Wild Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 2) (14 page)

Ace perked up. “As in, an actual explosion, explosive?”

Beretta nodded. “I think so.”

The bass line from the nearby club picked up. The windows shook minutely from the vibrations.

“We’re going to need heavy munitions,” said Ace.

“That’s the wall I keep hitting my head against. We don’t
have
any heavy munitions,” said Beretta. “We don’t even have cash for heavy munitions.”

“I know. So that means...” Ace sighed. “We’re going to have to reach out for help.”

“Oh, no. No.” Beretta shook his head. “
Fuck
you. Fuck that. We’re not doing that.”

“Yes, we are. We’ve got to bring in The Furnace.”

––––––––

T
hey talked some more about the plan, what was needed, who ought to do what—but the details mostly would wait until the morning.

It was a marvel for Helen, watching Beretta organize and arrange the way he did.

Before, in Marlowe, their relationship had been entirely physical. She hadn’t seen him do much else other than fuck her wild—and honestly, that had been plenty. Even though their connection had felt deeper than simple lust, there wasn’t much behind it to connect the two of them personally. She wouldn’t have been able to describe him as a person all that much outside of “badass biker” and “great in the sack.”

Watching him now as he went over the plans, she realized how much that had changed for her. He carried a great sense of diligence with himself. Always checking and double-checking his vest to make sure it was on straight. Adjusting his hips as he began to explain something—which he obviously enjoyed—really digging in with his whole body into the full force of his detailed plans.

And it was that planning in particular that drew her to him. She could not see it and stop herself from wanting him to use all that planning power on her. It was a stupid, juvenile sort of fantasy—one that she barely wanted to exist—but it was there in her head all the same.

Planning a life with her. Being with her. Dreaming up the plot of land that they would have together, installing it from every angle from the stone path to the front door all the way up to the attic. Knowing where the two of them would be together in six months, in two years, in five. In twenty. There was a part of her, dumb but unstoppable, that wanted that lens of analysis he had turned to her; she wanted him to think through her whole life.

Eventually, the meeting wound down and Beretta and Helen returned to their room together. It felt so natural to her, being in a room with him, going to sleep with him next to her, that it was almost unnerving.

But then he touched her again—his hand on her waist, on the small of her back, and her fears were forgotten and all she could think about was sliding her lips against his again.

He was tense, though. Tense and prowling the room, like a wild jungle cat.

“You’re unhappy,” she said to him.

“Goddamn right I am.” He knocked the wall of the room with his fist. A small indentation was left in the plaster.

Such violence used to disturb her from someone like Randall. But
he
had done it to intimidate her. Beretta wasn't showing off, he was venting.

And the sight of his strength made her just that much more moist between her thighs.

“You’re unhappy because you have to work with The Furnace,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I don’t trust Ivan, all right? I did some deals with him, long time ago. In a different life.”

“A different life? You’ve lived like something other than an outlaw?”

He laughed sharply. “Not hardly.”

“What, then?”

“I wasn’t always Wrecking Crew. Or,” he shrugged. “I was, and then I wasn’t. See?”

“Kind of. When we first met, you were in the Black Flags, right?”

“Right. When I started out, I was in the Wrecking Crew. Then, we had some...differences. Over a woman. The daughter of the prez.”

“You loved her.”

His smile was very small. “Yeah. I did.”

Helen kept her composure; she would not show jealousy. It was insane too—clearly Beretta was right there with
her
, and not with another woman. But still, that jealousy was there, needling slightly, digging in.

“And so did someone else? There was a fight?”

“No. Not like that. I mean, everybody loved her. Maddy...she was great. But we got into drugs together. That’s why you don’t see me drinking now. I sobered up.”

He was quiet and then he sat down, not looking up at Helen. Her heart was full of emotion for him; she needed to comfort him. She slipped forward on the bed and wrapped her hands around his. Beretta squeezed her fingers.

