Reckless: Backsteel Bandits MC (20 page)

The inside of Miss Munoz's house was dripping with rich reds and purples and it was filled with smoky incense. Religious figurines dotted around the house and it seemed like a thousand photos littered the walls. The sticks of furniture were all overstuffed and expensive-looking. Miranda teetered between feeling right at home and painfully out of place.

“So, what does Delaney want?” Even when she spoke, her words had a gorgeous lilt to them. Her lips pursed as she regarded Miranda with a wrinkled nose. “First time he's sent a
puta
.”

“I'm not a whore.” She resisted the urge to snarl. This woman was involved with a less-than-delightful man. She had plenty of things to be bitter and rude about. Well, probably plenty of things. Miranda still hadn't scratched off the thought that Francesca was fully as bad as Pete.

“Whatever. What's he want?” The woman sniffed and repositioned a candlestick on her dining room table. Now, she reused to look at Miranda. “I already paid rent and his cut of the girls' pay is in the bank.”

Miranda's mind snipped at the last sentence. Rent and girls' pay? A few conclusions pounced on her thoughts. Vaguely, she wondered if Francesca's hostility was thanks to the presumed connection with Pete. She shook her head, feeling the air needed to be cleared. “I think you've misunderstood. I'm not here
for Pete.
”

For a split second, Francesca's hazel brown eyes widened. Redness tinged just beneath her cheeks and her lips thinned. She had said too much, she realized. Miranda tensed, waiting for her reaction. However, the woman wasn't explosive. Instead, her voice became scarily quiet as she demanded, “Who are you?”

Miranda's mouth opened to reply, but something out the window caught her eye. Without thinking, her gaze flicked to the window, spotting Tyler just beyond. Her mouth snapped shut, instantly. What the hell was he doing? Didn't he trust her to take care of this alone?

Francesca noticed where she looked, though. Her attention snapped to the window, the heat draining from her face.

“What the fuck is this?” The woman grabbed her purse, which lay across the dining room table. Her hand delved into the folds, withdrawing a small handgun. Miranda's heart thudded against her rib cage.

Miranda raised her hands, taking a step closer to Francesca. “Hey, hey, no, we're not here to–”

The thunder of the gun rang through the air. A small hole appeared in the ceiling above Francesca's head. Miranda stopped still as plaster pattered down onto the other woman's head. Her body wouldn't move, from fear or survival instincts.

In the tense silence, the window flew open. Tyler scrambled into the room and charged the woman with the gun.

Miranda screamed, “Tyler!”

“Tyler?” Francesca sharply inhaled, her features paling. Her gun lowered, just slightly. “Tyler
Ferguson
?”

“Yeah,” Tyler grunted, his eyes swinging from Francesca to Miranda. His muscles tensed, prepared to pounce or dodge should Francesca's gun go off. They still weren't sure where her loyalty leaned.

Silence filled the air as the woman tried to make sense of the ghost in her house. She paled considerably, her hand rushing to form the cross above her breast, before her limp grasp on her gun tightened. Francesca whipped it back up, leveling the barrel at Tyler's face. “But you're supposed to be dead!”

He stared at the gun, his gaze hardening. “Guess I didn't get the memo.”

“Get out, now,” gasped Francesca, swinging the barrel of the gun toward the front door. She quickly flicked it back to Tyler, before swinging it toward Miranda. The tip of the barrel trembled as her fingers fidgeted against the grip. “I don't need Pete finding you here and punishing me.”

Miranda raised her hands, attempting to brush the agitation out of the room. She took a step forward, her voice soft and level, “Can we just–”

The thunder of the gun cut Miranda off. Francesca shrieked, “Out!”

Tyler and Miranda rushed back through the house and out the front door. Francesca charged in their wake. As soon as their feet crossed the threshold, she slammed the door shut. The click and clank of locks and deadbolts clattered after their exit.

The two didn't dally. They started off down the block, Tyler leading Miranda. She mindlessly followed him as her brain churned and whirled. Doubt of Francesca's partnership with Pete took root in her head. From the sounds of it, Francesca was a victim in her own right. Her fingers clenched into fists as she and Tyler ducked between two houses.

