Rev It Up (23 page)

“Sorry,” he told the kid as he turned to right the motorcycle. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Damn, man. Damn!” The kid panted over and over again.

Jake pushed the guy’s bike up beside him and bent to hand him his helmet. The poor bastard’s hands were shaking so bad he could barely take it.

“Look,” Jake told him. “This was a mistake.” He opened his wallet and withdrew a handful of benjamins. “Here’s some green to take care of any damage to your bike’s paint.”

The kid looked at the money like it might be poison. Jake rolled his eyes and shoved it into the front pocket of the young man’s motorcycle jacket. “Now, get outta here,” he commanded.

And, yo, the dude didn’t need to be told twice. He immediately pushed the start button on his handlebars and whimpered when the Harley only coughed. Jake rolled in his lips and prayed for patience. The kid tried again, and this time the bike came to life.

Jake watched him peel out of the alley and turned back toward the dumpster, shaking his head.

What
a
goatscrew…

***

Okay, and now it’s official. I’m doomed…

Because watching Jake get physical and rough up that guy should’ve turned Michelle’s stomach. And it did, just not in the way it was supposed to…

Because instead of feeling sick at the near violence, her belly felt like it’d been on a roller coaster of delight, and she couldn’t help but think how unbelievably sexy he was.

Crap, crap, crap!

“What was that all about?” she asked as she emerged from behind the dumpster, thumbing the safety back on the little pistol.

“Two cats and now a motorcycle fanatic,” Jake muttered, shaking his head. “But I guess it’s better to have false alarms than actual threats.”

“A motorcycle enthusiast?” she asked, incredulous. “
That’s
who was following us?”

“Yeah.” Jake ran a hand through his hair as he took the pistol from her and returned it to his ankle holster. Straightening, he swung onto Viper and motioned with his chin that she should mount up behind him.

“I think I’ve had about all the excitement I can stand for one night,” she told him, crossing her arms inside his thick motorcycle jacket, trying to ignore the smell lingering in the leather. “I’m going to hail a cab.”

“Really?” The look he gave her would’ve curdled milk. “We’re going to go through this again?”

“Jake—”

“Just get on the damned bike, Shell. I’m not in the mood to argue.”

He wasn’t in the mood to argue?
He
wasn’t in the mood to—

“Fine,” she spat. Because, truth be known, she wasn’t in the mood to argue either, especially knowing it’d only end with him forcefully lifting her and setting her on the bike again.

And when her thighs tightened around his hips and her arms slid around his waist, she tried very hard to remember all the reasons why she couldn’t just allow herself to love him. Then he glanced over her shoulder, grinning an
I
won
grin that deepened his dimples, and all she could think was…
I’m doomed…

“Oh no. No way.”

Jake smiled at the touch of hysteria in Shell’s voice when he cut the engine, pulled off his helmet, and toed out Viper’s kickstand.

“I’m n-not going inside with you,” she sputtered. “Not inside a
hotel
. You must think I’m crazy!”

“What?” He grinned at her over his shoulder, loving the way the too-large helmet pressed her hair down over her eyes and the way she kept blowing at it. “You know I’m a man of my word. I promised you no shenanigans, so there’ll be no shenanigans. Unless you’re worried
you
won’t be able to keep your hands off
me
once you have me all alone in a room?”

“In your dreams.”

“You have no idea,” he grumbled, swinging from the bike.

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” He extended a hand. “Come on. Up you go.”

“I said no.” She crossed her arms mutinously, and the sight of her, swathed in his thick jacket, hair all in her eyes, bare, mile-long legs straddling Viper’s seat, was almost enough to have him rethinking this entire idea.

He hadn’t brought her here to seduce her. He’d brought her here so they could talk. Just talk. Without the ever-hovering specter of interruption by a three-year-old boy.

And yeah, he supposed he could’ve taken her to a quiet spot for a drink, but then he’d be watching the door and the other patrons, constantly surveying his surroundings, scanning for threats. And he didn’t want to do that. Nope. He wanted to give Shell 100 percent of his attention. Because there were so many things he needed to say. Things he needed her to understand.

“
What
are you staring at?” she demanded, reaching up to remove the helmet and shake her hair loose. The move was unconsciously sexy and despite his intentions to the contrary, his dick perked up at the sight—the thing never did pay any attention to his intentions.

“I’m staring at the most beautiful woman in the world,” he said, letting his eyes wander down the incredible length of her legs again.

She rolled her lovely eyes, pursing her lips until he wanted nothing more than to nibble on them right before he reached under that tiny skirt and—

Christ, Sommers, you better check that right here, right now. That’s not
why
you
brought
her
here.

“Come on, let’s get inside where it’s warm.”

“No!”

“Shell, I just want to talk to you. Scout’s honor.”

“You weren’t a Boy Scout,” she scoffed.

“Of course I was.”

“Oh come on, Jake! I wasn’t born yesterday. A man doesn’t rent a hotel room just to
talk
to a woman.”

“I rented this hotel room as soon as I got into town two days ago, before I knew I’d be staying at your house. If you don’t believe me, you can check at the reception desk. But first, you’ll have to get off the bike.”

“I said no!”

He got the distinct impression she would’ve stomped her foot if she’d been standing. Funny, he’d actually like to see that.

