Axl (Sons of Chaos MC #1) (2 page)

His stare penetrated me. And despite his anger, despite the violent scene unfolding outside, I don’t know if I’d ever felt so safe and protected in my life as I did pinned beneath him. As if no one—nothing—could touch me.

“N-no one,” I gasped, struggling to breathe. “I’m a-“ I inhaled sharply, my lungs struggling to expand under this man’s weight. Finally I succeeded, my windpipe wheezing. “-A film student,” I puffed.

The biker’s glare hardened, the muscles in his jaw popping out, his teeth gritting. He pressed his elbow even harder into my sternum, and I grimaced. Lying on my back on the truck floor, I could only see the clear blue afternoon sky through the truck’s missing sunroof, but outside I heard yelling, screaming, and more gunshots. I could feel the adrenaline pumping through my bloodstream.

“Right,” he spat, yelling over the commotion. “Don’t they fucking teach you to stay out of other people’s business?”

“Sorry,” I croaked. “I-“

He cut me off by lowering his face to mine, our noses a fraction of an inch apart. His scent flooded my nostrils. God... it was pure man. How could such a scruffy biker—a dangerous criminal—have this effect on me? And in these circumstances? I felt a strange distance, as if I were outside my own body looking in. This was bad. Seriously bad. What was I thinking?

“Do exactly as I fucking say,” he hissed, “Or we’re both dead.”

I swallowed hard and nodded, feeling his breath on my lips as he spoke.

“I’m going-“ The biker began to speak, but was interrupted by the driver’s door at our feet swinging open. He twisted his body to look behind him, temporarily taking some of his weight off me. I craned my neck forward, lifting my head off the truck’s floor to see what was happening. My stomach knotted as I saw a leather-clad figure looming just outside the truck, his gun raised, the barrel pointing straight down at us. The patch above the left breast pocket on his jacket said, “REAPERS.”

My jaw dropped, a scream building up inside my chest. But before I could make a sound, the biker on top of me reacted. He sprung up, flipping onto his back and sitting up at the same time. His hand darted toward the gun faster than the Reaper could react, seizing the metal barrel and twisting the man’s wrist backward until the barrel pointed directly into his own chest. There was a brief struggle, and then a deafening blast. A hot shell casing flew backwards and bounced off my arm, burning me and leaving a red welt. The Reaper’s eyes rolled back into his head as his body collapsed into the desert sand outside the truck, his life taken from him.

The biker sitting on top of me—my protector—looked back at me over his shoulder. I gasped.

His handsome face was spattered with the blood of the dead Reaper.

Outside the truck, the gunshots were becoming less and less frequent. I tried to wiggle my legs out from under the biker to sit up, but he reached out with one powerful hand and pressed me backward, his hand over my breasts. He shook his head “No,” and peered out of the truck. There was one more gunshot, some yelling, and then the roar of motorcycle engines.

He looked in my eyes again and nodded cautiously, taking his weight off me and carefully stepping out of the truck. I lifted myself onto the passenger bench, poking my head up just enough to see outside. But before I could process the scene, the biker reached back into the truck and pulled me out forcefully.

The clearing in the junkyard was now a scrambled mess of leather, metal, and bodies. There must have been five or six dead bikers, and it looked like a couple wore the same insignia as the one on my protector’s jacket: SONS OF CHAOS.

I began to feel lightheaded, suddenly overwhelmed with the gravity of the situation. I sensed my protector, who was standing behind me, move closer. Another furious-looking, fat biker stormed toward me. “This bitch,” he screamed, “is fucking dead!”

I’d never fainted before in my life, but I did this time, falling backward, my knees giving out. Before I blacked out, the last thing I felt were strong, warm arms encircling me from behind and breaking my fall.

I saw that little spitfire’s knees buckle and I caught her as she fell. My hands slid under her arms, my fingers feeling the soft but firm curves of her waist. Good fucking God, she felt so tender and precious in my hands. Her face was absolutely gorgeous. And there was something about her that I couldn’t put my finger on.