They ended up on a small paved road – an alleyway – behind the line of homes. He led her to the sedan, parked a few yards away from Francesca's backyard. Neither exchanged a word as they both climbed into the car and settled. Miranda glared out her window, watching the house dwindle in the distance as Tyler drove them away.

* * *

The tension in the air clung to Miranda and Tyler like cobwebs. Their drive back to the motel was lengthy and silent, weighed down by worry and frustration. As soon as they pulled into the motel's parking lot, both jumped out of the vehicle. She startled, hearing him slam the door so hard the car groaned on its wheels. Before she could ask Tyler what his problem was, he stormed from the car to the motel room, only pausing to unlock the door.

She jogged after him, her brow pinched with confusion. What in the world did he have to be angry about? The moment she closed the door behind her, Tyler turned sharply on his heel. Even across the room, his eyes blazed with concern and annoyance. “We shouldn't have gone there. Now she's going to blow our cover before it's time to leave.”

“I don't think she will,” she replied softly, trying to swallow down her nervousness. She took a step closer, the pressure between her and Tyler becoming electric. The queasy worry that swam through her guts was clamped down on.

“What are you talking about?” Tyler's hand shot to his head, his fingers digging into his hair. Did Miranda not see it? Francesca was in cahoots with Pete. The woman would sooner dish them up on a silver platter than help them. He couldn't let that happen to Miranda. “She'll cover her ass like any other self-serving bitch.”

Miranda narrowed her gaze at him, her nose wrinkling with distaste. Her lips thinned to a disagreeable, firm line.

Her disapproving chill punctured the heat in Tyler's thoughts. He pinned her with a curious, and annoyed, glare. “
What
?”

“You're wrong,” she nearly growled the words out. Her heart thrummed in her chest and her nails bit into her palms. White-hot, intense anger – coupled with a sharp and sullen pain – whipped through her thoughts.

“I know this business better than you, Mir.” Tyler nearly spat the words out as bile climbed up into his throat. Memories danced across his mind's eye. Blood, guts, screaming, begging. Another chill settled into his bones, one made of disappointment and shame in himself. He shook the pity party from his head and grunted, “No, trust me. She's going to turn us in.”

Through her pursed lips, Miranda asserted, “I still think you're wrong.”

“Oh? Why's that?” Tyler tried to bite down on the sarcastic tinge in his voice, but it was a futile effort.

Why
was
he wrong? Miranda's thoughts tilted and twirled. Francesca let them run, though Pete would undoubtedly be enraged about that course of action. If she were genuinely working with him, wouldn't she secure his enemy? “If that was the case, she wouldn't have chased us out. She would've called Pete ASAP and gotten someone on our tail.”

“How do you know she hasn't?” He challenged her, crossing his arms across his chest. His jaw tensed as a scowl sliced across his lips.

“I have a feeling, after all the trouble you put him through, Pete wouldn't dick around. Now would he?” Miranda narrowed her eyes. Her hands went to her hips and her lips pursed.

His eyes widened, briefly. Not over Miranda's presumption, though. Her language, her body posture, her expression. She was hardening to the circumstances. His heart shuddered at the thought. She didn't deserve this. They needed to get out of town. Maybe he could call her family and arrange a coup to return her to Legacy. “We should head out, now, regardless.”

She watched as he stormed around the room, chucking what little they had unpacked into a bag. Her gaze followed him as he paced the room. Her brow furrowed in annoyance. “What about Francesca? She's our only lead.”

“We'll figure out some other leads,” he replied as he slammed a phone charger into the backpack.

Her voice turned into cold steel, “We don't have any other leads.”

“Pete has other accounts across the country,” parried Tyler as he forcefully zipped one bag close. “We'll find them.”

“So, what are we going to do? Visit them one by one?” Miranda could barely contain her exasperation and her irritation. She pointed to the door, indicating the wide expanse of nation they had yet to cover. In the back of her mind, she knew they couldn't continue this forever. If Pete was tracking them down, or if his reach extended far and wide, it was only a matter of time before they were found out. Especially with Tyler prodding his nose in Pete's business. It was better to milk the one decent lead they had, wasn't it?

