Damon: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Lonely Rider MC Book 4) Page 3

  Kirstin turned her head to stare out the window, into the black of night. She’d get her answers and she’d gain her freedom. One day, she’d avenge her parent’s in whatever way she could. She’d do anything, anything it took.

  Anything and everything.

  Chapter 5

  DAMON

  Silence.

  There were times in his life when he enjoyed it, craved it, needed it, sought solace in it.

  Then there was silence and there was Kirstin. She didn’t make a sound until he decided, after five hours of open road and nothing but darkness, that they were far enough out of Detroit that they could chance stopping for the night.

  She didn’t break her silence when he came back to the car with a key to room number seven in the run-down motel. She unfolded herself out of the car, grabbed her bag, and followed him to the door. He shouldered his own bag, on the shoulder that wasn’t currently killing him with its throbbing ache and more literally with the blood seeping through the bandage he’d applied hours earlier.

  He unlocked the door and swung the thing open. Kirstin strode in ahead, fearlessly. She flicked on a lamp and it illuminated a queen-sized bed with a faded, dubious comforter that looked anything but comforting. The thing was probably crawling with bugs. The brown carpet had once been high pile, but was trodden down with age and stained in just about every single spot. An ancient TV and VCR combo sat on top of a battered stand. There was a single night stand beside the bed, as battered as the rest of the room, with the lamp that looked like it had been dug out of a dumpster. The pink shade was worn and faded and had several cigarette burns.

  Kirstin set her bag down with a thump on the bed. He slammed the door and did up both locks, the deadbolt and the chain.

  “Nice place.” She glanced around. Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “I hope you like sleeping on the floor because I’m sure as hell not sharing the bed.”

  “There’s room enough for both of us.”

  She laughed, like she found that funny, but she didn’t protest. It worried, him, the way her beautiful green eyes swept over him. She was cold and almost calculating, like she was in on a plan he knew nothing about. The hairs on the backs of his arms stood on end.

  “Let me see your shoulder,” she commanded. “I need to disinfect it and sew it up.”

  Damon paused. She was so matter of fact, so different than she was earlier. He liked it less and less with each passing second. He already felt uneasy. No, that wasn’t the right word. Neither was paranoid, but it got a little closer. He expected someone to bust down their door and try to murder them in their sleep. Yeah, that about came close. He bristled as he set his black bag down. He produced the first aid kit he’d assembled.

  Kirstin walked over to stand beside him. Her presence was large, looming. It filled up the room and commanded his attention. He found her attractive, but there was something else about her in that moment, something… he couldn’t figure out what it was, but shamefully, he reacted to it. His cock hardened and his blood quickened.

  “You put a fucking needle and thread in there? That’s not what a real doctor would use. That’s what you sew jeans with.”

  “It’s all I have,” he said thickly. “That and the whiskey.” He slammed his ass down onto the bed, grabbed the bottle, uncapped it, and took a long swig. The acrid fire burned down his throat. He slowly maneuvered his shirt off, groaning when he jostled the bandage. A fresh stain of red bloomed on the already sodden surface. He ripped off the bandage and the tape, closed his eyes, and doused the wound. He let out a hiss of pain and his body spasmed from the burning intrusion.

  Kirstin eyed the needle and thread. She was right. It was from some fucking sewing kit, but it would have to do. It was better than leaving the damn gash open. She’d stuck that knife into him good. Not far enough to shred anything, but enough to sting, and fuck, the bleeding was annoying.

  “All I have is the whiskey to sterilize it.”

  He glanced around and waved a hand at the hotel room. “Does this look sterile to you? Just pour some on and get it done. I don’t care if it’s neat or clean, but do it. If I lose any more blood, I’m going to be useless if someone comes after us.”

  Kirstin ducked her head. Tendrils of blonde hair escaped that tight knot at the base of her neck and framed her beautiful face. He watched her lips purse as she poured a little whiskey over the needle. Her hands shook and her bottom teeth sunk into her lush lower lip. It shouldn’t be so sexy, watching her bite down, as she was about to stab him, but his groin thought otherwise. He was overcome with the urge to take her, thrust her back on that bed, and sink his own teeth into her lip. He wanted to draw blood. He wanted to taste the metallic copper for himself.

