Ride Dirty: A Raven Riders Novella Page 15

  Not that Caine was going to that dinner, or the party after. Hell, Caine would be lucky to be able to stomach food for a good week after this…this absolute blood-letting.

  His and that of the only woman he’d ever loved.

  No doubt she wouldn’t want to go either. Or be anywhere near him.

  “Okay,” she said, rising onto shaky legs. And Christ if she wasn’t still naked beneath that shirt from when she’d tried to turn his shit mood around by seducing him.

  For two days now, panic and anxiety had snowballed inside him until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. Until he’d convinced himself that he’d already failed again, that Emma was already dead and they just didn’t know it yet. No matter what he said or what he did, it wasn’t going to matter when the outcome was so predetermined. At least, that’s what the anxiety told him. Or maybe it was the PTSD? Who the hell knew which part of his brain told him the lies that always sounded more convincing than the truth?

  He grabbed Emma’s hand. “I’m sorry,” he rasped, knowing he’d destroyed this with his own two hands but still owing her that much.

  “Me, too,” she said, giving his hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. “I’ll get dressed quick.”

  Chewy stood at the bottom of the steps and looked back and forth between where Caine still sat and Emma now went. Back and forth, back and forth.

  “You should go to her,” Caine said. “She might need you.”

  Chewy climbed up on Caine’s thigh with his little front paws, tilted his head, and gave a little whine.

  “I don’t deserve you, little man. Go get her. Go on, now.”

  The dog got the message and did his funny little hop-run up the steps. Then Caine finally scraped himself up off the floor. Gathered his things. Tugged his skull cap into place. Holstered his gun at the small of his back. And waited by the door with his winter riding gear in his hand.

  He wasn’t sure how he was standing. For twenty-one years, the weight of that story had filled him. And now that he’d let it out, he didn’t even have that unspoken shame to hold him up. He’d never been emptier than he was right that second.

  True to her word, Emma descended five minutes later wearing a pair of tall leather boots over skinny jeans, a pale yellow sweater, and her hair in a chunky braid that hung down one side. No make-up. Puffy eyes she hadn’t tried to hide.

  She was so fucking perfect… No, she was someone else’s fucking perfect now. Someone who actually deserved her.

  “I’m parked out back,” he said.

  “I’m just down the street,” she said.

  He frowned. “I’m not sure we should ride apart.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t see the point in riding together. You’ll just have to bring me back again. And I assumed, I don’t know…” She shrugged again, and the defeated blankness was like a steel knife to his windpipe.

  His mind churned. Caine needed someone keeping 24/7 watch, but it didn’t have to be him, not if it made her uncomfortable. “Okay, we’ll take your car.”

  “Bye, ChewChew,” she said, voice so devastatingly flat. She swiped at the whole panel of light switches on the living room wall. The Christmas tree went dark.

  It was the first time he’d seen it off the entire time he’d been there. Hell, even before she’d invited him to stay on Christmas Eve, that tree had been lit every other time he’d been by or watched over her house.

  The darkness was so fucking wrong that he wanted to rage at the world. But he’d already done that, hadn’t he? That was how they’d gotten here in the first place.

  Walking side by side outside, they were miles apart.

  “Damnit,” Emma said, cutting into the street near her car. “This will take forever to clear.” The plows had used the empty space in front of Emma’s little CRV to pile snow, resulting in the whole front and front side of her car being behind a wall of snow, not to mention the three-foot-high wall that separated the car from the street. “Your bike it is, I guess.”

  He gave her clothing a once-over.

  “What?” Her gaze dared him to give her a hard time.

  He shook his head. “It’s a good outfit for riding. That’s all.”

  They cut through the alley to the little nook along her back fence where he’d left his motorcycle for the past week. Better than out on the street getting knocked over by a plow or sprayed with salt. If Emma’s situation hadn’t felt so dire with having found the broken window and footprints, he would’ve eventually gone home and traded out his Harley for the old pick-up he owned. Because riding in storm conditions like last weekend was fucking stupid. But now the roads and weather were clear again, so they should be fine to get to the compound.

