Chapter Thirty

 

RYAN

 

For the second time tonight I'm hearing the noise of someone outside. I can't sleep any more. I keep thinking about what it might mean, what's going on. About the idea that any minute, I could get the call from Logan.

A call that I know will end with a bang, and probably not the ones that I want to hear. But I know he'll call me. I can trust that much, at least, and before the first words come out of his mouth I'll be out the door.

Well, I think, I guess they decided to start with me and work their way back down to meet in the middle. Or maybe I was only small fish to them all along, and the order was never important. It doesn't matter much. I work the slide on my pistol and make it over to the peep-hole.

My pistol slips back into my jacket pocket before I open the door.

"Davis."

She doesn't smile when she sees me. "How long would it take you to get out of here?"

I shrug and take an experimental step outside. "Not long at all, it seems."

She gives me a look of frustration that warms my heart entirely.

"Good to see that you haven't lost your sense of humor, Beauchamp."

I give her a wide smile. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I'm serious this time, Ryan. You need to get out of here, and you need to stay out of here. At least until we've figured this shit out with Scheck and the Crazy Horses."

"Until you arrest me, you mean?"

"If you're not careful, I'll arrest you now. I could do it, and I wouldn't even feel bad."

I rock back like the words were a punch in the gut. "Oh, Davis! I thought you cared."

"You're lucky I need you," she growls. I've learned to see through the thick layers of armor she puts up around herself, though, and she only halfway means it.

"Okay, well, what do you suggest?"

"Come with me. Leave the bike."

My jaw tightens. I've spent more time on that bike than—hell, maybe more time than I've spent on the gang. I'm not going to just leave it.

"The bike comes."

"No chance in hell. It's an identifying feature if there ever was one."

"Then I'll hide it."

"No, Beauchamp. It stays here. You can come back and get it later."

I don't trust her. Something in the way she says it sounds wrong. But it's just a feeling. I don't have any way to confirm it.

"Fine."

I follow her to the car and slip into the passenger side. She takes the driver's seat. There's a look of smug satisfaction on her face that I want to wipe off. But it's nice to see her happy, smug or not. I'll let her have her victory.

The car kicks to life. It's not exciting, not pleasant. It just happens. I suddenly understand all of the 'I'd rather be riding my Harley' bumper stickers. Or, more accurate, I'm reminded why.

We pull out. Driving like this—never mind being a passenger—feels numb. I don't like it, never liked it. Give me back my Indian any day of the week. She drives around a little, but after three blocks she pulls into a motel I've seen before but never had a reason to stay in.

Some part of me thinks it's got a reputation for being the kind of place that women sell their wares. It's not a business I'm involved in, though, and not one I want to become involved in.

Perhaps my first clue is the sign outside that reads 'hourly rates on rooms.' Davis doesn't look the least bit uncomfortable with the place, which is a surprise.

Such a straight-laced person in a seedy neighborhood. The way she slumps her shoulders a bit, leans, she won't stick out to anyone but me. But for me, she's like a spot of red in a black-and-white photo. She doesn't belong here, and as much as I can't escape being a criminal, I don't belong here either.

She walks right up to the register. There's a sign on the wall proclaiming the rates. A sign that says it's $65 a night, or $10 an hour. She unfolds five crisp $20 bills from her wallet and slides them across the counter.

"One night, single bed."

The guy slides one of the twenties back and starts making change. Davis slides it back over again. "My boyfriend forgot his I.D."

The guy looks at it and shrugs. "Fine, I get it. You got names?"

"Do we need them?"

The guy shrugs again, turns, and grabs a key off the wall. "Whatever strikes your fancy, lady."

She smiles at him but doesn't thank him. We turn around and start counting off the room numbers until we get to the one she's just got me a night in.

She turns and hands the key over to me. A real key, not a magnetic card. It's the real mark of a place that hasn't spent any money renovating in fifteen years. The kind of place that just keeps on making money, never spends it.

Granted that it probably makes less and less as the years go by, that never seems to stop them.

I fit it into the lock and turn it a quarter-turn. The handle turns real easy, then. I open it up, not sure what to expect. It's not as bad as I imagined it would be.

The place looks like nobody's changed the design since the mid-70s. At the very least, though, it wasn't a gaudy choice in the 70s. It doesn't stand out from dozens of diners that I have been inside, for work and pleasure.

"Are you going to join me?" I say it as a joke, but she steps inside.

"We need to talk, Beauchamp."

I close the door behind her and pull her body in close to mine.

"Let's talk."

She puts her hands up, halfway defensive. When I press my lips into hers, the hands go back down. Her resistance, however little, falls away after a moment and she kisses me back.

I smile into the kiss and pull her tighter in, enjoying the feeling of closeness. She seems to enjoy it, too, her arms wrapping around my midsection.

My hungry lips start to wander, exploring the flesh of her throat, first testing her softness with my lips, tasting her taste with my tongue, and finally pushing her sensitivity with my teeth.

Davis lets out a gasp as I bite into the thin, sensitive flesh of her throat. Her arms tighten around me, but she doesn't tell me to stop. I move a little bit lower, into the crook of her neck. Another kiss, another bite. She clutches me tighter still.

I let my lips and my teeth explore her throat more completely. The different responses I get when I tease the lines of the veins coming down, compared to the thick, muscly sides.

Each one gives me a little bit different reaction, and each reaction is stronger than the last, her arousal building up until she can't deny it any longer. Her fingers are clutching at my clothes, now, trying unconsciously to pull my shirt open from the back.

Finally she regains her senses enough to pull my head away from the crook of her neck. She pulls it back just long enough to redirect it into a kiss. Our lips press together, hard.

This isn't a kiss that's testing or probing. This is a kiss that happens right before you have sex—all teeth and tongues and hot arousal that isn't going away any time soon. Her hands are exploring even before mine are, tracing the lines of my body, and I'm not about to stop her doing it.

Her hands find the place where my shirt holds itself together, and she starts working the buttons as soon as her fingers cross over one. She gets one open just before she moves onto another.

She's in a hurry, and I have to admit that I like it. I stop her anyways. No need to hurry just yet.