  His dick urged him on, but he stayed upright. He had to get that wound closed up. When it was done…

  Hell, when it was done, nothing. Kirstin wouldn’t welcome his advances on her and he didn’t want to frighten her. She had enough going on, with her parents being murdered and the club after her, a bounty on her pretty sweet head. She definitely doesn’t need me to add to it.

  Her hand shook as it approached his shoulder. Her eyes flew up to his and her tongue swept out to lick her lips. He nearly groaned. He had very little common sense to begin with and after watching her for a few seconds, his control was hanging on by a thinner thread than that black shit hanging from the needle tucked between Kirstin’s dainty tapered fingers.

  “Okay, I’m going to do this.”

  “Again, stabbing people in real life, is much harder than in practice. There are consequences like blood and gore and pain.”

  Her lips flattened out into a determined line. Her other hand came to his shoulder, her touch so warm it sent tendrils of fire racing through his blood stream.

  “Shut up and sit still,” she commanded when he jerked at her touch.

  “Why? It’s true, isn’t it? Or have you stabbed someone before?”

  “You talk a big game for someone who is about to get stitched up. I wouldn’t piss me off if I was you.”

  He sighed ruefully. It gave him a small sense of sick satisfaction to know that he was under her skin, just a little. “Sorry. What can I say? I was born an asshole.”

  “That I can believe.” The joking did relieve the tension between them and stilled Kirstin’s hands. The first jab of the needle did little to deflate his dick, but as she worked it in and out of his skin, over and over again, pulling the thread tight, knitting the jagged edges of the wound back together, he lost himself in the fire and the agony.

  When she was done, she tied a clean knot, grabbed the scissors out of the kit and snipped the thread off.

  “There. You survived. It remains to be seen whether you’ll turn septic or not, given how unsanitary that whole thing was. I probably sewed the infection into your arm.”

  “It doesn’t matter. As long as I don’t bleed out.” He tested his shoulder and winced.

  Kirstin set the needle and thread aside, her hands blood stained and trembling. When her eyes flew to his face, they were so big and green and so absolutely terrified, that he had to fight the urge to take her into his arms and comfort her.

  Comfort wasn’t all he had in mind. The pain shooting from his shoulder went straight to his dick. He imagined fucking the fear out of her, wrapping her up in his arms and sinking inside of her and making her come over and over and over again until all that was left was them. Not the fucking motel, not the reality of their lives, nothing. Just him. And her.

  Damon saw red. It crept into his vision, scarlet, hotter than blood. It roared to life inside of him, frantic, a beast. He let out a growl and reached for her, but she was fast. Kirstin scooted away, back onto the bed. She scrambled backwards, face twisted in terror. The headboard stopped her frantic retreat. She pressed her back against it and her lips parted as she panted in fear.

  “What are you- Damon!” She gasped.

  Her cry tore him out of whatever fucking blood lust he’d sunk into. He tor
e himself away from the bed and stomped off to the bathroom angrily. He slammed the door behind him and stared at the fucking handle in dismay. It didn’t have a lock. Of course it didn’t, but what did it matter? He didn’t need to lock himself in. Kirstin wasn’t going to try and get to him.

  He’d acted like a beast back there. His fragile control snapped and he let himself believe that he could be something to her that he sure as hell wasn’t. He’d never be anything more than a man who was supposed to kill her, but couldn’t. A man who was about to patch into the same fucking club who killed her parents. His hands were as bloody as Bone’s were, whether he’d killed them or not.

  He should let her go. Let her get away from him. All he’d ever brought with him was pain and destruction. He’d never had a father. His mother died when he was a kid. No foster home ever cared enough about him to even try to want him. He was poison. Worthless. The only place he’d ever belonged was with his brothers and it wasn’t exactly a fucking frat club. They didn’t contribute to the good of society.