“Anyway. She died from it all. I didn’t. Wrecking Crew...didn’t want me around, after that. I joined up with another crew. That’s when I had my dealings with Ivan.”

“He was in this other crew? The Black Flags?”

“No, but we dealt with him often. I saw him double-cross a lot of guys. He was always straight with us, but we paid him the most. The second we would’ve stopped, he would’ve turned on us. You can’t trust someone like that. There’s no honor to him.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s okay. We don’t have a choice but to deal with that asshole.”

“No. I mean about...your life. Maddy. The Wrecking Crew. It sounds difficult. That’s why Ace doesn’t like you, right?”

“More or less. He thinks I can’t be trusted either.”

She smirked. “Lot of that going around with you guys.”

“Yeah. Well. Some people deserve it more than others. I was loyal to the Black Flags all the way to the end until our boss ratted to the cops. I couldn’t handle that shit. I won’t stand for it.”

“You have more honor than that?”

“You’re making fun of me.” He stood up, walking away from her. “I see. Fuck you, too.”

Helen laughed. “I’m not. I’m sorry. I’m not.” She stood up and took him by the face and leaned in, kissing him softly. The tension slowly left his body. “I’m not making fun of you. I just...don’t understand this world.”

“Could have fooled me. Ain't you the Nurse?”

She pushed him back down onto the bed and slid into his lap, enjoying his strength. All the danger in the world was on their backs, and yet when she touched him, when she felt him, all of that faded away. All she felt was safe. Secure. Protected.

Helen would trade anything for that kind of feeling.

She would do anything to keep that feeling close to her.

“I can calm you down.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

God, he was handsome. She wanted everything about him. Stroking his face, she kissed him again, long and soft. He took her by the back of the head, kissing her head. She could feel his erection growing beneath her. His hands pushing on her, insistent—he knew what he wanted from her.

And she knew what she wanted from him.

She pushed him back on the bed until he was prone, crooking an eyebrow seductively. “What do you think?”

Sliding back off his lap, she worked around on her knees and pushed his legs apart. Slowly, she sank between his legs, her head pushing against his thick, chiseled abs. Soft kisses layered against the heavy muscles there as she slowly toyed with the zipper and buttons of his pants.

“Are you serious?”

Honestly, she was.

Of course she was attracted to him. You’d have to be made of stone and buried under thirty pounds of earth to be a woman and not be attracted to what Beretta was putting out there. But there was more to this, too.

She wanted to pay him back, tit for tat. She wanted him to know that she could make him feel as good as he made her feel the night before. He'd emptied her of stress, to the point where she actually felt like they could make it out of all of this alive.

More than anything, she wanted him to feel like he had something worth fighting for in this crazy plan of his.

And so she unzipped his pants and pulled out his cock.

She’d gotten a good glimpse of it the night before in the dark of the motel. She’d already known it was big, known that it was much bigger than any other cock she’d seen before up close. But that wasn’t enough of a description for it.

Yesterday, her mind had been thoroughly otherwise occupied with the pleasure coursing through her body from Beretta's attentions.

He was
massive
. His cock, long and thick, made her mouth instantly wet with saliva. So close to it, inhaling the deep musk of his scent, she became wet between her legs as well. Everything about Beretta advertised virility, readiness, alpha-male—and her body was biologically primed to do exactly what women did with alpha males.

Serve him. Serve him in every way. Make sure he stayed at her side no matter what.

Groaning with need, her mouth slipped over his cockhead. Pushing her mouth forward, she slipped more and more of him down her throat, her body purring with the pleasure of taking him into her body. He was hard and getting harder, which meant that somehow, insanely, he was getting even
bigger
. It would have seemed like an insane prospect if she wasn’t feeling him do exactly that inside her mouth, her throat, that very instant.

Because he
was
down her throat. Her lips slid eagerly forward, pressing closer and closer to his pelvis, and the delicious member he offered stuffed her deeper and deeper as she moved.

