could  ever know, he'd never even been in Utah.         

     



 

A good plan, indeed, Silas thought as he pulled his truck off the  highway. They were halfway to Ditcher's Valley. He wanted a milkshake  and a hamburger.

"Where are you going?" His passenger demanded.

"Hungry," Silas said gruffly, not in the mood for conversation.

"I'm not paying you to stuff your gob," Jeremy said, matching his tone. Silas shot him a look.

"We're in no rush, copper. We have to wait until your little lady leaves  on her own. I told you that when we made the deal," he said.

"Well, sure, but what if she leaves before … "

"I'm hungry, and you're hungry, too. And you better not be so fucking  impatient once we get there, son. If you try and sneak off and find her  yourself, you're only gonna find yourself in a world and a half of hurt.  I can promise you that, son," Silas said.

"I can fucking wait. I'm the one paying you, don't forget that. And I'm a  goddam cop. One wrong move, I make some calls, you're toast. Don't  underestimate me, prick," Jeremy shot back.

Silas didn't say anything, just pulled into the first drive-thru fast  food joint he saw at the end of the highway's exit ramp. Evidently,  Jeremy had moved past fuming and was thinking a little clearer. That  wasn't very good for Silas, but it wasn't terrible, either. He just  wished Jeremy would stay in his little rage bubble.

He also hoped the girl would leave town tomorrow; the longer they had to  wait, the more impatient his client would become. In his plan, the  biggest unknown was this volatile man beside him. One wrong step on  Jeremy's part and Silas would have the unfortunate need to kill the guy.

He didn't mind killing, he just hated how messy it was. He didn't need  Jeremy to get Gabriella; he could catch her and beat her up himself. It  might even be better for Silas if Jeremy wasn't there to whoosh  Gabriella back to Colorado; live bait was always best. But Jeremy still  owed him half his fee, and he wanted that money. And he didn't want to  have to wash blood out of any of his stuff. It was so hard to get out.





23





I lay in the backseat of my new car and sighed, one hand resting happily  on my stomach, my head on Reign's still-naked lap, my hair running all  over his thighs.

It was still hot.

And what we'd been indulging in only made it hotter.

God, I couldn't stand to do anything but close my eyes and hum along to  the radio. I couldn't think about anything except the blue sky and my  tingling body. I didn't want to think about the past, and I was even  less excited to think about the future.

Somehow, all my desire to keep heading south had slipped away. I mean, I  still knew I had to, but that pulsing drive, that need to get away, my  fantasies about life across the border, were gone. Perhaps for good. I  hoped not, because if that compulsion to get the hell away from Colorado  disappeared, I might never leave.

I might, foolishly, believe that Reign and his friends really could keep  me safe. I might believe any promises he could make, I might believe  anything my brain wanted to tell me in order to hold onto this happiness   –  the first of its kind I'd ever found in my whole long, sorry life.

Already, as I lay there with my eyes closed, I found myself letting  silly nonsense fantasies dance into my head. About having little biker  kids, about laying in bed with Reign on lazy Sunday mornings, about  setting up a life for myself out here amongst the sage and sand. Silly,  silly fantasies that tugged and almost clawed at my brain, demanding  attention when I knew that they were impossible.

Reign was running his hands through my hair, tickling my scalp in the  most delicious way imaginable. I felt drunk with oxytocin, giddy and  giggly. Reaching up to stroke his broad chest, I let my mouth speak  without my mind's constant commentary.

"Where are you from?"

There was a pause; Reign's hands stilled in my hair. But it was only for a moment.

"North Carolina," he said, and his voice hinted at a past he didn't want  to discuss, but which he'd tell me about if I wanted to hear it.

And, God help me, I did. I wanted to know everything about this stranger  who'd opened me up, taken my heart in his hands and squeezed it until  it beat again, who'd brought me from the sad state I was in when I  arrived in Ditcher's Valley to this blissful, sun-soaked moment.

"That's a long way," I murmured dreamily.

"Sure is."

"Why'd you come here," I asked when it became apparent he wasn't going  to answer me. His body stiffened under my back. I realized that I was  pressing him; perhaps more than he was comfortable being pressed.  Likely, he wanted me to shut up and stop prying and just accept the  moment for what it was.         

     



 

But I was a student of philosophy, even after all these years, and  questions came out of me before I thought twice about asking them. It  hadn't been that way with Jeremy; with Jeremy, usually, the less I knew  the better. But now I wasn't that woman anymore. I was someone new  –  or,  rather, someone old.

"I had to get out of my house," was his response, vague as could be. I  could see the signs to stop talking clear as daylight. But what did I  do? Did I respect his privacy and move on to other, lighter subjects? Of  course not.

"Why's that?"

Another long pause.

"My father killed my sister," he finally said, and like a bullet going  through me I felt regret and shame and shock and awe, all at once. Good  job, Gabriella, you wanted answers? You got them. Now you know. Happy?

I wasn't happy. The way he said it … like he was ripping out a piece of  himself and handing it to me because I'd told him to. He could have not  answered. He could have said he didn't want to talk about it. But he'd  said it, boldly, baldly, putting it out there like he had nothing to  lose. Because I'd asked him. And I got the feeling he didn't want to lie  to me, or keep things from me. Well, that had become clear enough as we  sat there, both rigid now, suddenly uncomfortable in the heat.

I leaned forward, sitting upright, our bodies making a smucking sound as  they separated. Turning my head towards him, I saw his eyes fixed on me  but full of an awful sadness. Full of an awful memory. A great and  terrible weight had fallen on the day: everything, from the sky to the  sands, seemed pregnant with desolation.

"That's what happened," he said finally, with a short nod of his head, as though I'd called him a liar.

"That's horrible," I whispered. "How old were you?"

"I was seventeen. She was twelve. He was a bastard," Reign said, looking  away from me with a sharp turn of his neck. He gazed off into the  distance. "And I just left. Hopped on my bike and rode away. I left my  other sisters and my mother there with him. I haven't spoken to them  since."

The silence was as thick as the heat around us.

"I didn't go to the funeral," he said.

"Well did they … did they get him? Your father? Did they, you know, catch him?"

Reign shook his head.

"He lied. My mother, she … she was too afraid to even tell the truth. They  said she fell, that they just found her like that at the foot of the  stairs. It was a small town. Everyone knew, but no one wanted to talk. I  should have. But instead I ran away. Like … "

Another long pause as his brow furrowed, as though he were looking for  the right word, even though I could see that the word he was looking for  was well within his grasp. It was a word he knew well.

"Like a coward."

I wanted to shake him and tell him he was wrong, that he wasn't a  coward, just a kid, a scared kid, and that he couldn't blame himself. It  was his father who was to blame, not Reign. Not Reign and not his  mother. But something told me other people had said the same to him,  with not much result. Still, I had to try.