  He thought he could- what? Touch her? Fuck her? God, he wasn’t even good enough to look in her direction. She was a queen, a goddess, unsullied and obviously far more innocent than she let on. He was filth. She was goodness and he was the dark. He’d ruin her with a single fucking touch.

  Damon stifled an agonized cry. He ripped at the disgusting shower curtain, which was stiff with either age, grim, or both. He pulled it so hard half the hooks bounced off the tiled floor. The tub was ancient, banged up with rust stains. The shower-head wasn’t much better, but at the moment, he didn’t give a shit. He kicked his boots off and ripped his jeans and boxers down. He left them in a pile on the floor and stepped under the frigid water attempting to make its way out of the corroded shower head.

  He told himself he needed to rinse his shoulder off.

  What he really needed was to cool the fuck off and get his head on straight.

  Kirstin Sinclair was an angel and he was nofuckinone.

  Chapter 6

  KIRSTIN

  Men were weak. They thought with their dicks. They were prone to stupidity and violence because they let their baser emotions rule.

  She’d been a witness to those lessons her entire life.

  The fragmented thoughts she’d had in the car cemented together in her mind in one horrible solid decision. It sat in her mind and in her gut like a lead weight.

  Damon was off. He’d spared her life when he’d been sent to kill her and he was weak in a way that had nothing to do with the amount of blood he’d lost from that stab wound. She’d seen the savagery in his eyes as he advanced on her. He wanted her. He desired her. He’d temporarily lost his control and let the mask slip and she’d peered inside. She’d been terrified by the primal lust, the rawness of his need, but she’d seen the flash of hurt, the wounded, lost little boy, when she pulled away and denied him.

  He’d tipped his hand. She needed an in. She needed to get away. She needed to gain control.

  She now knew how she could do that.

  Damon’s reason for sparing her life might not have been entirely altruistic, even if he wasn’t fully aware of the aching rawness in the depths of his own tattered soul. She knew how she could fill that void. She knew how she could gain the upper hand. She’d use him, see herself away safely, and discard him. In the process, she’d gain the answers she needed about her parents’ death.

  She had to do it. She couldn’t trust Damon. He could say and do anything, make her believe what he wanted, and then deliver her to her ultimate demise.

  Trust no one. Her father told her that a thousand times, ever since she was a child. Be proud of who you are. You’re my daughter. I love you. His voice was so real, that she almost believed if she turned around, he’d be there, standing right behind her.

  The hot burn of tears pricked at her eyes and stung the bridge of her nose, but she swallowed hard and pushed them away. Her decision made, Kirstin pushed her shoulders back and forced the steel back into her spine. I can do this. It’s just like anything else I’ve ever done. So she’d give her body to him to make him believe it meant something. So she’d manipulate him that way- so what. She could be weak to make herself strong, to ensure that she lived.

  Kirstin slipped out of her clothes silently. The room didn’t have air conditioning and the temperature was warm and humid, but goosebumps still erupted out all over her skin. She walked to the bathroom door and when her hand closed over the cool metal handle, she lifted her head.

  She was going to do this. She was not going to be ashamed.

  The door wasn’t locked. She gave a push and it opened.

  The shower was on, going full blast, though the shower head had seen better days and the water sprayed out in all directions while it stubbornly refused to come out of others.

  Damon was there, naked of course. Her resolve momentarily wavered. His body was beautiful, even if all she could see was the side profile. He was all rock hard muscle and velvety skin. His shoulders were impossibly muscled. She’d noticed his chest when she’d stitched him up. It was impossible not to. He was gorgeous, sinfully, blissfully, raw male. His pecs were perfect and hard, his nipples a dark copper. His stomach was heavily muscled and just below his hips, a trail of dark hair gathered into a V and trailed lower.

  Her eyes skittered to the part of him that stood up, fully erect. He was… massive. Her mouth went dry and her body clenched. A strange burn started at the juncture of her thighs. She wanted to press her legs together, to keep it from spreading or to find some relief, but she stood where she was. He didn’t know she was there and she didn’t want to give herself away.