Tyler slammed the backpack down onto the bed. The bag bounced up and arched to the floor. He didn't notice as he turned, sharply to Miranda. He pinned her with a stormy brown glare. “We can't just stay here.”

“We need to try and talk to Francesca, again.” Miranda just barely resisted the urge to stomp her foot. Barely.

Only a fool would dismiss the whip of fury in the air. Tyler took a deep breath and counted to ten. In as level of a voice as he could manage, he hissed, “We
need
to stay safe.”

“So that's it, is it? Things get slightly complicated, and you take off?”

“Miranda,” Tyler growled in warning, his tone deep and dark.

She couldn't stop herself. Heat prickled down her body and anger grasped at her vocal cords. “No, that is your signature move, after all!”

Silence fell into the room, splintering the tension into cold shards. Surprise at herself skirted across Miranda's thoughts, but she continued to level her glare at Tyler. He stared at her, the heat of his rage cooling with a dangerous, metaphorical hiss. The muscle in his jaw worked and his hands hung at his sides, balled into fists. She waited for his response, waiting for his yell or his snarl or his denial.

Instead, he replied with a frostbitten growl, “I'm not going to deal with this right now.”

Before the words registered in her synapses, he was pounding across the floor. She had barely opened her mouth when the motel room's door slammed shut behind him. Miranda stood, alone, in the empty room, glaring at the last spot Tyler had been.

Tyler hunched over his drink, ignoring the rest of the bar. The small, dingy, edge-of-the-town establishment had been the closest and first place he found that served alcohol. Acrid smoke circled the air, like tangled halos above the patrons. Music churned out from hidden stereos, half-obscured by the raucous chatter. The whole bar seemed small, nasty, and unwashed. Then again, Tyler wasn't in the greatest of moods.

The stool beside him shifted and a stranger leaned against the bar. “Hey, I recognize you.”

Tyler glanced up at him, expecting to find a familiar biker face. The man was a complete stranger, though. Tyler hunched further over his drunk and muttered, “I think you're mistaken.”

“No, no, I saw ya earlier today.” The man made a show of thinking about it for breath, before snapping his fingers loudly. “Leaving Miss Munoz's place, yeah?”

Tyler's blood ran cold. Someone had seen him and, quite possibly, Miranda at Francesca Munoz's home. Uncertainty clenched at his stomach. His gaze slid back up to the stranger and the man's grin twitched a little broadly. Tyler carefully trained his face against his scowl.

“I'm right, ain't I?”

He grunted noncommittally in reply.

“Miss Munoz is an amazing woman, isn't she?” He leaned farther against the bar, a dreamy smile on his face. Tyler would have thought the man was lovestruck if it wasn't for the lurid undertone in his words. “Beautiful and talented. But I'm sure you know all about that, eh?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” grunted Tyler as he fiddled with the bottle in front of him. The condensation kissed at his fingertips, a relieving coldness as irritation heated his thoughts.

“Oh, come on. Everybody here knows what she does.”

“What?” Tyler's gaze flicked to the stranger, his curiosity piqued.

“Got to be careful, though. A lady like Franny has some misguided admirers,” the man laughed and shook his head. His tone almost sounded rueful. “Don't know what's best for 'em. Falling in love with a whore.”

Danger crackled through the air seconds before the knuckles swung into Tyler's vision. He jolted, spilling his beer, and ducked under the bar just before the fist would have made contact. The force of the swing ruffled his hair. Glass shattered over his head and Tyler realized, as he scrabbled out from under the bar, his opponent had slammed his beer bottle against the edge.

Quiet coated the bar as the shards of the bottle clattered to the floor. All eyes turned toward the two, but no one moved to assuage the situation. Even the bartender watched with a bored expression.

The man's face twisted into a malicious grin and his eyes brightened with malign intent. It would have suited a serial killer. For now, he had the buffer of the stool – nailed down to the floor – to keep a pillow of safety between them. Tyler stumbled backward, though anger flared over his thoughts. His hands balled and red tinged the corners of his thoughts. Who did this fool think he was? Was he going to roll over and run away, just like Miranda thought of him?

