Rush - Blue Devils MC Book 2 (Book 1 Included FREE for a short time only!) (22 page)

~ Ella ~

When Ella had disembarked from the plane, she realized that Dan had told her “someone” would pick her up at the airport - not necessarily Brock, though. Why hadn’t she thought to get a name from him? That’s right, she was too busy cursing the heat to think straight. She reached into her purse to grab her phone and call Dan when she saw…him.

Breathing became temporarily optional. Tall - okay, fine,
everyone
was tall to her - dark, and stunningly handsome, he was a walking GQ model. But more scary. He had long, mussed hair, dark chocolate strands that she ached to run her fingers through; whether it was to straighten the strands or to muss them up even further, she wasn’t sure. If the Blue Devils t-shirt hadn’t given him away, the black leather vest and chaps would have done the trick. How many MC gang members were waiting at the airport to pick up someone? She was pretty sure she that this was her ride, and the way he held himself, she was also pretty damn sure he was Brock.

Deciding that the best idea was to fake confidence until some magically appeared, she strode towards her GQ-model-turned-MC-gang-leader ride to Copper Lode. No wonder Dan had had such a hard-on for him all this time. Ella had the ridiculous idea that she should check her chin for drool.

He didn’t seem to have spotted her, so she decided to do the logical thing - ask him if he was her ride.

“Excuse me, are you from the Blue Devils?” she asked and then could have kicked herself. Of
course
he was from the Blue Devils. He was staring down at her like a bug on the sidewalk but she plunged ahead anyway.

“Hi, I’m Ella,” and stuck out her hand to shake his. She felt a little ridiculous, shaking hands with him like she was meeting him in a boardroom, but she was going to have to work with this guy for the next week, so she ought to introduce herself, right? He hesitated, as if wondering if he could get away with not shaking her hand, but finally reached out and clasped her hand in his. She felt his callouses rub against her soft, pampered hands before he yanked his hand back.

Dammit, he was a GQ-model-turned-MC-gang-leader who also thought he was too good for her.

This is going to be a loooonnnngggg week.

Brock turned and started walking away without saying a word. She stood staring after him, her mouth gaping open in surprise, before she hoisted her purse farther up onto her shoulder and started after him. He may be an asshole but he was her ride to Copper Lode.

The shit she put up with for her writing career…

He stopped next to the baggage claim area and crossed his arms across his chest. She came to a halt next to him and watched the baggage carousel go-round in front of her, livid as could be. This whole cold-shoulder treatment was going to be hell to live with for a week. Finally, she spotted her bags and grabbed them before they could rotate out of view again. She turned back to him, waiting for him to offer to carry her bags, when he turned on his heel and walked away.

Where the hell did Dan find this guy - Neanderthals R Us?

She struggled after him, trying to keep up in her strappy heels that had seemed like such a good idea back in New York. What was her idea - sex appeal never hurt? Yeah, so much for that. This guy barely seemed to realize she was alive. Sex appeal was definitely not going to be an asset here.

Huffing from the speed-walk pace Brock had set, Ella finally called out, “Can — can you help me?” She was loathe to ask for help, truly she was, especially from this Caveman Special she’d been gifted with, but it was either that or collapse into a heap on the airport carpet. Nothing against Phoenix, of course, but the carpet seemed…questionable. Full body contact didn’t seem like a real good idea.

He stopped long enough to let her catch up and then grabbed her two bags like they’d been filled with cotton balls and took off walking again. Still huffing, she followed.

Chapter 4

~ Ella ~

The wall of heat that hit her when they walked outside was palpable. It was like walking into a brick wall. That moved. But was just as real. And hot.

Oh god, the heat. It was…

There were no words for it. This was hell. She had landed in hell. Her eyes hurt from the sunlight and she hurriedly grabbed her sunglasses out of her purse and slipped them on. There, that was a little better.

They started walking - no, jogging - across lanes of traffic and then out from under the portico and that’s when the direct sunlight hit her shoulders and face and she thought she was going to die. The perfect ending to the reporter failure that she was - she could hit the news as being the first person to get heat stroke in under 60 seconds, and
that’s
how she’d be remembered. Not for the investigative journalism she’d always thought she’d do, not for the brilliant prose she wrote. Nope, she was going to get the World Record for Quickest Heat Stroke Victim Ever.

Heat waves radiated off the asphalt, distorting the air, making her wonder for a moment if she’d entered a Fun House without realizing it. Her heels sank into the heat-softened asphalt with every step and she had the terrifying thought that the ground was going to suck her in alive.

Finally, thank God above, they stopped. She was heaving, her lungs not working properly in the furnace she’d walked into, and she bent over, gasping for air. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her Louis Vuitton bags flying through the air.

“What the hell are you doing?!” she yelled just as she heard them land with a thump in the bed of the truck. “Those are Louis Vuitton bags, you asshole!”

“Who?” he said snidely, and walked around to the driver’s side. She stood there on the passenger side and watched him get in.