  He removed and stowed the cover, checked that the cold hadn’t too badly fucked with the tire pressure, and handed Emma the helmet and coat. “Put this on. Riding gear, too.”

  She accepted the helmet. “What about you?”

  “I’ve ridden without a helmet a million times. It’s only fifteen minutes.”

  She frowned. “That’s not smart.”

  He chuffed out a laugh. “You’re right,” he said as he made sure the helmet’s fit was snug.

  “Why do I need the Stormtrooper coat, too?”

  He shouldn’t have found her face so cute through the helmet’s visor, but he did. Cute and sexy. Before he’d messed everything up, he would’ve teased her about the coat’s nickname. But he no longer had to ask the why of it, since they’d watched six of the Star Wars movies together over the course of the week. He got the reference.

  “You’ll be too cold without it,” he said. And if I fuck anything else up today, it’ll keep you safe. But he didn’t add that because she didn’t need to shoulder anymore bullshit from him. And he was a good fucking rider, so that was the one area he never had to doubt himself.

  “So then you’ll be cold?” she asked.

  How could she even care at this point? After he’d wielded his dirtiest secrets against her like a blade. “I’ve got layers and Cold Gear on. I’ll be fine. Now, I’m about to throw a shit-ton of information at you. Tell me to slow down if you need to.” In ten minutes, he gave her a crash-course in being a motorcycle passenger. How to get on and off, where to hold him, where to put her feet, what to expect for different actions and movements on the bike. “Our communication will be limited, so tap me once on the right shoulder for stop when it’s convenient and twice on the right for stop right now. If you want to tell me you have a problem, tap me once on the left shoulder, or if you need me to slow down, tap the left twice. That should cover it for a ride this short. And I’ll take it easy.”

  “I think I got it,” she said, her face full of concentration.

  On a long sigh, Caine mounted his bike and gave her a nod when he was ready for her. It was another first for him, sharing his bike with the woman he loved. It should’ve been special. It should’ve rocked his fucking world. And it did, but only because it meant none of the things it should’ve meant.

  “This okay?” she said, when she settled in tightly behind him. He didn’t exactly own a bike ideally equipped for a passenger’s comfort, so she was doing better than okay.

  “Yes,” he said, pulling her arms around him more firmly and ignoring the fuck outta how good this should’ve felt. Did still feel. He slid on his sunglasses. “Just remember, Emma, no matter what, hold on tight.”

  * * * *

  This would’ve been super cool and exciting if being wrapped around Caine wasn’t pure torture. He didn’t want her touching him, she knew that. And she wasn’t sure what she thought of him either. All of this was just for expediency. And hopefully the Ravens would find something that would bring this whole thing to an end and put them both out of their misery.

  Because those few minutes away from him as she’d dressed had made it easier to breathe, easier to think, easier to realize that Caine had apparently revisited that argument about whether they should be together. And no had won, judg
ing by the way he’d tried so hard to push her away.

  So, who was she kidding? She was already so head over heels that misery was in her future either way. Yay her.

  “Okay, here we go. Nice and easy,” he said.

  Emma clutched him and concentrated on keeping her body neutral and letting it lean how he wanted it to lean. So far that was no problem at all. True to his word, he turned into the alley gently, went slow, and pulled out into traffic on the street just as smooth as glass. He kept a good distance from the cars around him and braked with room to spare. At the third light, the bike came to a rougher stop.

  He turned his head to call back to her. “Brakes are acting a little funny. Probably from a week of sitting out in that weather. I’ll take it slow. Just wanted to alert you that we might stop a little rough like that. I got it.”

  “Okay,” she said, appreciating the communication.

  When the light turned green, Emma clung tight. But Caine was right, the stops were jerky. Toward the edge of town, they rolled to a stop at a light, but mostly halted moving because he’d used his boots on the ground. Luckily, they’d been the only vehicle at this side of the intersection so it hadn’t been any problem.