Finally, she could take no more—he was too much, too big. She gagged just slightly, his cock trembling inside her throat. And so she began to slide backward, letting her lips suckle hard and back to the head of his huge member.

“F-fu-fuuck,” he groaned. “You are something special, darling. Fuck me.”

He said it as an exhalation, an exclamation—as in, “fuck me, you’re good at that.” But she heard it as a command...and she planned on doing just that.

Her mouth rapidly moved up and down, his member totally lubricated now. For long minutes, she worked at this, pleasuring him with all her heart and soul. Wanting nothing but for him to feel good, for him to forget all his troubles and cares. She could make him feel better; she could make him well again.

She was able to slide back and forth with ease, wrapping her tongue around the thickness of his shaft as she moved. The response she got was incredible. His body surged against hers, his balls tightening close to his shaft.

It was obvious how close he was. Only a little more before she received her prize. Looking up at his face, she saw him looking back down at her, a sort of wonder in his eyes. Full of appreciation. Full of passion and affection. It only made her work harder on his shaft, losing herself in the moment.

“God,” he grunted. “Goddamn, Helen. I'm going to...you're going to make me come right down your throat.”

She moaned in need, wanting that to happen, wanting to feel him do it. Her lips vacuumed tighter to his shaft, wanting every last part of him that she could have.

A long groan escaped his lips. It was deep and masculine and dense with strength, just like him. Hips bucking, cock spasming, he came inside her. The hot spray landed fast and hard against her mouth, her throat, quickly and warmly sliding down into her belly.

She swallowed it all, taking every last drop. It was
hers
now, and she wanted to keep it.

And then, when he was done, when she had finished cleaning him with her mouth, she slipped up onto the bed with him and curled into his body.

With his seed in her, she felt like she should have felt better than she did. And she certainly felt
amazing
.

But some of the spell had worn off. She had initiated to get him to stay with her, to calm him, to make him feel taken care of...but that was insanity, wasn't it?

He's nothing but danger, remember?

Helen didn't want Beretta to stay with her. She didn't even know his real damn name. She wanted a
normal
life—this entire notion of living in a fantasy was just that, a fantasy.

This couldn’t last. There was no way. She’d just had to get that beautiful manhood of his down her throat while she had a chance. That’s why she did it.

Because the two of them, their “relationship,” wasn’t meant for this world.

––––––––

O
n the west end of Stockland was a long string of strip clubs, liquor stores, and bars. Neon signs, colored spotlights, and gaudy decorations were the order of the day. Seedy was a good word for the area—as was dirty, filthy, shady, messy, and probably a dozen other pejoratives.

It felt to Beretta a whole lot like home. Once upon a time, he would have lived in a place like this and slipped all its grime and shadows on like a pair of old pants, loving every second of getting strange with the locals.

But these days, the sight of all that just filled him with a strange sense of absence and fondness.

As a sober man, even a sober outlaw, he couldn't be around bars for very long. It was just asking for trouble, asking for a backslide that would ruin every good thing in his life.

He didn’t want a part in that world any longer, but he could damn sure remember the good times. Not that he tried to. Inevitably, remembering the good times was just a good way to start remembering the
bad
times, and the bad times, when Beretta was skipping across rock bottom like a stone whipped across a pond, were low indeed.

There were a few mental images he could conjure any time he needed to steel himself against temptation. Falling down in a puddle and so fucked up he was unable to pull himself up, coming close to drowning, like a medieval knight suffocating in mud under the weight of his armor. The fire department coming into his house after Beretta had left the stove on, passed out, filling his home with smoke, twice in one day. A fireman stopping on his way out, pity in his eyes—“You know, you don't have to live like this.”

Beretta didn't know that at the time. But he learned. Every lesson was a godsend.

The Furnace owned a bar called
Hell's Belle
. A bikini-clad babe, complete with pitchfork, horns, and tail, was on the sign above the door, leaning over the word “Belle,” hinged at the waist with her ass out.