Damaged & Dangerous: The Sacred Hearts MC Book VI by A. J. Downey Page B

door to the parking lot where they kept
their bikes; I could already hear some of them firing up. Dredd and Flyer were
chasing out the club sluts, which truthfully there weren’t many left hanging
around since the club’s drug supply started drying up. I came around the bar
and Pig grabbed me by the elbow, hard.
    “You’re my bitch, so don’t be getting
any ideas about spreading those whore legs of yers for Pretty-boy over there,”
he muttered savagely in my ear, his breath washing over me, a fetid mixture of
whiskey and cigarettes with an overlay of just plain rot.
    “I wouldn’t dream of it.” I plastered on a
fake-as-hell sincere smile, “I know who takes care of me,” I said.
    “Damn right.” And as if to prove his point, he
shoved his mouth against mine and his tongue in my mouth, all the while looking
daggers at Thirteen. I gave little resistance. I didn’t want or need any
bruises except the ones that were likely imprinted on my arm from where he
gripped me. Besides that, I’d learned a long, long time ago that resistance was
futile and only hurt more in the end. Pig-Pen finally broke the kiss and thrust
me in Thirteen’s direction before going out the door.
    “You good to ride?” he asked. I nodded grimly.
I just wanted outside so I could spit. Thirteen grabbed my coat off the hook in
the wall behind the bar and handed it to me, and I shrugged into it.
    “C’mon.” he put a hand on my shoulder and made
like he was shoving me in front of him out the door, though his grip on my
shoulder was light, not painful. He put on his helmet and glasses, sitting
astride his bike. I put on the spare, and with one final brave smile at Pig,
who was glaring at me and standing with Griz and Gordy, I got on behind Thirteen.
    I actually loved to ride. Didn’t matter who I
was behind, the wind whipping my hair, the fresh air, the thrum of the bike up
my spine and the feeling like I was just flying. It was the only
thing that made me feel free anymore, the last illusion as delicate as a soap
bubble but so full of vibrancy until the ride stops and the bubble pops and it
was as if those rainbow colors had never existed.
    I spit the taste of Pig-Pen’s mouth out as soon as we were
clear of the club and I felt the vibration of Thirteen’s laugh through his
back, which I was quite snug against. It was still cold at night, the wind
crisp and biting. As we went through town he pulled off into a fast food place’s
parking lot as soon as, I think, he was sure we wouldn’t be seen. He tapped my
hands, which were firmly on his stomach, in the classic signal for get off ,
and I did. He got up and dug in one of his saddle bags and, with a wink, handed
me a bottle of mouthwash. I bit my lower lip and grinned and, laughing, took it
from him. The burn and bite of the minty alcohol mixture was welcome and
efficiently scrubbed the lingering bitterness of sour whiskey and ashtray off
my tongue.
    I think I more than liked Thirteen in that moment, for
knowing exactly what was in my heart and mind but mostly, for not judging me
for it. For just… seeing me, the real me, and understanding. There was no pity
from him, no derision, nothing to make me feel two inches tall… If anything, I
got the impression of silent admiration from him. Thirteen, the prospect, made
me feel human again.
    “Ready to go?” he asked.
    “Yeah, thanks.” I handed back the mouthwash and we resumed
our journey, only this time when I got back on his bike, he gently tucked my
hands in his pockets to keep them warm.
    I was surprised at how long the ride was, at least
forty-five minutes to an hour, if not more. We were winding along a lakeside
road when he slowed and turned on to a pitted gravel track that led towards the
water. I tipped my head and peered into the dark over his shoulder.
    “Your people, they welcome you!” he joked and I laughed
lightly, two raccoons sat up on their haunches in the sweep of Thirteen’s
headlight before dropping to all fours