Cold Burn (4 page)

"Thanks, kid." I still can't remember his name. "I owe you."

He grins. What prospect doesn't want to be owed a favor from his VP?

He actually seems like a smart one because he didn't stay idle twirling his thumbs while we walked around. He's rechecked all the equipment and made sure the batteries were charged and all units were tuned to the same frequency. We're all set, and he's already got his earpiece in with the little receptor in the pocket of his cut.

I put mine on and shove a couple of condoms into my back pocket. I give the rest of the box back to him then return to Lisa, who remained standing next to the bench. Of course, since I told her to sit, she had to stay up.

"Everything's all right?" she asks.

"Sure. Got to get these to the guys." I show her the bag with the rest of the transceivers. "And then we'll find a quiet place to talk," I tell her with a grin. Talking is the last thing on my mind. I need her so fucking bad, I want to find a place, like, right now. Until I make her mine again, I won't be able to think straight.

On the way back to the stage, I quickly run through the images in my head of my earlier reconnaissance of the arena. That’s when I see it—the perfect hideaway for a hit man. It's at the back of the stage. It's sheltered on every side but the one facing the ocean. It’s perfect for what I need.

I find Brains and Andy first. They’re keeping a lookout on the front of the scene, watching the arena fill up. I give each one a device. Lisa and I walk to the sound control room, which is already a bit packed with the sound engineer, Xander, and two members of his band. My two guys, who would have overcrowded the place, are standing by the door. I give them the bag and get going with Lisa.

She stays as silent as I am, and this is starting to worry me. Lisa's a real chatterbox, except when she's pissed. She's got this infuriating habit of clamming up when she's upset. This used to drive David and me up the wall. We preferred a good screaming match to clear the air over this cold-shoulder treatment. When we were kids and she bottled up, we would tease her endlessly until she became so mad that she finally had to yell at us and tell us what was eating her up. It's her lucky day, because I'm in a teasing mood.

We reach the hidden corner I was thinking about when she starts talking.

"What are you smiling about?" she asks.

"Just thinking about what I'm going to do to you."

She rewards me with her magical smile.

Good, maybe she wasn't pissed after all.

I press her gently against the wall. "Do you know what I'm going to do to you now?"

She looks straight into my eyes and caresses my jawline with the back of her right hand. She stands on her toes to brush her lips against mine. Giving me a sweet, almost innocent, smile, she says, "I really have no clue. Why don't you enlighten me?"

I take her hand and raise it above her head, almost crushing the lower part of her body against the wall with my hips, and watch her pupils dilate. She's as turned on as I am.

"Baby, first I'm going to kiss you." My hand slides over her flesh until I'm palming her breast. "My fingers are going to explore every part of your body until you beg me to fuck you." I tweak the nipple hardening beneath my touch. "By the time the band starts to play, you'll be screaming so loud you won't be able to speak for a week."

"Is that so?" As I nod, she taunts me, "Bring it on, big guy. Give me your best, because there're very few things I'm sure about in life, but that's one. I will never beg."

And just like that she unleashes the monster in me. Poor baby, she has no clue she's just signed up for a serious cold burn. She's just about to find out why my crew calls me Ice.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I begin with her mouth. God, I've dreamed about it for way too long, and the small taste I had earlier on the stage just whetted my appetite. I nibble her lower lip then demand passage, which she does not deny. She opens for me, and I can feel that she's about as hungry for me as I am for her. She sucks me in and arches against the wall, pushing her hips against mine, grinding herself against me. And she thinks I won't get her to beg.

Her left arm in the sling is in the way, but I manage to slide my right hand under her shirt. I pull my mouth away to watch her face as my hand crawls up her side. I start with a gentle caress, but as I reach her breast and apply more pressure, her breath catches in her throat. Then she winces, and tears pool in her eyes.

Something's very wrong. This is a woman who can never get me to suck on her breast hard enough. I flip her around to make her face the wall, and I lift her shirt. The entire left side of her torso is the same shade as her arm. Someone gave her a serious beating, but only on half of her body.