He really was going to just let her stand there.

Just as she came to this conclusion, he rolled down the window.

“You gonna get in or am I leaving you here?” he drawled. She pulled the door handle open and then cursed a blue streak as the pain shot up her hand.
Fuck
was that door handle hot! Reminding herself not to touch anything metal ever again while in the state of Arizona, she went to climb inside.

Which is when she saw a motorcycle helmet on the seat. She debated it for a moment - moving someone else’s stuff without permission was just rude - when he spoke up.

“You’ll have to carry that on your lap,” he said with a hint of laughter in his voice. He was totally enjoying this.

Fucker.

She picked up the helmet and slid into the truck, careful not to touch the metal latch on the seat belt as she buckled herself in. The heat inside of the truck was even worse than the heat outside of the truck, something she would have sworn three minutes earlier was completely impossible.

He tore out of the parking lot, swearing and swerving in equal numbers. She gripped the sides of her seat, trying not to panic. Apparently, Brock was trying to live up to his Blue Devils persona.

“So!” she said brightly, trying to think of something to say to break the tension hanging over them in the small confines of the truck cab. It seemed as if he wanted to be in close proximity to her about as much as she wanted to be in close proximity to a rattlesnake. She had no idea why he hated her guts so much, considering he agreed to this trip with her boss, but whatever. She wasn’t going to spend the next week absolutely miserable. She would kill him with kindness. And small talk.

And barring that, a knife.

“How long have you been the head of the Blue Devils, Brock?” she asked.

“What the fuck?!” he yelled, whipping his head around to stare at her until a horn blast forced him to look at the road and slam on the brakes simultaneously. She jerked forward and back again, hitting the seat with an ‘oomph’ that was distinctly unsexy.

Dammit, now why did she think that? Sexy, unsexy, it didn’t matter. Caveman Special here was not exactly invited into her panties, no matter how hard it was to breathe when she looked at him.

“How long have you been the head of the Blue Devils?” she said, pronouncing each word distinctly, as if speaking to a small child. If he was going to act like an ass, she was going to treat him like one.

“I am not Brock!” he half yelled. He seemed almost…offended by the assumption. She stared him, brow wrinkled in confusion. What the hell was going on here?

“I’m Lain. I’m the VP of the club. Brock, lucky son-of-a-bitch that he is, is back in Copper Lode. He dumped you off onto my lap last night.”

“Hold on, dumped me off?!” she demanded, insulted. “So do I get the almighty pleasure of following
you
around for the next week? Or are you just the delivery man and you’ll be able to
dump me off,
” her words dripping with anger, “onto Brock’s lap when we get to Copper?” She glared at him, arms crossed. Her right hand touched her seat belt buckle on her left hip and she yanked it back with a yip of surprise. Her fingertip felt like it’d been branded. She popped it into her mouth without thinking and sucked on it.

Goddamn that hurt! Arizona hell with its Arizona heat and its Arizona brandings and its Arizona assholes.

She felt a wave of homesickness wash over her. She’d always loved to travel but for real, Arizona was kicking her ass and she’d only been there an hour. Constructing a voodoo doll with her boss’ face on it suddenly seemed like a logical plan for the evening.

And another one with Lain’s face on it.

“Yeah, you’ll be spending the week with me,” Lain said, startling Ella out of her thoughts. She’d forgotten she’d even asked him a question. She stared down at her lap, studying her reddened fingertip as she decided how to answer. Voodoo dolls aside, it would make for a better week (if only because it was easier), if she and Lain weren’t sniping at each other the whole time. And his last statement, although not filled with warmth and kindness and love, was at least not laced with hostility.

She decided to give it another try and see if they couldn’t at least be civil to each other.

“So
Lane
, did your parents realize you’d be a part of a motorcycle gang, and that’s why they called you Lane - they knew you were going to live your life in the fast lane?” She had thought she was being pretty clever with her question when she asked it but as soon as it came out of her mouth, she realized that it was a pretty pathetic joke he’d probably heard a hundred times. Too late to take it back now.

She turned carefully in her seat to face him, paranoid about touching anything metal, as she felt sweat trickle down her back. The AC had picked up enthusiasm as the truck had picked up speed, but it was barely making a dent in the temperature in the cab.

They hit the freeway and he began weaving in and out of traffic like a maniac but Ella decided to ignore that for the moment. There wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it except wonder that if she died on assignment, if
Pout
would spot for a nice casket. She should tell Dan she wanted teak.

“L-a-i-n,” he said, and turned his vest so she could see his patch on his shoulder. She didn’t know how she’d missed that before. She felt her face redden and she could only hope he would attribute it to the heat. The back of her sundress was soaked through, so it was certainly a plausible explanation, even if not very sexy.

Dammit, enough with the sexy already!

He went on, ignorant of her internal scolding. “But yeah, my dad knew I’d grow up in the fast lane - he helped start the Blue Devils and was the first president of the chapter. I guess he just thought he’d be a little creative with the spelling.” He shot her a crooked grin and she felt her heart thump in her chest. Damn, he had a nice smile. She found herself smiling back.

