Riding Dirty (9 page)

Bronson wouldn’t mind one bit if she did, but he kept his opinion to himself. “Listen, I’m sorry to intrude on your Zen garden spa moment but you’re not done for the night. Get dressed and meet me outside in five minutes.”

Rowan felt a strange swirl of sensation between her legs at the cocky summons, an unconscious reaction to his request. “Are you crazy?” she whispered. “I have to work at the casino tomorrow and there’s this thing called sleep. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

But he was gone, not even waiting for her to agree. Her cooperation was assumed.

“Damn it, Ramsey.”

Annoyed and resigned, Rowan viciously blotted her hair with the towel. Clearly, being a criminal was more of a full-time gig than she had anticipated. Tiptoeing out to the living room, she rummaged in the duffel bag that held her few possessions until she found a sweatshirt and jeans. Pausing, she briefly wondered what occasion she was supposed to be dressing for. A biker bonfire? Another john shake down? But then her lips hardened in grim determination. It was after midnight and she was going to be comfortable. If what Ramsey wanted was pretty arm candy for a biker party, he was just going to have to learn to live with disappointment.

Rowan triumphantly and defiantly presented herself at the front porch a few moments later, but it turned out she was the one to be disappointed. Bronson indicated no reaction to her appearance, pleasurable or otherwise. Without a word, he handed her the spare motorcycle helmet that lived on the butt of his Dyna Wide Glide and started the engine.

Gritting her teeth, Rowan had no choice but to climb on. The vibration of the bike between her legs surprised her, and she felt self-conscious as she wrapped her legs around Bronson’s hips. She grudgingly twined her arms around his shoulders, feeling a thrill at his close proximity.

“OK?” he shouted over the engine.

Rowan nodded, and they were off. Bronson wove elegantly through traffic, navigating through downtown Las Vegas and on to West Charleston Boulevard until they were narrowly skirting the fringes of Summerlin. With the blurry nightlights and warm wind howling in around his bobber, Bronson was in his element. He could make the demons in his head go blank and empty under an airy static, relieved of the pressure to fight or entertain or pleasure anyone. Alone on the road there was no smuggling, no conversation, no ties to anyone. He could merge with metal and chrome and miles—disappear into the sunset, so to speak. Even so, he felt an odd vulnerability and intimacy tonight as he drove Rowan along the edge of the cookie-cutter, manicured town he had grown up in. Whitewashed tombs.

Summerlin hadn’t changed much in Bronson’s lifetime, but he’d come to grips with the jarring reality of appearance versus experience in his personal journey. With Rowan’s arms around him, he felt a strange surge of emotion as certain memories surfaced. Finding used needles in his mom’s bathroom, finding her passed out in the bathtub. Crunching on cockroaches and garbage every morning on the kitchen floor with his bare feet. Shoplifting so he could cook for himself. Neighbors calling child services, his mother’s running mascara, silence.

There was no way Rowan could know this, but he was showing her a glimpse of his private life on this ride, and the soft caress of her breath on his neck warmed him against a deep chill in the pit of his stomach. He smiled faintly.

Swerving onto the 159, Blue Diamond Rd., the pair moved together as one unit until the smudgy glow of the city gave way to a wide inky blackness of desert sky. Rowan screwed her neck up, relishing the openness and connection she felt to the dark horizon. There were stars peppering the expanse above, and only silent silhouettes of cacti and stone for company. In every direction she looked, Rowan saw freedom and space.

Rocks began to rise and clump together from the brushy expanse to their right, slowly building to caverns and hills. Before long Bronson Ramsey steered the bike off the highway and into the sheltered cocoon of an abandoned gravel parking lot off of a side road. When the engine died, there was only the sound of crickets to stir the silence. Rowan was loath to break the quiet spell of the desert night, though questions were circling in her mind.

Kicking out the stand to balance his bike, Bronson shook his head out of his helmet and stepped away, stretching. Rowan followed his lead, letting her legs flow in quiet plies. There was a sign looming above them identifying trailheads for a hiking path matrix in Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area. So that’s where they were. But…why?

Bronson must have been able to feel Rowan’s curiosity burning through his back because without turning back to look at her, answered one of her unspoken questions.

“I used to hitchhike out here as a kid,” he said, surveying the darkened, layered canyon walls that cupped their parking area. The only visible break in their shadowy majesty was the thin ribbon of moonlit highway gouging down their middle like a sparkling stream. “After school, there was nowhere really to go. I was sure as shit not staying with the latchkey program, figured that out after a week. So I’d ditch ‘em and bum rides out to Red Rock, follow tour groups around pretending to be one of the tourist families’ kids. No one bothered me.