  Damon was scrubbing, scrubbing with the bar of hotel soap. The skin of his back was red, either from the cold spray that Kirstin could feel even a few feet away from the shower, or from the damage he’d done with the soap. He scrubbed at his arms, at his beautiful muscular chest, at his legs, with a frantic determination. Under the angry ministrations, his bronze skin reddened painfully.

  “Stop!” The command was out before she could retract.

  Damon whirled and his eyes flew to hers. They were so clean and clear, like a spring of cold water. Glacial. Haunted. Turbulent. The soap dropped from his hand and hit the tub with a dull clang.

  “Kirstin,” he breathed. His features hardened and his eyes flicked away from her face. “You can’t be in here. Get the fuck out.” He turned, giving her a good view of a very muscular ass and legs that were just as strong and streamlined as the rest of him.

  Was it wrong that her entire body convulsed with a shiver of desire? That wetness dribbled down her thighs? That she ached so deep inside of herself? Was it wrong to want him on a basic, biological level or would it make what she had to do so much easier?

  “I’m not leaving,” she said thickly. She forced her voice to be strong. He whirled around, the fury of hell in his eyes.

  “If you don’t leave right now, I can’t and won’t be responsible for what happens.”

  “I’m standing here naked,” Kirstin rasped. “Don’t you think I know what will happen? I didn’t come in here for a cold shower.” She stepped forward, reached into the shower and yanked the hot on. She felt the difference on her arm almost immediately. “Why are you standing there in the frigid cold scrubbing at yourself like you want your skin to come off?”

  No. Caring about him is not part of the plan. She might have been the daughter of a biker. She might own a gun and know how to use it. She might know basic self defense so she could take care of herself, but she wasn’t a hard person. She’d never been quick to anger and certainly not hate. Though she tried to shield herself, to wall herself up, to protect her naturally gentle heart, the look of pain on Damon’s face, the torment in his eyes, it cut at her.

  She hadn’t done that to him, but she wanted to know what had.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she repeated. “I came in here because I want you.”

  “You didn’t want me out there. Y
ou- you reminded me that I have no right to you. No right to touch you or want you. You are goodness, you are pure. You’re an angel and I’m filth. I’m disgusting. I have no right to touch you. If I do, I will destroy you, like everything else in my life.”

  What the fuck? Kirstin smiled, because if she didn’t, she might cry, and she sure as fuck wasn’t going to cry. She realized that she had no idea what his life was like. What if he wasn’t a liar? What if all he really wanted to do was help her? It didn’t make sense though. None of it did. She couldn’t and wouldn’t trust him.

  “What about that do you find fucking funny?”

  “Nothing,” she assured him. “Nothing, except that it’s bullshit. You’re not going to taint me. You might have blood on your hands, but so did my father. Far more than you ever could hope to achieve in one lifetime. I loved him. He murdered people. He killed in the line of work, for his fucking Prez and the ones before Bone.”

  “Kirstin…”

  “No.” She shook her head. “You are going to listen to me. My father hurt people. Tortured people to get what he wanted out of them. He moved product and by product, I mean the kind of shit that goes straight up a person’s nose and ruins their life. To the world, he was the worst kind of man. A hateful man. A man to be feared. A man who showed no mercy.”

  “I…”

  She was going to finish, no matter what Damon had to say, so she cut him off again. “To me, he was my father. He was the man who tucked me in and read me stories. Who held my hair back when I was nine years old and had the flu so bad I threw up for six days straight. He was the man who bought me a gun for my thirteenth birthday and took me to the range and showed me how to use it. He gave me that knife I used on you as another present. He made sure I knew that I was worth something and that I was loved and beyond precious. He…” he never would have left me. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. It’s not right. It’s all wrong. They never would have run. Her resolve was renewed a thousand times over. Damon probably knew something. She’d make him tell her, even if she had to fucking tie him up and torture it out of him herself.