“What made your dad decide to start a motorcycle club?”

“Well, you haven’t met Brock yet,” he said, chuckling, “but his dad and my dad served in ‘Nam together. When they got back to the States, they had a hard time fitting into society. I think the rebel aspect of living free on the road appealed to them. They decided to move to Copper Lode and press the reset button on life. Maybe they couldn’t go back to when they were 19 and innocent, but they could ride the roads year round in Arizona, something that you just can’t do in slushy, snowy New York City.” He smiled and her heart skipped a beat. She had the almost overwhelming desire to touch him, to run her fingers through his hair, to straighten his folded shirt sleeve.

Clasping her hands in her lap so she didn’t make a fool of herself, she pressed on.

“So what did they do for jobs in Copper Lode? I looked online - it’s just this dot on the map. You guys registered about 15,000 residents at the last Census?” She had a hard time wrapping her mind around a town that only had 15,000 people in it. That sounded like an oversized truck stop to her, not a whole town.

“Well, that was the brilliance of our dads. Copper Lode is only an hour from the US-Mexico border, and a lot of shit,” he cleared his throat, “uhhh…stuff gets transported over the border. Especially after NAFTA, trade between the countries is a huge business. But anyway, they started this long-haul trucking business back in the 70s and have been growing it ever since. Our trucks are pretty recognizable. I’ll point out the next one I see to you. Once you see one, you won’t forget it.”

Ella opened her to mouth to ask him to clarify when she spotted a sign - five miles to Tucson. “Hey, before I forget, would you mind if we stopped in Tuck-son? I need to use the ladies room.”

He burst out laughing, which she found simultaneously charming - his laugh was even more enticing than his chuckle - and annoying. She was pretty damn sure he was laughing
at
her, and she wasn’t overly fond of being the butt of a joke, especially since she didn’t know what the joke was.

“Too-sawn,” he finally got out.

“I’m sorry, what??” she asked, perplexed.

“Too-sawn. That’s how you pronounce the name of the city coming up. Although I’ll admit, it does look like Tuck-son.” He shot her a grin. “It’s Spanish, although what the hell it means, fuck — hell — darned if I know.”

“I’m from New York City,” she said, putting him out of his misery. “I can swear with the best of them.”

“Oh good, ‘cause the chances aren’t real high that I can keep from swearing for a whole week,” he said and then swerved into the other lane, including a middle finger and a horn blast in the maneuver.

“I’m guessing the chances aren’t real high that you can go a whole minute without swearing.”

He grinned. “You know me so well, and it’s only been an hour. Oh, there’s a Blue Devils truck!” he said and pointed at a semi barreling down on the other side of the freeway.

Holy fuck.

No wonder he’d said she’d never forget it once she saw one. The semi had a blue cab with black swirls painted over it in a dramatic pattern, which was cool, but not scary. It was the teeth in the grille that got her. The grille at the front of the semi - not normally a fascinating part of a semi - had these teeth at the top and bottom that made it look like a vampire with its mouth partially open. They glowed faintly and she figured that at night, they probably lit up. Seeing a devil coming at you at night like that…

Holy fuck
.

She was glad he’d warned her about the trucks beforehand. Seeing one without warning would’ve given her a heart attack.

He grinned at her.

“Like I said, pretty distinctive trucks,” he said as he pulled onto the off ramp and began heading towards Tuscon. “It’s been one of our best marketing tools. No one forgets what our trucks look like, so when a business owner goes to book a trucking company, they automatically think of ours. Not to mention that all of the gangs in the area know not to rob one our trucks, so companies know their shit will be well protected by the Blue Devils.

“But, we’re here,” he said, pulling up to a gas pump. “I’ll fill up if you want to run in and use the bathroom.”

“Oh!” she said, looking up. They were sitting next to a gas pump. How had she missed this? She hurried into the store - oh heavenly AC! - and used the not-so-clean bathroom, then wandered back outside. The Spanish came at her at every direction - signs in English and Spanish, people chatting in Spanish as they passed her…she felt like she’d entered another country. In New York, they had Chinatown and K-Town but this…this felt even more intense. Here, she was the outsider, with her blonde hair and her Brooklyn accent and her high heels. She knew she stuck out in this crowd.

She looked over and saw Lain watching her from the truck. He was cleaning the windshield but he was alert. Suspicious. Watchful. He was watching her to make sure she was okay. The way he held his body, the way he watched anyone who dared to walk too close to her…He was on high alert. It made her feel stupidly warm and fuzzy inside.

She crossed through a lane of vehicles and finally made it back to the truck. As he turned to put the squeegee away, she saw metal glint on his hip.

What the hell
…

He turned back and there she saw it - the biggest handgun she’d ever laid eyes on. She looked up and they locked eyes for a moment. He gestured towards the cab of the truck and she hopped in, using a tissue from her purse to open the door.