Seeing coyotes, cactuses, and those cliffs. It was the first taste I had of the world outside Vegas. I mean it’s not really out of Vegas, only half an hour, but it’s another planet out here. Nature. It’s vicious, epic, you know? You’ll have to come see it in the daylight, the colors. I’ll take you sometime. It’s…majestic.”

Rowan cocked an eyebrow. Without seeing Bronson’s face, it was impossible read his features to gauge his mood. He’d never revealed anything personal before. “Wow. It’s not like you to use such big words.”

He surprised her by laughing good-naturedly. “You don’t have to finish high school to appreciate Red Rock. Or be able to hold a conversation.”

“I suppose you don’t have to have an education to be intelligent,” she allowed, “But the smart thing to do is to get one.”

Bronson shrugged. “I had a different kind of education.”

Rowan was surprised by his chattiness, and didn’t jinx it with questions. “I’m working on a masters degree,” she said. “Well, I was. I took a break to come here.”

“Of course you’re a smarty-pants, I should have known. I can just see it. You wear glasses and shit? Braces as a kid?”

Rowan kicked at the dirt. “Couldn’t afford braces. No glasses.”

Bronson nodded, offered her a drag on his cigarette.

“No thanks,” Rowan shook her head. “I don’t smoke.”

“I was hitching rides out here when I met Axle, and the rest is history. He was cruising down Blue Diamond Drive with his son. We’re about the same age, me and Rex. They saw me, stopped to ask where I was going. I said ‘nomad.’ I was going nomad. Guess we were talking about nomads in social studies or something. I thought I was running away from home, looking for a caravan to travel with. He gave me one.”

The wind teased at Rowan’s hair, shifting things. She realized suddenly that Bronson was trying to tell her something. “How old were you?”

“Guess about ten.”

“So young,” she sighed. “You didn’t have a chance.”

“Sure, Axle gave me my chance.” The warmth and humility in his voice surprised Rowan. “Started me boxing, riding. What do you think I would have been otherwise? I’d have gone junkie like my mom, probably, in high school. Ended up burned out in a meth house somewhere. My point is, what you’re doing for your sister, it’s worth it. A kid needs a pack, needs someone looking out for them and keeping them alive. Not all of us have big sisters, but she does. She’s a lucky kid.”

Stunned, Rowan wasn’t sure how to respond. She reached for a joke, hiding her embarrassment. “Well, it’s hard to imagine you with a big sister. You probably wouldn’t have listened to her.”

Bronson crunched the butt of his cigarette under his boot, gritting his teeth as he thought of his mother. “Maybe not.”

The sound of crickets swelled between them. Rowan was a little puzzled. “Did you bring me all this way to tell me all this?”

“Nah,” said Bronson. “I brought you here to get a liver for your sister.”

Rowan couldn’t believe her ears. She squinted at Bronson’s lips through the darkness as if her eyes could corroborate that Bronson’s words had really been said.

“A liver,” she breathed, a bead of sweat breaking out on her forehead. “You mean tonight? Already? How?”

“Shhh no, don’t worry. You’d think I was taking yours. Relax.” The shrill edge of panic and hope in Rowan’s voice brought Bronson’s arms instinctively around her trembling shoulders in an effort to comfort her. For some reason, this time she didn’t flinch from his embrace and stared into his face with childlike confusion. “No, we’re not gonna get the actual organ tonight dummy. We only made seventy grand today, which is a great start, actually, but not enough. This is just step number one. I needed you here tonight so you could tell the guy what he needs to know. To set it up right, make sure there are no miscommunications.”

Rowan’s cheek was pressed against Bronson’s chest. She could feel his corded peck muscles even through the thick leather of his Ruiners’ cut, and closed her eyes. The smell of the road, sweat, and leather clung to him. She was so very tired, had come so far already today, that it felt right to rest against his brawny support.

“Why are you helping me, Ramsey?”

Bronson looked down at that damp tangle of hair, sharply aware of the sweet curl of Rowan’s body against his. There was no easy answer to that question. Why? Why was he helping her?

“I don’t know, blondie. I must be nuts.”

It wasn’t simply that she was a smart investment, a means to quietly amass his own savings and achieve his own ends. He’d been asking himself all damn day whether he would have done this business deal with another girl or if he’d have helped Rowan if she were a different person. None of his reactions had satisfied him, and he didn’t try to offer any real answers to her now. Instead, he ran his hand lightly into the hair at Rowan’s nape, gently caressing her neck with his fingers, trusting his touch to do the talking.

Piercing headlights and the groan of crunching gravel interrupted the tender moment. Rowan lifted her head but didn’t draw away from Bronson, turning her face to track the approaching vehicle. In the saturated whiteness of the high-beams, she looked angelic.