  A car rolled up next to them as Caine turned his head to talk over his left shoulder. “I think I’m gonna have to— Fuck, Em! Hold on!”

  The Harley took off on a hard throttle, shooting them forward and forcing Emma to use every bit of the strength in her arms and thighs to stay in her seat.

  She wanted to ask him what he’d seen and what was wrong, but there was only one explanation for why he was now barreling out Route 15, weaving in and out of cars, and running yellow lights.

  Yellow lights that another vehicle ran, too, judging by the revving engine she heard.

  She tried to peer over her shoulder to see what was coming up behind them, but Caine gripped her hands, hard. A silent command to be steady. A silent reminder that he was there. And they were in this together.

  Caine ran another yellow light. Their speed climbed. The car pursued. How were they going to stop from going this fast when they’d been struggling at twenty-five and thirty miles an hour?

  His hand held something up to her. In her panic, it took her eyes a moment to focus. But then she saw. It was his cell, and he’d dialed 9-1-1.

  Oh, God, help us. She patted his stomach in acknowledgement and he pocketed the phone, and then he reached his hand between them, underneath his sweatshirt, and pulled his gun from its holster. The wind carried away Emma’s cry.

  Suddenly, he was gripping her wrist hard, and it made her grip him harder, too. Maybe that’s what he intended, because the next thing Emma knew, Caine pulled a fast right-hand turn that tilted them terrifyingly low to the ground. With his left hand, he fired past her. One, two, three shots.

  Squealing tires were the only thing Emma knew for sure, other than that the bike blessedly returned upright again—and was still going really, really fucking fast. Away from Route 15, the road quickly turned more residential, then more rural, and he allowed them to coast so that the bike lost speed naturally. As they slowed, her heart finally slipped down from her throat, where it’d been attempting an escape from her body.

  And she wasn’t the only one, because Caine’s heart beat hard and fast enough that she felt it where her hands still clutched at him.

  The distant roaring revs of an engine…

  The sound sent her heart right back into her throat. She knocked her helmet once into Caine’s left shoulder, but he’d apparently already heard, because he went hard on the throttle, and they started regaining speed.

  Anger erupted inside her right alongside the fear. Who was this? And what had she ever done to upset someone enough to chase her, to want to hurt her? Why in the world would someone endanger lives to get at her? She didn’t understand a single bit of this. The only thing she understood was that she wanted her and Caine to survive it. And to have a chance for something after they did.

  She clutched him as they took a curve in the rural road hard and tight, that terrifying dip happening again. He fired more shots, but she didn’t hear tire squeals like she had last time. Suddenly, he tapped the gun against her left thigh. No, he was working into the pocket of his riding gear that hung there.

  Why was he giving it to her? But she couldn’t ask and, anyway, they didn’t have time for even a single one of the questions she had. Instead, he pointed ahead of them. Emma looked over his shoulder. The road turned at more than a ninety-degree angle around a field of dead, golden grass. How were they going to make that turn?

  He let off the throttle entirely, and then she knew. They weren’t.

  What did that mean? Could the motorcycle drive into the field? And if not, what were the alternatives? And, oh God, why had she allowed Caine to give her all his protective gear?

  All these thoughts and more raced through her mind in mere seconds, all the time that elapsed between his pointing and their way-too-fast approach to the sharp curve. Emma held him tighter, her gaze trained on what they were hurtling towards, which was when she saw two things that made her blood run cold—the mounds of hard snow the plow had left along the edge of the road and the deep ditch that ran along the edge of the field behind those snow piles.

  Caine made a gesture with his hand, as if it were an upright blade that spun and flattened. And she knew exactly what was about to happen.

  She just couldn’t believe it was about to happen.

  Maybe a hundred feet. Half that. Thirty. The bike began to turn and skid. Twenty. The angle lowered and lowered, bringing them closer to the ground. Ten. Emma could see the specks of rocks in the snow now.