Without thinking, Tyler snatched at the stool and yanked on it, hard. The screws gave way – perhaps rusted under a thousand bottles of spilled beer – with a loud crackling of wood and snapping of cheap metal. His attacker's eyes widened as he slammed the stool, feet first, into the man. He yowled and stumbled backward, into another chair. He hissed and cursed in pain, dropping his weapon. The broken beer bottle further shattered across the floor, raining down on the attacker's boots. Still, the patrons made no move to stop the fighting.

The man quickly got back to his feet, glaring murderously at him. Tyler cracked his knuckles while his muscles tensed in anticipation. Let this fool charge at him.

Predictably, the man rushed at him with a battle cry on his lips. When he closed in, Tyler's fist slammed out. Knuckles smacked into jaw. The crack of impact echoed down his arm, making his bones sing with delight. Oh, this felt good. When was the last time he had a physical brawl?

The other man flew like an invisible giant had lifted him up and dragged him away. He landed, a few feet away, legs sprawled out from beneath him and arms groping for something, anything, to use as a weapon or a cane.

Tyler stepped over the man, straddling him on the chest. His fingers dug into the front of his shirt, bunching up the fabric against his fingers. A bruise darkened the man's jaw and blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. Tyler pulled him off the floor, just slightly, and leered into his disoriented gaze. His right arm cocked back, aim sighted right in the middle of his face.

A malicious ache gnawed at his thoughts. He wanted to beat this guy into the floorboards and leave the bar with bloodied knuckles and primal satisfaction. Miranda's face floated through his thoughts, though. The desire for carnage dampened.

Tyler focused on the man's face. Large, wide eyes stared up at him, in a mixture of defiance and fear. He ran a tongue over his canines, before he growled, releasing him, “You're lucky I'm feeling generous, asswipe.”

He climbed off him. Habit had him tugging at his jacket, a faint woe tickling at Tyler's thoughts as he remembered his kutte was in the trunk. He glared down at his fallen aggressor. The man didn't even try to get up with Tyler standing right there.

Something itched at his insides, though. Tyler turned, exiting the bar. The crowd parted as he passed, none wanting to invoke the wrath of a stranger in their familiar bar.

He wanted to get back to the motel room. He wanted to be close to Miranda. After all, if someone had recognized him in a bar, who knew what someone would do to her?

The primal heat still simmered in his guts, though it had transformed away from bloodlust.

* * *

As soon as Tyler left, Miranda realized she couldn't leave. He had the key on him. Unless she wanted to be locked out of their motel room while he did God knew what, she had to stay put. It wasn't any skin off her nose, though. In a fit of frustration, she changed out of her street clothes and into comfortable sweats and a tank top.

She plopped down in front of her laptop and went back to unraveling the twists and knots Pete had created for the sake of security. Maybe Tyler was right. Maybe Francesca would throw the alarm. Maybe it was better to search for other leads.

At the very least, he didn't deserve to have his past thrown in his face. A needle of regret punctured through her thoughts. He had left Legacy for the best. Or so he thought. While the decision hurt her, immensely, that didn't deter from his good intentions. Of course, he could have always consulted her before taking off. Miranda shook her head and focused her gaze on her laptop. Enough of the pity party and worrying. She had work to do.

Almost an hour later, she hadn't turned up anything fresh through the bank records. She started to sift through Pete Delaney's social media, online, hoping to unearth even more clues. An e-mail that led her to another alias. An account on some tucked away site that indicated where else he was laundering money. Absolutely anything at the moment felt like it'd help her.

She even started to pry into Francesca Munoz's records. Few things caught her interest, other than the two or three domains she had bought over the last year. Naughty, x-rated domain names. Miranda filed that fact away for later investigation.

All the while, her brain continuously checked the time, wondering where Tyler was. Any number of faint scenarios taunted her worries. From a drunken accident to Baldie showing up out of the blue, her stomach churned at the very imaginings.

