“Don’t call me baby. In the five minutes we have left together, Cabe Delgado, don’t even f**king think about calling me baby.”
And I knew what it was. I knew why that destroyed me. I knew I loved that. I knew the first time he called me baby in my kitchen the hope I wasn’t allowing myself to feel for a year and a half was not only real but what I hoped for was possible.
And just like with Scott, exactly like with Scott, I was wrong, way, way, way, way wrong.
He opened his mouth to say something then he stopped, his tense body went statue-still then he muttered an enraged, “Fuck.”
That was when I heard it. Pipes. The roar of Harley pipes. And it wasn’t one bike. It wasn’t two. It was a lot of them.
Hawk turned, bent and tagged his tee off the floor. He’d yanked it over his head and was pulling it down his abs when he lifted one finger toward me and ordered, “Stay here.”
I didn’t respond but there was no way I was staying there. As far as I was concerned, the cavalry had arrived and I was getting the f**k out of Dodge.
I bent to my suitcase pulled on socks, my boots then grabbed panties, a bra, a tee and then raced to the bathroom, snatching up shit I needed then I raced down the stairs, shoved it all in my purse, I hitched it over my shoulder and I raced out.
When I got outside I saw that Hawk, being Hawk, was standing in cargoes and a tee and bare feet in what appeared to be a standoff with Tack in front of a shitload of Harleys, their headlamps illuminating the scene. Some boys were standing by their bikes, some were astride them. Only Tack was facing off against Hawk.
I located Dog and ran straight to him not even looking at Hawk and Tack as I raced by.
Dog looked down at me. “Babe, maybe you should go inside.”
“Take me with you,” I begged, his body jolted and he asked, “What?”
“Take me with you,” I repeated, reaching up to grab his arm in an effort to convey my seriousness.
He stared at me half a beat before his head lifted and he whistled sharply. I didn’t look behind me. I was trembling and holding onto his arm for dear life. I was also holding back tears by the skin of my teeth.
I watched him jerk his chin up then he moved, swinging his leg over the bike. I guessed this meant he was taking me with him and I didn’t waste time or squander the opportunity. I jumped on behind him, wrapped my arms around him tight, put my cheek to his shoulder and closed my eyes hard.
I felt the Harley roar and then I felt us move, he did a wide arc in the massive, cracked cement area beside Hawk’s warehouse, an area that once housed semis and employee parking and now housed nothing. He straightened out of the curve and we roared away.
I didn’t open my eyes once and with the wind whipping around me and a body that had gone totally numb in an effort to keep the pain at bay, it took awhile for me to realize I was crying.
Suddenly he pulled over and Dog’s hands gently pried mine from his belly.
His torso twisted, my head came up and my eyes finally opened.
“Babe, switch bikes,” he ordered.
“What?”
He jerked his chin, I turned my head and I saw Tack beside us, his head turned our way and even in the dark I knew his eyes were on me.
Shit.
I wanted to stay on Dog’s bike but I didn’t want the drama. No, I couldn’t handle the drama. I’d had enough drama for one day, thank you so very much. In fact, I’d had enough drama in the last week to last me a freaking lifetime.
So I swung off, moved between bikes, hitched my purse more firmly on my shoulder and swung on Tack’s.
The minute my arms closed around his middle and my cheek hit his shoulder blade, we shot off.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Not Worth the Risk
I felt weight hit the bed, my eyes opened and slid up.
Tack was sitting there, wearing a skintight tee and faded jeans. His hair was wet from a shower. His blue eyes were on me.
I was lying in his bed, not at the Chaos Compound, in a rather nice house in the foothills outside Denver. It was built just up the mountain. It was one story, long and had a deck that ran the front of the house. I knew it would have great views in the daylight but I didn’t take much in when we got there mainly because I was numb, exhausted and desperately fighting back hysterical tears, a tantrum and the desire to commit murder.
Tack led me to his bedroom, dumped my purse on his nightstand and ordered, “Sleep, darlin’.”
Then he left.
I took off my boots, socks, jeans and since I conveniently was wearing my nightshirt, I climbed into his unmade bed and did exactly as I was told.
Now it was now and I was curled into a protective ball, my hands in prayer position under my cheek.
Tack spoke. “Mornin’, peaches, you want breakfast?”
“Do you cook or do you have a biker babe that makes breakfast to order?” I replied and there it was. Automatic. The smartass.
Would I ever learn?
Tack grinned. “I cook. Best pancakes you’ll ever have, you get your ass outta bed,” he answered.
For the first time in my life, I wasn’t hungry.
No, that wasn’t true. After I found my husband in bed with my sister and kicked his ass out, I didn’t eat for three days. I didn’t realize it, Troy did and he made me eat. But that was the last time I lost my appetite.
“Sounds good,” I lied but didn’t move.
When I didn’t Tack reached out, curled his fingers around my forearm and gently pulled my hand from under my face. Then he lifted my arm and his eyes dropped to my wrist. His hand slid up carefully so he could wrap his fingers around my palm and I watched as he lifted my arm further up… up… until he bent his neck and his lips touched the bruised and torn skin at my wrist.
My breath seized.
Hawk should have done that but Hawk was so busy brooding about Brett, or more likely trying to figure out how to end things with me since he conquered the challenge and was ready to move on, that last night he completely forgot I was kidnapped, bound, gagged and targeted as bait.
Tack’s head lifted, his body leaned in and he pressed my hand to his chest.
“My girl had a bad day yesterday,” he said quietly.
Hawk should have said that too.
“There’s bad and there’s bad and I’m discovering the many nuances but, yes… yesterday introduced me to a new level of bad.”
“Then you need pancakes.”
Finally, a man who understood the healing properties of food.
“Pancakes would be good,” I replied.
His hand squeezed mine. “Ass outta bed, babe, I’ll be in the kitchen.”