I put my lips on her bruised shoulder. "Oh, baby, what happened?"

"I told you," she says. "I got mugged. At the beginning, it was awful. I'm much better now. Just be gentle when you touch that side."

"They did a number on you. Why didn't you just give them your bag?" I ask. "Whatever was in there sure wasn't worth getting killed over."

She turns to face me, lowering her shirt. "They didn't want my bag. They wanted my leather jacket. I couldn't let them have it—it was David's, and that's all I have left of him." She blinks furiously to keep the fresh tears in her eyes at bay.

"Tell me more. Did you see the face of the man who did this to you?" I'm feeling murderous. No one—absolutely no one—touches my girl and gets away with it.

"I was walking to the restaurant and about to cross the street." She shudders and closes her eyes as she remembers. "They were two guys on a Harley. Black leather. No patch. Full face helmet with shaded visor. The passenger, he grabbed the jacket, but I held on. He dragged me for an entire block."

"Did you notice anything special?" I ask.

"Not really. The only thing I could see was the guy's hand. Large. Very pale skin with spots. Larger than freckles. Probably a pigmentation disorder. On the top of the hand there was a tilted Swastika."

"What do you mean tilted?" I think I know what she means, but I need to make sure.

"I mean not the auspicious oriental symbol for eternity, but the tilted version that's the Nazi symbol." She opens her eyes and looks behind me, into the distance.

The backstage lights go off, and I can hear the first measures of Xander Wild's latest hit song.

My mind's already racing back home. A few months ago, Everest admitted that when David died, the task force they were both a part of was not investigating us. I was certain of that. No matter how much the brass trusted my brother, they would not have kept him in a unit that was investigating a club run by his own family.

Even though the brass kicked Everest out of the task force unit after David’s death, Everest hasn't spilled the beans about his investigation. But once in passing, he did mention something about a white supremacy group and a local MC they would be working with. Could this be related?

The more I think about, the more far-fetched it seems. Even if David had indeed been hiding something in his jacket, I can’t see how this all adds up to Lisa getting mugged that way. How would they have known about it? How would they have found out that Lisa took the jacket with her? How would they have figured out where to find her? But then again, trying to steal that jacket makes no sense unless they wanted something hidden in it. It's just a plain, worn black biker's jacket.

Anyway, I'm not letting her go back to New York for longer than it will take to pack her shit. She's coming home with me. I can't protect her if she's seven states away from me.

The loud bass changes rhythm, jolting me out of my train of thought. Xander Wild is best known for two things: sad lost love ballads and violent, angry rock songs. Tonight, he's starting slow.

Lisa closes her eyes again and sings along. "I never would have guessed how much I'd miss you…"

"I've missed you, too." I start kissing her again, keeping a little distance between our bodies for fear of hurting her. I sigh; my dry spell is not ending here. But it's still ending tonight. I plan to take her back to the hotel and keep her with me.

She slides her good hand under my shirt to pull me in, but when she reaches the center of my back, she lands on my gun. I feel her fingers tentatively touching the contour of the weapon before her hand withdraws. I catch it and thread our fingers together then lift her arm above her head.

I bury my face into the right side of her neck and breathe in her intoxicating smell. There's something flowery that's probably her perfume, then there's her own delicious smell. If I can't bang her against the wall, I can still make good on my promise to make her scream my name. The begging will have to wait for later or maybe even another day. Right now, I want to make her forget about her bruises and her pain. I want to be the center of her universe again.

"Brian," she says.

"Yes, sweetheart."

"I think I heard a noise outside," she tells me.

I stiffen. "What kind of noise?"

"Maybe the noise of a boat banging against the concrete," says a male voice at my back, and before I have any time to react, I feel something cold press against my neck—the round muzzle of a gun.

CHAPTER EIGHT

"Now the position I have you in right now is a good start," the man says. "Do the same with your other arms and don't try anything stupid."

As I lift my second hand above my head, Lisa slides sideways from me. She moves her elbow slightly to make it more visible to the man behind me.