When the door slammed, her attention jerked to Tyler. A tense air writhed around him and his features pinched with seriousness as he stepped into the room. Faintly, Miranda wondered if he was still angry. She climbed out of her chair, trotting over to him. “Tyler. I'm sorry about what I said earli–”

Miranda's sentence finished in a gasp. He backed her up until the back of her knees hit against the bed, then she realized something. His eyes were hot and dark and wild. Adrenaline coursed through his veins and speckled his thoughts with rowdy hormones. Heat bubbled between them, but it wasn't unpleasant.

“We'll talk about it later,” he rumbled, lowly. Miranda could feel his chest vibrate and suppressed a shudder. He caught her by the chin, tilting her had up to meet his searing gaze. His lips hovered over hers, his breath hot, “For now, let's forget it and have some fun. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Miranda murmured, her whole body screaming for him.

She caught Tyler's brief grin, before he turned her around. His lips dropped to the crook of her neck, landing kisses and nibbles across her skin. He pulled up her tank top, his calloused fingertips kneading into her belly, working their way up. Her nipples tingled under his rough touch as he groped over her breast. His other hand shot southward, pulling her sweatpants down.

Miranda whined under his touch, her body tense and burning. The worries dissolved to the back of her thoughts. For a split second, she marveled at how everything else melted away when Tyler was in her thoughts. The string of coherence snapped as his fingers ghosted across her lower lips.

Against her ass, his cock hardened and strained against his jeans. Tyler pulled away from her neck and licked his lips, inhaling deeply. Despite changing her clothes, she hadn't taken a shower. The scents of the day clung to her skin, barely masking her natural aroma. His hormones played with her pheromones, dizzying his thoughts.

She wiggled back against him, gasping in appreciation at his erection's twitch. He forced her forward with gentle guidance. She obeyed his subtle hints, ending up on all fours on the bed. Air skirted across her bare skin, teasing her nipples even harder and sending goosebumps over her skin.

The hiss of his zipper sent a shiver down Miranda's body. Excitement mounted in Tyler's thoughts, joined by stewing adrenaline. His cock struggled free of his pants and boxers. The head of his dick slapped against her ass cheeks, eliciting an eager groan from her lips.

Excitement pulsed through Miranda's body, dampening her slit in eagerness. His member nuzzled its way against her pussy. Heat and warmth tickled at her lips and her body clenched. Miranda's toes curled, moans and gasps spilling from her lips as his erection rubbed against her. His whole length teased her senses.

The heat, the hardness, the subtle twitches when the head of his cock kissed her slit. She pressed her mouth into the bed, hiking her ass even higher into the air. Her needy mewls were swallowed up by the sheets and blankets beneath her.

Slowly, his cock pressed into her, centimeter by centimeter. His firm, thick rod taunted her senses and rubbed against her nerves. Heat and friction kissed her insides as he pressed a little further at a frustratingly slow pace. Miranda whined and jerked her hips, wanting to be completely filled, wanting his heat and his strength pumping in and out of her without hesitation.

Tyler smirked as he watched her writhe beneath his cock. The slow penetration eased over his member, licking along his flesh. Oh, he wanted to just slam into her, wanted to pound her until both of their sticky, hot conclusions. But Tyler enjoyed seeing Miranda like this. Wiggling and whining and unable to demand anything more, since pleasure tickled every nerve into submission.

He slammed into her, a whining cry leaving her lips, unable to cap his own delight. In and out, in and out, pleasure licked along his cock. He drove hard and fast and farther into her. She squirmed beneath him, her fingers sinking into the bed.

He skirted his pleasure, a hair's breadth from release. His heart pounded, his lungs ached, his fingers arched into her.

Then it was all gone with one gasp. She whimpered, suddenly cold and empty. She wiggled her bottom in the air, gaining his delighted attention. He grinned, but still stepped away from the bed. Miranda's thoughts struggled to adjust to the sudden change-up. She pushed herself into a sitting position, her head tilted to the side as curiosity and disappointment swarmed her thoughts. Was he done already?

From the look in his dark brown eyes, he was nowhere close to finished. Excitement raced through Miranda's thoughts as her eyes landed on his still erect cock. Thick and throbbing while his head begged for one good, swirling lick. Heat boiled in Miranda's core. She slid off the bed, suddenly, and dropped to her knees.