Dean

 

This time, as Dean headed out to the gravel pits, he put Emma on the back of his bike. He’d suggested that he drop her off at home, but she’d just raised her eyebrow until he shrugged and agreed that she could come along. It was obvious that she wasn’t going to be swayed, and truth be told, he liked having her nearby. He liked the way she stayed focused and cared about what he was feeling and thinking. He’d liked the way she writhed under him, reaching down to stroke her body between where they were joined until she was squeezing him tight and firm. He wanted that again.

 

He understood intuitively that she wasn’t going to trust him. He didn’t know why not, and ultimately, it didn’t matter. A parent who hadn’t been there for her, a relationship that had gone sideways and been hurtful, or just a trusted mentor who hadn’t followed through despite promises. He could waste his breath insisting that he was going to be a good guy, or he could just show her. She’d believe it, or she wouldn’t, but one way or the other, he would know he’d done what he could.

 

Maybe after this whole nightmare was resolved, he’d reconsider and realize that whatever was sparking between them was never going to be real. But that wasn’t how it felt at the moment.

 

He had to pull his mind away from the warm, soft form of the woman behind him, and focus on navigating the bike along the narrow roads that led back to the gravel pit. Emma had insisted that she had never ridden a bike before, but she’d slipped on behind him like a pro, and now, she clung to his waist without squeezing, moving with him without pushing the bike towards overbalancing. Maybe she was a dancer, that would make sense. It would give her the right kind of training. A martial artist was another option.

 

If he hadn’t been navigating a pile of metal and internal combustion at sixty-five mph, he would have smacked his forehead to get himself back on track. Thoughts of Emma’s generous ass swaying to an intense beat would not get his daughter out of this mess alive. He needed to focus.

 

Fred had seemed all right on the phone, nervous but nothing more. He’d agreed to meet Dean quickly, almost too quickly. It smelled like some kind of operation. Fred had suggested the gravel pit again. Normally, Dean would have immediately disagreed, suggesting a different, more neutral location. This time, he let it go. More than a dozen of his siblings from the club were riding about half a mile behind him, just in case Fred had some kind of shenanigans planned.

 

He spun into the pit and slowed down, scanning the area. It was dark, and the pit wasn’t lit. There was only the light of the moon to navigate from. Across the distance, he saw a camping lantern, probably electric, set on a pile of stones. He turned the bike toward it and drove slowly, moving across the packed dirt trails that had naturally been worn between one pit and another. He saw a form, leaning against the pile of rocks that was topped with the lantern, but he didn’t realize exactly what he was seeing until he was too close to really turn away.

 

Behind him, he felt Emma shift, looking around. He wanted to tell her not to look, but his throat was dry and tight. He knew the moment she realized what he’d seen. She gasped, then choked, and he prayed she wasn’t about to vomit down the back of his jacket. He would have understood if she had, but he didn’t want to deal with it. He wasn’t sure he’d keep his own stomach in place if that sensation were added to the mix.

 

He stopped the bike, planting his feet in the gravel. Emma didn’t wait. She launched herself off the bike, then stumbled, falling to her hands and knees as she vomited. There was a light breeze blowing, carrying the smell of blood and guts, and he fought to keep himself steady. He pushed off the bike, catching her long hair and pulling it out of her way as she heaved again.

 

The other bikes caught up to them soon enough, Connell in the lead. He cursed as soon as he realized what was going on, and then his big hand closed over Dean’s arm. He pulled Dean away from Emma. He wasn’t gentle, but he wasn’t cruel, either.

 

“Okay,” Connell said, his eyes gazing so intensely into Dean’s that his belly twisted with the need to look away and break the intrusive connection. “We tried this your way. Now we’re doing it mine. This is war, Dean. You feel me?”

 

“Yeah,” Dean replied. He’d known this would be coming from the very moment that he’d seen Fred’s body on the rocks, separated from Fred’s head by a good six inches. Whatever was going on — and he still didn’t have a clear read on what the hell was happening — they weren’t playing around. He needed to take this all very seriously. This wasn’t a game. His daughter’s life was in danger.

 

“What do we do?”

 

Connell shook his head. “What do I do. You and the Teach head into hiding at the safe house. Out of town. You know the one. You get her there, and you keep her safe, and you let me handle this fucking mess.” Dean started to protest, but before he even got a word out, Connell’s broad hand was resting on his sternum. “I got this, Dean. I promise. I know how much you love them. I’ll take care of it.”

 

What else was there to do? He helped Emma to her feet. One of the other members had been cleaning her up, giving her some water to rinse out her mouth, things like that.

 

“Come on,” he said. Tears had run through her makeup, but somehow her mascara was still holding strong. Her lipstick was gone, though, and her cheeks were badly flushed under the foundation she wore. “We’re going somewhere safe.”

 

Her eyes were glued to what was left of Fred Killian, and for a moment, he thought she was going to throw up again. Instead, she turned her head away, closing her eyes.

 

“I can’t look anymore,” she said, to him or to herself. He wasn’t entirely sure.

 

“That’s okay, baby,” he said. “That’s okay. I’m going to keep you safe, okay? We’re going to get out of here, and my friends are going to take care of us.”

 

“Yeah,” she replied. “Yeah, okay.” Her words were stumbling, and he wished more than anything they’d taken the Buick instead of the bike. But that wouldn’t have sent the right image. He hated it, all the same. Image hadn’t mattered, after all.

 

He got on his bike, let Emma slip back on behind him, and then put his bike back into gear. He steadfastly refused to think about what was going to happen if whoever was after them — it had to be the Scorpions because who the hell else would bother targeting a small time crook like him? — also knew where the club had their safe houses located.

 

He drove, and pushed it all out of his mind, focusing instead on the road ahead of him.