Outlaw's Promise(26)

He reached down and rubbed my knuckles, reassuring me. Then a biker saw us, slid open the gate and we roared into the compound.





14





Annabelle





Bikers stopped what they were doing and stared as Carrick gunned the bike slowly past them. He seemed to fit right in: same sort of Harley, same leather cut, same badass attitude, so I didn’t understand the shocked silence at first. Then I realized they were staring at me...or maybe Carrick with me. Why? He was freakin’ gorgeous: it couldn’t be that unusual to see him with a woman.

Now we were inside, I saw that the entire compound was surrounded with high fences and razor wire. There were a line of garages along one side and I could see a man working on a bike in one. In the far corner was a double wide trailer with smoke rising from the chimney.

But my attention was on the clubhouse itself. Low and squat with tiny windows: there must be barely any light inside. And the heavy metal door and barred windows made it seem like a prison. When Carrick parked the bike and climbed off, I actually sat there for a second just staring fearfully at the place.

“Come on,” he told me. “It’s okay.” And he offered his hand.

I took a deep breath. He’d protected me this far. I took his hand and he led me inside.

The walls had been painted a deep scarlet. The little hallway that led from the door was hung with photos—some of them so old they were black and white—showing Hell’s Princes from days gone by. Every member looked like a big, muscled badass. There were other mementos: a set of brass knuckles, what looked like an exhaust pipe and a framed set of rules that was fading and worn at the edges. There was a wooden packing crate on the floor, its lid ajar, and I could see baseball bats and crowbars inside, ready to be grabbed for defense. It was the most intimidating place I’d ever been.

We approached a big set of double doors, the scratched wood so dark with age it was almost black. I hung back, my arm stretching out as Carrick walked on ahead of me. I was remembering the doors that had led into the Blood Spiders’ bar, all that noise rising up to meet me, all those eyes on me. My stomach suddenly lurched. The bike ride to Haywood Falls had taken my mind off what had happened but now all the memories of the auction were flooding back. What the hell was I doing with another group of bikers? Were these guys really any different?#p#分页标题#e#

Carrick squeezed my hand, reassuringly firm but gentle. “It’s okay,” he told me. “This is a safe place.”

I looked again at the red walls, the weapons crate, then looked up at him with huge eyes.

“It’s safe when you’re with me,” he clarified. He reached down and put his free hand to my cheek, brushing his warm thumb across my cheekbone, and immediately I felt myself calm a little. Then his thumb stroked slowly across my cheek again, as if he couldn’t resist doing it one more time. Warm pleasure spiraled out from each brush of his skin: I wanted him to never stop. I looked up into his eyes and, for a second, he looked almost helpless.

Then he seemed to catch himself. He dropped his hand and looked away. He still held my other hand but the grip changed, loosening a little: friendly and protective but not as tight as before. Immediately, I missed it. Carrick shook his head as if he’d been dumb and pushed open the doors.

It was a big room but it seemed even bigger. The walls were the same dark red and I’d been right about the windows: there was hardly any light from outside. What there was came from big, old-fashioned light fittings, the bulbs throwing out an orange glow that didn’t penetrate the shadows. It was daylight and even now I had to squint to make out the far wall. Rock music was pumping out of speakers somewhere but it was almost drowned out by the chatter of bikers.

Until all that chatter abruptly stopped and every single Hell’s Prince turned to look at us. There were maybe twelve of them but it felt like a hundred, a sea of frayed cotton, tattoos, tan muscle and leather. What the hell am I doing here? These were real outlaws, one-percenters. They weren’t fond of outsiders.

I nearly turned and bolted. Carrick must have sensed it because he put a spread hand on the small of my back to block me. Then one of the bikers, a huge brown-haired guy, tossed down his pool cue and marched over to Carrick. I shrank back in fear. The guy was so big the floor seemed to shake under his feet, his black boots at least twice the length of my sneakers. Shit! He grabbed hold of Carrick—

—and wrapped him into a bear hug. “Carrick, you dumb bastard,” he rumbled. “Where have you been?”

I let out a long sigh of relief.