“Don’t worry,” instructed Bronson. “Just answer his questions. I got you.”

The newcomer killed his car engine, but kept the cruel high beams leveled straight at their eyes and beyond, casting eerie shadows against the sienna canyon walls. The driver and passenger doors opened almost simultaneously, but blinded as she was by the headlights, Rowan could barely see the silhouettes of the two large men who exited the car.

“Ramsey,” rumbled a voice that matched the gravel and rock of its surroundings. “You said you wanted to make a down payment? What do you have and what do you need?”

“Hey Rusty,” said Bronson, holding up both hands to show they were empty. “Money’s in my pocket.”

“Rusty?” Rowan muttered. It struck her that Rusty was a rather disconcerting, unfortunate name for someone who traded in illegal organs. The moniker evoked in her mind impressions of rusty knives, clumsy stitches, bathtubs filled with ice. It probably wasn’t far from the truth. She winced, feeling a stab of guilt, but stepped back so that Bronson could access a thick white envelope that was zipped inside his vest. Arm extended, he moved toward the car.

Rusty chuckled and leaned against the hood of his BMW, nonchalantly accepting both the envelope and the handshake Bronson offered. Rowan could only see that he was a lean and wiry black man, built like a swimmer, with a shaved head. Bizarrely incongruous with the time of night, his eyes were obscured behind sunglasses. His associate on the passenger side of the car was silent and mostly invisible, but Rowan could see that his arms hovered around his waist near the bulge of a gun.

“Good to see you Ramsey,” said Rusty. “It’s been a long time brother.”

“Yeah. It has.”

“So, what’s on the shopping list?”

“She can tell you.”
Rowan’s heart hammered in her mouth as she felt all the men’s attention rivet on her. Eyes wide and unblinking, she realized she was face to face with the man who would provide the missing piece to her puzzle.

“My sister.” Rowan cleared her throat, stabilizing her timbre. “She’s a fourteen-year-old girl with Congenital Hepatic Fibrosis and she needs a liver transplant to survive. She’s too far down the wait list. She’ll die if we wait.”

Rusty nodded, unfazed. “Yes ma’am, we’ll help her out if we can. What’s her blood type?”

Rowan didn’t need to consult any data; Lacy’s medical history and vital stats were burned in her brain. They were her litany, the hum in her brain when she fell asleep at night. “She’s A, so the liver has to be from someone with type-A. Or type-O. She can take type-O.”
“That’s right, the universal donor,” chuckled Rusty. “They’re my favorite most popular vendors.” Rowan forced herself to join Rusty’s laughter, but the thin brittle quality of the sound made her feel queasy. She didn’t want to know where he found these vendors. She didn’t want to think about it. “Alright,” Rusty continued. “So we got blood type. Time line, I assume, is as soon as possible. Where are we delivering the parcel? Got a hospital picked out, a game plan?”

“Yes,” Rowan couldn’t eradicate the shake of stress in her voice, but she was firm. “University of Alabama at Birmingham. They’re the closest, best transplant team to her. She’s not very mobile. Even getting her that far from home will be hard but I have a Bronco...”

“Alabama?” Rusty’s skeptical surprise made Rowan’s heart sink. “Shit. That’s far, lady.”
“What are you, Google earth?” Bronson growled. “We know where Alabama is. What we don’t know is whether you got a problem with that?”

Rusty rubbed the back of his head as if he was smoothing down non-existing hair, mentally connecting the dots and calculating expenditures. His network spanned the globe, but the less his clients knew about his web of sources, drop points, pick-ups, and smuggling routes, the better. “Course not,” Rusty said at length, as if it would be an exception. It would be easy as pie to deliver to Birmingham; Rusty’s blood aunt ran a funeral home a few miles outside the city. But these crackers didn’t need to know that. Besides, Ramsey had just won that big UFC prize pot and could probably stand to be squeezed a little.

“What do you reckon it’ll run us?” asked Bronson, his tone neutral. He could see the wheels turning in Rusty’s brain and knew it was going to cost him.

“I’ll give you the family discount,” Rusty said, giving Rowan a sweeping once-over head to toe. She was casually dressed, but well groomed—a well-groomed white lady and celebrity fighter placing a casual little black market order. Merry Christmas to him! “Two fifty.”

“Two hundred and fifty…thousand?” The last word came out as a gulp. Rowan couldn’t help it. Until this moment, she honestly had no idea how much an organ would cost.

Rusty laughed again, the sound reverberating off the canyon walls and echoing into the distance until it was eclipsed and blended with the howl of coyotes. “Yeah sweetheart, G’s.”

“That’s a quarter of a million dollars!”

“No,” Rusty grinned wickedly behind his sunglasses. “Really?”

