“You’re wearing pajamas,” Colt stated.
It was the first time he’d addressed me since discovering me asleep on the doorstep. And it came out sounding like a surly growl. His voice was just as I remembered it. Gritty, but not smoker gritty. More like Tom Petty, rock n’ roll kind of gritty.
“That I am.”
I took a seat on the couch and looked at my feet, which were covered in dried blood. My cheek stung. No doubt from falling into the bramble. When I saw my swollen left wrist, I let out a low curse.
While I had been busy taking stock of my body, Zip had pulled up a chair in front of me and Colt perched his burly form on the edge of the desk.
Even from a few feet away, he engulfed the space. I tried not to stare at him, but he drew my gaze like a polarizing magnet.
“You better start explaining,” Colt rumbled.
“Easy, Colt,” Zip said.
“No, I won’t take it easy. When I come to my garage and find a battered woman on my steps wearing pajamas, I won’t buy the ‘I tripped over a tree root story’.”
“Battered woman?” My mouth gaped stupidly. “I really did trip over a tree root. And I’m in my pajamas because I had to go out my bedroom window in the middle of the night.”
“Who are you runnin’ from, darlin’?” Zip asked.
I sighed. Was there any harm in telling them the truth? It might be easier to enlist their help if I was honest with them. “The Iron Horsemen.”
Neither of them said anything for a moment and then Colt demanded, “And you’re here why?”
“The Iron Horsemen came to my house early this morning and I escaped through my bedroom window with only my cell phone. I ran, and this garage happens to be in between my house and downtown.”
“How did you get involved with the Iron Horsemen? And why didn’t you just call the police? Normal people call the cops,” Colt said, his voice tight.
When I didn’t answer right away, Zip pressed, “Darlin’? Tell us how you got involved with those bastards.”
“I didn’t get involved with them,” I finally said. “My boss did. Does any of that even matter? I didn’t call the cops because—well—I have a friend who told me I couldn’t. Not if bikers are involved.” I blew out a puff of air, stirring the matted hair at my temples. “I just want to be able to get out of town without the Iron Horsemen on my ass. Can one of you give me a ride to my house so I can get my truck and leave?”
“You’re not going anywhere until someone takes a look at that wrist,” Colt commanded. “And if the Iron Horsemen went to your house last night but didn’t find you, I’d be willing to bet they’re still there, waiting for you.”
The men exchanged a glance and Colt nodded once. Zip stood up. “I’ll head to your place, take some guys and check it out.” He looked back at me. “Where do you live?”
I gave him my address. “The keys to my truck are in my purse by the door. Do you think you can grab them? On second thought, just grab the purse. My wallet and ID are in there, too. And the truck is old so sometimes the carburetor sticks. Be careful not to flood it.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” His lips twitched in humor. “You drive a truck with a carb?”
“We’re in Texas, right?”
He grinned. “I like you, babe.” Zip left, leaving me alone with Colt.
“You’re not fucking one of the Iron Horsemen, are you?” Colt asked as soon as we were alone.
“That’s offensive,” I snapped. “And disgusting.”
“I need to know if I have to worry about some jealous boyfriend shooting me in the back for kissing you.”
“No, it’s not like that,” I said.
“Do you have any idea the shit you’re bringing to my door?”
“What am I bringing? I’m asking you to help me get my truck so I can get out of town. And your boy just went to my house, so I’m guessing that means you’re going to help me?”
“It’s looking that way.” He glared. “What kind of shit did your boss get into?”
“I don’t know. That’s the truth.”
He stared at me a long moment, clearly studying me to see if I was lying.
“Come on,” Colt finally said, gesturing for me to get up.
“Oh, have you decided I’m no longer public enemy number one?”
He shot me a look that told me he wasn’t amused.
“Where are we going?” I asked, even as I followed him out of the office. He locked up and then gestured to a shiny black F-250.
“You need to get cleaned up and have someone look at that wrist.” Colt opened the passenger door to the truck. I struggled to get in due to its height. With little patience and no effort on his part, Colt lifted me up and set me inside. “Watch your feet,” he grumbled.
“We’re not taking your bike?” I asked.
He looked at me. “Why would we take my bike?”
“I don’t know. I just assumed… Don’t you prefer to ride your bike?”
“Your wrist is probably broken. I’m not gonna make you ride behind me with a broken wrist. I’m not an asshole.”
“You’re not?” I blurted out. “Well, you’re doing a great job imitating one.”
“Don’t poke the bear, babe. I don’t care how hot you are, I don’t need your lip.”
I grinned, feeling bold. “You think I’m hot.”
With a grunt, he shut the door and then walked over to the far edge of the parking lot and pulled out his phone. His face never lost its ferocity as he spoke to someone on the other end. The call was short and he marched back to his truck. He climbed in and got the engine going. When we were finally on our way to an unknown destination, I rested my head against the seat and looked out the window. My stomach rumbled, like an ominous thundercloud in the distance.
I pretended to ignore my hunger pains and Colt said nothing about it. But a few miles later, he pulled into a fast food drive-thru. I looked at him with gratitude.
“What do you want?” He reached into his pocket for his wallet. I asked for a breakfast combo and coffee. Colt handed over a few bills to the woman at the window before grabbing the bag of greasy fast food. As I unwrapped the breakfast sandwich, I mentally assessed him.
“Thanks.”
“For?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Food. For starters.”
He looked at me for a moment and then commanded, “Eat. Before it gets cold.”
When we were fifteen miles outside the city, Colt turned off the main road onto a dirt one. We jostled and bumped our way along for a few minutes until we arrived at a closed gate. Two men in leather cuts were standing guard, but went to open the gate as they saw Colt’s truck approach. With a greeting in the form of a wave, Colt drove through and parked in the corner of a gravel lot about twenty feet from a house. A cluster of parked motorcycles sat out front, right on the lawn.
The brown structure was large and looked new, the grass manicured and tended. It didn’t strike me that bikers could keep such a tidy place, and I wondered if the inside was as clean as the outside.