“Uh-huh,” he took a page from her book and rolled his eyes. “And remember what happened the last time you said
no
? Do you need me to throw you over my shoulder again and haul your sweet ass inside?”

The look she shot him should’ve dropped him like a dumping wave. Instead, he crossed his arms, raised a brow, and waited.

Shell was a smart girl. She knew when she was beaten.

“Fine,” she spat for the second time in fifteen minutes, swinging one bare leg over Viper’s seat and—
sonofabitch!
—the woman had the best damned gams on the planet.

But
that
isn’t why you brought her here!

Uh-huh. Tell that to Mr. Chubby in my pants…

“I’m giving you fifteen minutes.” She wiggled her short skirt down her magnificent thighs, and he nearly went cross-eyed. She had the ability to rev him up like no other. “After that, I’m calling a cab and going home to relieve Frank from babysitting duty.”

He followed her to the elevators, only letting his eyes drop down to watch the swing of her ass once.

Okay, twice.

So sue him. Along with a killer pair of legs, the woman had a great ass. He was entitled to give it its due.

He expected her to continue to put up some sort of token resistance. But on the ride to the lobby, they were silent. On the walk through the lobby to the main set of elevators, they were silent. Up to the seventh floor, they were silent. Down the long hall leading to his room…

Yup. Silent.

It wasn’t until he inserted his keycard that she spoke up. “Nope. I’m not going inside with you. We can talk right here in the hall. It’s private enough.”

And there it was. He knew she’d been making it too easy on him.

Wrapping an arm around her shoulders to keep her from bolting, he dragged her into his hotel room.

“Hey! Hands off!” she grouched as he marched her toward the bed. When she saw the direction he was heading, she started backpedaling like he was threatening to throw her headfirst into a volcano.

“Oh, for crying out loud, Shell!” He gently but forcefully pushed her down on the mattress before angrily stalking to the chair shoved beneath the writing desk in the corner. “ Just sit there, and let me say what I have to say.”

Dragging the chair toward the bed, he swung it around backward and straddled the seat. For a long time, he let his eyes wander over her flushed face, cataloging the features he’d fallen in love with the first time he laid eyes on her.

“Well?” she finally asked, squirming uncomfortably beneath his careful regard. “You got me up here to talk. So talk.”

***

“I want to finish telling you about the barracks bombing.”

Oh, crap.

And that was the
one
thing guaranteed to have Michelle folding her hands in her lap and squashing the urge to run.

Because what had she said she was supposed to do when a fighting man wanted to talk?

Oh, yeah. She was supposed to listen.

Heaven
help
me…

When he spoke of such things, she had to fight to remember that he was a womanizer like her father, to remember his callous rejection, his abandonment, the years he’d ignored her plea to return to them, to
her
. When he talked about such things, she had fight to remember he wasn’t just a wounded soldier, a warrior who’d experienced enough horror and pain to last a lifetime. She had to fight to remember that he was
Jake
, and that the last thing she should do is trust him…

“Where did I stop last night before we were interrupted?” he asked.

Body parts. He’d talked about body parts.

“The crater left behind and the…uh,” she swallowed, “the…bodies of the Marines h-hanging from the trees.”

“Yeah.” He nodded, and she watched the thick column of his throat work over a hard swallow. “We dug in the rubble for two days. But there were no survivors. Not one. And it was at that moment, after forty-eight hours of sorting body parts and tearing my hands to shreds sifting through broken concrete blocks, that I started to hate them. And when I say
them
, I mean
all
of them. All those backward, medieval-thinking motherfuckers and their misplaced fervor and furor. I hated the way they talked, the way they walked and looked and smelled. I wanted to wipe every last one of them from the face of the planet once and for all.”

She nodded in sympathy, trying to imagine anyone witnessing the level of carnage created by that barracks bombing not coming away from it with a heart full of bitterness and rage. One hot, mutinous tear slid down her cheek as the sangria she’d had with dinner turned to vinegar in her stomach.

“Before the bombing, I’d been philosophical about killing the enemy,” he explained, briefly scanning her face before once more focusing on his hands, clenched into fists on the back of the chair. “I cut them down, because I was ordered to cut them down and because to allow them to remain alive posed a threat to everything and everyone I loved. But after the bombing,” he shook his head, his sun-bleached hair falling over his forehead reminding her of those times she’d run her fingers through it, “something evil and insidious sank its poisoned fingers into my soul, and I started to hate. I hated until I couldn’t think of anything else. A few weeks later, four of us were on patrol in the hills, and that hate found an opportunity to manifest itself. You see, we were tasked with questioning the locals about their knowledge of the events surrounding the blast.”

She swallowed, lifting a brow.

“I don’t know how many people we questioned. Hundreds probably. And, of course, everyone claimed to have zero knowledge of what happened. It was so fucking frustrating. Then one day we came upon a group of men. They were sitting next to this little mud brick house having some kind of meeting. They, too, swore they didn’t know anything about the bombing, but their eyes told a different story. Then, when we searched their house, we found news articles about the bombings, framed like goddamned trophies. And I knew then and there that even if they weren’t part of the actual bombing—which, as it turns out, they weren’t—they were the kind of men who wouldn’t hesitate to pick up an AK-47 or RPG and use it against coalition forces. Over there, you get where you can spot a fanatic from a mile away. And these guys…” he shook his head, “…these guys were fanatics with a capital F.”