Biker’s Temptation: Claimed by the Outlaws

POV: Jane Rain hits my face like thrown gravel. I yank my hood lower. My jaw throbs in time with my heartbeat, and I press two fingers against the swelling. Two days old. Still hot under the skin. Keep walking. Don't look back. Stephen's guys will figure out I skipped the interstate within the hour. Maybe less. I grip my backpack strap tighter. The drive inside is worth more than my legs right now. Ahead, neon bleeds through the downpour. Red and blue, flickering. THE BRAKELESS ROLL. Steam pushes out of a side vent. A porch light buzzes. That's enough. I cross the gravel, nearly go down on a slick patch of oil, and shove the oak door open. A brass bell jingles. Everything stops. The jukebox dies mid-chord. A pool cue freezes over green felt. A guy at the counter holds his glass halfway to his lips and just stares. Rain drips off my hood onto the floorboards. Drip. Drip. Drip. I count the exits. Front door behind me. A hallway to the left, past the restrooms. Kitchen swing-door, far right. Twenty-two feet to the kitchen. Too far. "Door's shut, sweetheart." A man near the pool table doesn't bother looking up from his shot. "You look like a drowned rat. You lost?" "I need a phone. Five minutes." My voice comes out thinner than I want. "Mine's dead." The older guy behind the counter snorts. Wipes the wood with a rag that smells like old grease. "Pay phone's down the hall. Two quarters a minute." "Thank you." The room exhales. Jukebox kicks back in. Glasses clink. Nobody welcomes me, but nobody blocks me either. I keep the backpack on. Head down the narrow lane between tables. Leather cuts hang from hooks along the walls. Every single one bears the same patch. A coiled dragon wrapped around an engine block. Dragon Riders. I know what that means. I should keep walking. But I've got forty dollars and a cracked burner phone, and the men in suits who want me dead wear smiles. At least these guys wear their danger on their backs. I glance toward the back corner. Four men at a scarred table. Half-empty whiskey bottle between them. One's built like he eats cinder blocks for breakfast. Another spins a steel lighter over grease-stained knuckles, grinning like he's about to do something stupid. Dan. I hear one of the others call him that. "Nah, she's fine. Look at her, shakin' like a leaf." Dan slaps the table. The whiskey jumps. "But hey, Riot. Back to the dare. You won't do it. You gotta kiss him." The one called Riot leans back. Chair creaks. Ink crawls up his forearms, dark and dense. "You're on, Blaze. But you're buying the next three rounds." "Deal." "Dude, no, don't..." The fourth guy shrinks into his seat. Too late. Riot grabs the back of his neck and kisses him. Quick. Hard. Like he's settling a bet with his whole mouth. The table loses its mind. Dan howls, pounding the wood. "He actually did it!" I should look away. I should head for the pay phone. But my feet won't move, and somewhere low in my stomach, something stupid and warm flickers. I hate it. I look anyway. Then Riot's laugh cuts off. His eyes find mine. The grin drains out of his face like water off glass. His gaze drags down my soaked hoodie, my white-knuckled grip on the backpack, and stops on the edge of bruise showing under my hood. His jaw locks. A muscle ticks in his cheek. "Who the hell did that to you?" Every nerve I have says go. My hand finds the doorknob behind me. I turn. The back counter groans. Someone sets down a glass. Slow. Deliberate. The bartender steps out from behind the bar, and the room rearranges itself around him without anyone saying a word. Dan sits up straighter. The grin is gone. The guy at the pool table sets his cue down and takes a step back. Nobody told them to. They just did. He's tall. Broad through the shoulders in a way that makes the room feel smaller. Dragon Rider patch over his heart. He doesn't look at his men. Doesn't look at the room. He looks at me. His boots hit the floorboards. One step. Two. Three. Each one lands somewhere behind my ribs. He stops close enough that I can smell gasoline and cold cedar on his jacket. Close enough that the front door is no longer an option. "I didn't ask about the phone," he says. Not loud. Doesn't need to be. "I asked who put that mark on your face." My throat closes. "It's nothing. Please, I just need to make a call." "You're not going anywhere." His hand comes up. I flinch. Squeeze my eyes shut. My shoulders hike to my ears and I brace for the hit. It doesn't come. Calloused fingers hook under my jaw. Gentle. Firm. Tilting my chin up. I try to pull back. A small, pathetic sound leaks out of me. His grip doesn't budge. His thumb brushes the edge of the bruise. He leans in. His breath is warm against my ear, and I can feel the words more than hear them. "Who did that to you?" "I slipped on the porch steps." The lie comes out automatic. Practiced. "I'm fine. I just need five minutes." "No." Flat. "You didn't fall." I stare at him. My pulse is going stupid-fast in my throat. "You don't know me. You don't know what happened." "I know what a fist looks like when it connects." He releases my jaw. Steps back. Pulls out the bench seat across from the nearest booth. Doesn't grab me. Doesn't touch my clothes. Just points at the seat. "Sit." "I'm not sitting down." I force my spine straight. Use the voice I used in boardrooms when men twice my age tried to talk over me. "You don't get to step out of the dark and start giving orders. I don't even know who you are." A muscle works in his jaw. "Dwight," he says. "And now you do." He steps closer. One step. Just enough to fill the space between me and the hallway. My back hits the booth. Not hard. But I feel it. He looks down at me. At my wet hoodie. My shaking hands. The backpack I won't take off. "Sit down, Jane." My fingers lock on the strap. My knuckles c***k. I never gave him my name. The room tilts. The jukebox is playing something with a slide guitar, and the sound stretches thin and wrong. I stare at his face, searching for the trick. The wire. The camera. The thing that explains how a stranger in a town I picked six hours ago already knows what to call me. He knows. He knows, and he's watching me figure it out. "Now." Dwight leans his forearms on the table, caging me in without touching me. His voice drops. Not a shout. Worse than a shout. "You're mine now, sweetheart. And nobody touches what's mine." My breath catches. My whole body goes hot and cold at once. "Tell me who the hell you're running from.”