...The fuck was my problem, anyway? If Axl Archer, VP of the Sons of Chaos and killer of men, was getting sentimental over a hot piece of ass that’d waltzed right into club business, then I’d well and truly fucking lost it.

I mean, shit, I’d been under a lot of pressure lately keeping the whole fucking club running smoothly. I couldn’t rule out the possibility that I’d finally reached my limit, snapped, and gone utterly fucking nuts. In fact, it was the only explanation that made any sense. Because this wasn’t like me. I didn’t get worked up over pussy.

But when Lynch stormed toward us and reached out for the girl, I instinctively thrust my palm into his chest, knocking him backward and creating a barrier between us. She’d fucked up, but no way in hell was I gonna let a petulant little punk like Lynch put his hands on her. Jesus. Men of honor didn’t beat up a girl. This was about principle. The electricity she sent through my body with every touch had nothing to do with it.

At least that’s what I told myself.

“Back off,” I barked at Lynch. He stepped forward again, driving his weight into my outstretched hand, a dangerous look in his eyes. My palm pressed back against his chest, locking us in place like two warring bucks. The girl hung like a rag doll in my other arm.

“This’s fucked,” growled Lynch, staring at me with glassy eyes. “Girl’s an operative. A Reaper. A video camera. You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Around us, chaos festered. The junkyard sand was muddied with dark red streaks, and overhead the sun beat down harder than ever. I could see two or three patches still lying in the sand, motionless. Dash, my best buddy, was kneeling down next to one of them alongside our medic, Red. Looked like the newest prospect. Poor kid had only been 18. Shit. Only a year older than I was when Ryker had pulled me off the streets.

I cleared the thought from my head. We needed to fucking get out of here fast, before the ice showed up.

“Fucking bullshit she is,” I said. “Scared her to death back in that truck. Not a Reaper.” I shook my head, feeling her soft, precious weight against my hard chest and abs. She felt light as a summer cloud, her hair spilling over my bicep, stray strands pinched in the crook of my elbow.

Ryker’s voice broke through the dull background roar. “Lynch! Get your fuckin’ ass over here!” Lynch gave me one final hateful glare, then turned and jogged toward the sound of Ryker’s voice.

Logically, Lynch was right. She could be a snitch. We couldn’t rule it out and the whole situation was fucking weird. But I thought back to the truck—how one look at her had sucked all the air out of my lungs. There was no deception in her eyes. Those were honest eyes if I’d ever seen any.

Then, I felt her stir in my arms, and those beautiful eyes fluttered open. She met my gaze and a lump formed in my stomach. “Wha... What happened?”

“You passed out,” I said. I wanted to brush her hair out of her eyes and examine her body for injuries. But then I saw the prospect being hauled up off the ground and toward the box truck. Damn. Just a kid. My neck twitched. “Guess you finally realized how much shit you’re in,” I finished.

She regained her footing, taking her weight off my arm. She stepped backward, away from me. “Damn,” she said in a whisper, her eyes darting around nervously. She began to open her mouth again but was interrupted by Ryker, Lynch, and Dash walking up to us.

Ryker stepped close to her, his pointed leather boots aimed right at her like daggers. I bristled, waiting for him to speak.

He stared hard into her eyes, his thick silver and black ponytail blowing in the hot breeze. He spoke simply. “Explain yourself.”

The girl swallowed hard. “I’m a film student.”

“Name?”

“Holly... Brown.”

Ryker stared at her hard, not speaking. Ryker was a good judge of character. He didn’t become president of the Sons by making a habit of misreading people. My fists involuntarily clenched, but I wasn’t gonna speak out of line. I wasn’t like Lynch.

Finally, Ryker spoke again. “The ever-loving fuck were you doin’ out here,” he said, motioning toward Dash, who held the busted-up video camera, “with that thing? Hell of a strange coincidence.”

Holly responded quietly. “Footage for my project.” She added, “I hid when I saw you.”

Lynch spoke up. “But you kept fucking rolling. Didn’t you? Stuck your nose where it didn’t belong.”

She looked down at the ground, not replying.