“Two fifty is too much,” Bronson grunted, reining them back in from what could become a dangerous argument. “We’ll give you one fifty. How long will it take you?”

“Two hundred, Avalanche, and that’s your final offer. It’s going to fucking Alabama, dawg. How long til you get the cash?”

“Oh,” Bronson crossed his arms, letting the moments pass as if he were calculating. Might as well give the cocky bastard a taste of his own medicine. “A month tops.”

“Tell you what my man. When our final payment is received, we’ll have the liver ready.”

“Deal.”
Rusty clapped Bronson on the back and squeezed his hand. For Rowan, he offered a sweeping bow of the head. With another murky peal of self-congratulatory laughter, Rusty and his associate folded their long bodies back into their polished car and were gone, the hum of their engine answering a screech owl’s cry of good riddance.

Rowan stared at the void where the blinding headlights had just been, wondering if it had been real. Only the violent shaking of her body served as evidence that the conversation had taken place, that the money had been passed, that domino chain was set up. Only the adrenaline firing in her veins made her believe she was awake. Her body, mind, heart were on fire, scorching her very spirit with the sparking of the biggest hope she had ever felt. She stood next to Bronson, listening to the wind and the call of the night owls, feeling as if the desert had merged with her body and filled her with its glassy sand and sound.

“This is it,” she whispered, full. “This is happening.”

“Yup. Sure is.”

“You made it happen. You gave me—Bronson—”

Rowan whirled to look at him, to thank him, to try and express to him what she was feeling. Her gratitude was too vast, too hot, and her throat caught and closed, nothing able to come in or out but silence. The only way explain the calm, the peace, and the joy that she felt from this precipice was to touch him. She had to touch him, to let him know, to be with him in this moment of completion and potential.

She took a faltering step closer to Bronson, suddenly not afraid of him, his scars, his violence or his past: not afraid of anything. Her tongue couldn’t form words to tell him her decision, but it would still be the vessel to communicate. She would show him with a kiss. She suddenly knew exactly how.

With a sigh, her heart in her mouth, Rowan hurled herself into Bronson and collapsed against him, her arms clasping around his neck to pull him down to her height. As soon as she could reach, her lips vaulted into his, pressing, coaxing, tasting. Shocked with the intensity of the assault, Bronson stumbled clumsily. He tentatively reached his hands to Rowan’s waist to stabilize, balance, recalibrate as the soft skin of her parted lips tore away at his self-control. Her lips parted and she flicked her tongue under his, exploring, and she matched its yearning motion with the dance of her hips as she leaned and melted against him. Her breasts careened against his chest, coaxing and enlivening him. The force and confidence of her touch left Bronson dazed, and it wasn’t until her kisses began to burn down his neck and into the low neckline of his chest that he allowed himself a response.

Slowly, carefully, Bronson let one hand slide up and down Rowan’s spine while the other rested on the small of her back. He didn’t want to screw this up, couldn’t quite fathom why it was happening. He dipped his chin down to give him access, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, keeping his touch soft and careful. Her lips were wet and rousing, but Bronson remembered how he had frightened her the last time, how wildly he had misread her signals. Caution wasn’t his forte, but he employed all he had now for Rowan’s sake, ignoring the increasing speed and depth of his breath as she pulled his vest down and slipped it down his arms, effectively binding him.

Taking advantage of Bronson’s constraint, Rowan’s hands drifted to caress under his shirt, up his stomach and chest. Bronson froze. Her fingers were on his nipples, back down to his waist-band, and with amazement he realized that she was purposefully coaxing him. She let her fingertips trace lightly over his crotch, twisting his body with pleasure, and then ripped his vest and shirt off.

She was shoving him now, herding him toward the cliffs, until she slammed her body against his, wedging him against the hard stone in an echo of the way he had entrapped her in his room the first night. He laughed, captivated. All the time she was kissing him, growing deeper and sweeter, until their breath was united. She reached for his hands, drawing them around her hips and bringing his palms to cup her ass.

“Touch me, Bronson,” she whispered, “Please. I want to feel your hands on me.”

She wanted him, Bronson comprehended with a thrill. No doubts. He could be absolutely sure this time, could almost let himself go. A pride beyond victory constricted his chest, filled him with longing and an aching sense of responsibility. He pulled back from Rowan’s kiss, working to catch his breath and focus on holding himself back.

She’s a virgin
, he sternly reminded himself. No matter how aggressively she kissed him, no matter how eager and prime her body was, he had to tread softly. He wanted her. God! He wanted her so much. But, even more, he wanted her to lead. He wanted her to decide. He wanted her to feel safe. He realized that he would never have held her to their agreement, had she wanted out. He would have left her alone in the end.