"My left arm is broken. Look, it's in a sling. There's no way I can lift it."

"Did that bastard do this?" the man growls. "Because if he did, I can take care of him for you."

Lisa shakes her head. In a very sweet voice that's so unlike her, I would laugh if I didn't have a gun to my neck, she says, "Oh, really. You would do that for me?" I can't see her face, but I'm pretty sure she's got a real Southern belle act going on, batting her eyelashes and all.

"Thank you, sir," she drawls. "It's nice to know there are some real gentleman left in this uncivilized world. I've always thought the bikers are the modern-day knights."

"That we are, sweetheart," he answers with obvious pride in his voice.

"Well, sir, you don't need to hit him or anything, but if you could ask him to let go of my right arm, I would be most grateful."

"Sure thing. Hey, Tornado," he says, demonstrating that he can read my MC name on the back of my cut. "You heard her."

Without moving anything else so as to keep on sheltering most of Lisa's body, I let go of her right hand I had been pinning against the wall.

"Well, thank you," Lisa purrs, bringing her right hand down slowly. "What are you going to do with us now? Are you going to tie us together with our belts so you can go about your business without hurting us?"

While she speaks, she slides her right under my shirt. I feel her turn the switch of the walkie-talkie then reach for the gun at my back. She pulls it out of my belt and brings it next to her left arm. As I look down, I see she's hiding it in her sling.

"Yeah, I could do that," the guy says, his tone hesitant, as if he hadn't yet given any thought about what he was going to do next.

Fuck, it's amateur night. This is bad. I'd rather deal with a professional any day.

"So you came in by the sea?" Lisa asks. "That's so smart. No one thinks to watch for intruders on that side. I'm sure they're confident the proceeds of the show are safe in the side office."

"I'm not here for the money," the man protests.

"Then what are you here for?" Lisa asks, sounding genuinely curious.

"To do justice for my girl. No one messes with Eddy's girl," he growls.

So this is Crazy Eddy. Amateur and crazy. I'm watching Lisa playing with a live grenade, and I'm a sick bastard because I kind of think it's hot. I hope she can stall him until my crew gets over here.

"Oh, Eddy," she purrs. "Your girl is so lucky to have found a man like you."

"How do you know my name is Eddy?" he snaps at her.

"You just said, 'No one messes with Eddy's girl.' So I assumed it was your name," she explains, using a tone a very patient mother would take to speak to a temperamental child.

"Oh… right." He huffs.

The music stops for a moment, and the crowd cheers.

"I'll remove his belt now," Lisa says. "But with only one good hand, I won't be able to help you tie him up."

"Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll take care of it." The beginning of a new song almost drowns out the end of his sentence.

Lisa struggles to unhook the belt buckle with one hand then slides the belt through. The walkie-talkie falls to the ground and shatters. Crazy Eddy doesn't seem to notice. Xander Wild is singing something about a revolution, and the heavy metal sounds blasting around us cover everything else.

Lisa moves away from me and holds the belt toward Crazy Eddy.

"Hold it," he yells at her. Then he kicks the backs of my knees as he screams over the music, "Kneel. Hands behind your back."

While I drop to my knees, the muzzle of the gun ceases to be in direct contact with my neck, and I breathe a little easier. The man doesn't seem trigger happy, but still, he's dangerous because he doesn't seem to know what he's doing. Slowly, I do as he says and put my hands on the small of my back.

From the corner of my eye, I watch him take the belt from Lisa's hand. She takes a step backward so that her back is to the second wall of our little hideaway. I mentally order her to run past Eddy and onto the stage, but she doesn't do that. Instead, she calmly reaches into her sling and waits for him to put his gun into his belt. When he takes my belt with both his hands, she pulls out my gun and aims it at him.

Lucky for her, my gun is a Glock that's meant to be carried loaded. Otherwise, we'd be in deep shit. With just one hand, she couldn't have chambered a round.

"Eddy," she yells. "Drop your gun."