  She expected the weight of the bike to crush her leg, but for a long second, it felt like she was flying on Caine’s back. Somewhere near her, metal and plastic screeched against asphalt. And then she collided with the ground in a cold cushioning crunch. She lost Caine upon impact, and then her body was rolling over rough, uneven ground until she came to a hard stop at the bottom of that wet, weedy ditch.

  I’m alive. Holy shit, I’m alive!

  “Caine!” she shouted, struggling to take off the helmet. “Caine!” Finally, she managed the release and threw the heavy black lifesaver aside. She crawled out of the ditch wet and bruised, her ears ringing, but so very fucking alive. “Caine!” she cried, adrenaline propelling her back to the road.

  She pushed onto her knees. There! A few feet farther away. Face down at the top edge of the ditch.

  “Caine!” She ran and fell at his side. Blood poured from gravel-lined gashes in his cheekbone and his forehead just above his temple. “Caine, can you hear me?”

  A single groan. But it was the sweetest, most hopeful thing she’d ever heard.

  Until the SUV that’d chased them came to a skidding stop a few feet away.

  * * * *

  Boots hit the asphalt, and then a tall, thin figure stepped out from behind the driver’s door. He wore a ski mask with cut-outs only for his eyes and mouth. The same one from the night he’d tried to grab her.

  Bile hit the back of Emma’s throat. She couldn’t believe that it was all coming down to this.

  “Hello, Emma,” he said.

  Recognition skittered down her spine, but her heart beat too hard and her head hurt too much to pinpoint it. “Who are you? Why are you doing this?”

  “I was trying to save you, not hurt you. You weren’t supposed to get on the bike.” He tsked. “That was his punishment, not yours.”

  She shook her head, his words not making sense. “I don’t understand.”

  “No, ma’am. I know you don’t. But you will.” He pulled off the mask, and there stood before her Mr. Wilkerson. The friendly new janitor from school who’d helped her so many times this year.

  She blinked once, twice, her brain refusing what was right before her eyes. “Mr. Wilkerson?”

  He smiled, like he was pleased she recognized him. “Yes, ma’am. Finally.”

  She recoiled. �
��Why are you trying to hurt me?”

  His expression went grave and he shook his head. “No, Emma, no. You have it all wrong. I want to keep you safe always.” He glared at Caine. “And I’ve already forgiven what you did with that…degenerate. We’ll not speak of it again.”

  What the ever-living hell? How does he know anything? “Um, Mr. Wilkerson, can you just give me a minute to get my breath? I just feel like I need to catch up,” she said, slipping as much pleasantry into her voice as she could manage.

  “I’m afraid not. At least, not here. Cops are coming. I need you to get in the truck now.” When he gestured at the rear door near to him, she realized the hand he pointed with held a gun.

  Which was the moment she finally freaking remembered that Caine had given her his.

  “Okay, okay, Mr. Wilkerson. Just give me a second. I’m a little dizzy,” she said, slowly forcing herself to her feet between Caine and the SUV with the pocket that held the gun facing the field. She hoped the oversized bulk of it would shield her hand just long enough.

  Sirens. Way distant. They might as well have been a hundred miles away, assuming they were coming for them at all. Would they be able to track Caine’s 9-1-1 call? She didn’t know.

  “Hurry, Emma,” Wilkerson said, the hard edge of impatience slipping into his tone.

  “Okay, okay,” she said, pulling the handgun up into the long sleeve. Gingerly, she moved closer to the SUV, then alongside it, but not yet close enough for him to force her in.

  “Now, girl.” All pretense of that slow politeness dropped away.

  Caine stirred. His boot twitched. He groaned louder and tried to pull his knee up under him.

  “You can’t have her ever again,” the man growled, going closer and raising the gun. Fully prepared to shoot an injured, unarmed man point blank in the back.

  She raised her own gun. “Drop it. Now.” Even though she’d held and shot a gun before, her hand shook. There was no comparison between pointing at a target and at another human being.

  He noticed, his gaze latching onto how the handgun quivered. “Your fucking another man is as much poor behavior as I can take from you, Emma. I can’t believe you’re going to make me discipline you on our very first night.”