In a foul mood, Vince led his caravan back into the compound, revving the engine of Cyril’s ride before turning it off and lighting up. He swung off the machine and headed around the back of the club, needing separation before he clocked one of his guys and got into trouble.
The run had not gone as planned. Any minute now, a few of the Pale Demons they’d outrun three hours back would catch up with their asses, and heated words would be exchanged at the very least. Everything had been just fine. They’d gone in to the printing shop, shown the paper to Rick Lambert, a forty-something geek with thick glasses and a beak of a nose, and he’d shown them prints on plain paper of ones, fives, tens, and twenties. They were perfect.
Lambert’s cut was five percent, and they’d dropped half of that up front and been on their way with his reassurance that he was on board. Considering he looked like he’d never seen the kind of cash they were paying in his life, Vince trusted Rick a little further than he would have someone who’d been in this business for a while. So they’d gotten ready to ride out.
But he’d forgotten to take his pain meds, and he pulled into a gas station just outside of Salem, claiming he had to take a leak, and gone to swallow a pill. His leg already hurt, and they had a long ride ahead of them. When he came out, his guys were whispering. Vince jutted his chin toward Pound as he lit one last cigarette before hitting the road. “What’s going on?”
“In the couple of minutes you’ve been in there, three separate pairs of Pale Demons have ridden by, glaring at us. We need to get the fuck out of here now, before there’s blood on the road.”
Vince had cursed under his breath, tossed the cigarette, and gunned the bike out of there, the others on his tail. But a six-pack of Demons had followed them out of town. Doubling back at an exit and riding into an empty barn before the rival club had managed to find where they went, Vince had led them back to the highway double-time, and they’d barreled toward the Oregon-Washington border. From there, they would only have another hour and a half to the clubhouse, and they’d have territory on their side.
But Vince wasn’t stupid. He knew they’d been followed, and he was pissed, mostly at himself. Without the damn leg injury, they probably would have made it out without notice. Sure, they would have had to deal with these guys later, but it would have given them time to prepare.
On top of that, he’d forgotten to check his phone again when they’d gotten to the hotel, in too much pain to remember he had a message. He’d laid down with his leg propped up on extra pillows and taken another pain pill, asleep in minutes. He hadn’t remembered till this morning, and when he’d listened to Ariana’s voicemail, he cursed.
He wanted to respond, but Traunch had come to collect him so they could get to the printing press and out of town. He’d hung behind, trying to sneak a text message out, but he’d gotten it half typed and hadn’t had a chance to send it before Pound put an arm around his shoulder and started razzing him about having a slight limp.
He’d never sent it, and that was bad enough. But worse, he was angry about it. Right now, he wished he’d never met Ariana. He didn’t want to think about her, didn’t want the distraction, and certainly didn’t want to manage the guilt of not being around when she needed him because he was on a job. He wasn’t going to deal with something like what happened to Kristi again. He wanted to make it perfectly clear that he couldn’t be at Ariana’s beck and call, and that there was no way they were going to move beyond a physical relationship.
He didn’t love her. He hardly knew her. All he needed to know was that she had incredibly sexy curves, a great rhythm with her hips, and a need that matched his own closely enough to make them compatible in bed. He didn’t want her calling him every time something went wrong. If he allowed that, it would turn into her being clingy and codependent, which had been Kristi’s problem all along.
Just like he refused to put his club in danger, Vince refused to put Ariana or any other woman in a position where she was waiting on him to come home alive all the time. He was better off alone. And if he had to give up that tender touch to keep her off his ass when he was on the road—and to keep from feeling guilty about it—then so be it.