“Boss,” Lynch continued, speaking to Ryker but keeping his eyes locked onto Holly’s, “Ain’t no reason to take a chance on this broad. She came into the desert of her own volition. Let’s take her a little deeper into it and leave ‘er there.”

Dash nodded. “She brought bloodshed upon the Sons. Willingly or not, it doesn’t matter.”

The muscles in my neck tightened. Leaving any innocent to die in the desert wasn’t justice. And
especially
not her. Even a gun to my head at that moment couldn’t have convinced me to do that.

Fortunately, it didn’t come to that.

Ryker turned his head and looked at me. “What d’you think, VP?”

Holly was looking sidelong at me, her eyes anxious. I paused for a second of thought and then spoke. “Look, we gotta split. Cops could be here any minute. We don’t got the time to figure this out now. But if she’s a Reaper, we gotta know. We take her back to the clubhouse and figure it out later.”

Ryker looked in my eyes and slowly nodded. “It’s decided. We’ll find the truth later.”

I reached out toward Holly with my palm, everything a blur. She took my hand and I led her away from the other guys, Lynch seething. We got on my bike and we rode like hell away from that pit of death.

My body sank into the cool sheets, surrendering to the weight of his tanned, muscled body. My nipples stiffened, aching for his touch. His kisses turned to bites, sneaking their way down my neck, and all my muscles clenched. My fingernails left their mark on his back as his thick, swollen manhood pressed against me through the elastic fabric of my sweatpants. I needed him inside me.

Then I woke up and I remembered everything.

The room was small and dark, and the walls were paneled with wood. Real wood, not imitation, and it had a rich veneer as if it’d been there for generations. Motorcycle memorabilia hung on the walls, leather clothing hung sloppily in the closet, and a large, faded Union flag hung over the window, darkening the room. Some light peeked through, but I’d lost all sense of time. I felt hidden, secluded, as if I were a secret not meant to be exposed. I must’ve been here overnight. When they’d left me, I’d fallen asleep fast, utterly drained from the heat and the chaos of the day.

But I ran my hands over my body, and I was in one piece. Whole.

I thought back to yesterday. The junkyard. The bikers. The total mayhem and how suddenly it’d all happened. It was crazy. 24 hours ago, I’d just been the same old brainiac Holly doing my thing. Now I was in some criminal biker’s bed, mixed up in dangerous business that wasn’t my own. Oh, and responsible for starting a deadly gunfight.

They say life can change in an instant, and mine sure had. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

The worst part was how he—this criminal biker—had instantly made me feel something I’d never felt before. Some deep, fundamental attraction.

What the hell was wrong with me? After being taken by a strange and dangerous man on a motorcycle, you’d think escape would be my plan. But for some strange, stupid, and completely illogical reason, I felt a compulsion to get a little closer, to take in a little more of that indescribable feeling he gave me.

It made absolutely no sense. I’d read about Stockholm Syndrome, where prisoners become sympathetic to their captors. Was that my problem?

Whatever. I felt dumb. This was probably the same effect he had on all women, many of whom were far more gorgeous than I was. I was being ridiculous, wasting my brainpower on something that didn’t even matter.

Then the door unlatched, interrupting my train of thought. My impossibly handsome captor stepped into the room, all burly shoulders, arms, muscle, tattoos, and jawline. He shut the door again behind him. I sat bolt upright in bed, instinctively pulling the covers over myself, even though I had slept in my clothes.

“Was startin’ to think you’d never wake up,” he said. His voice was gravelly and weary, his mouth a grim line. His thick black hair hung down over his forehead, annoyingly attractive for being so unkempt. Dark circles shaded the areas under his eyes. His broad shoulders were still covered by his black leather cut, the front lapel emblazoned with the club patch.

“How long have I been here?” I demanded.

His eyebrow rose, his eyes scanning me. “Since yesterday evening. It’s past noon. Been up all night waitin’ for you to wake the fuck up.”

“Oh my god,” I said, an acidic urgency permeating my stomach. “I should be in class right now.” I patted around my jean pockets, feeling for my phone, but my pockets were empty.