Page 16 of Falling for the Biker
She’s pickingme.
7
Ruby
This man makes me so mad. Furious, even.
He comes in and saves the day, saves me, and he thinks I’ll be able to walk away and forget all about him. Is he serious? Does he think I’m that fragile? Or does he think so little of himself that he believes he’s something to be forgotten?
The same hands that just stole a life—hands I watched squeeze the breath from a man—are suddenly on me. But they aren’t violent. They’re desperate. They plunge into my rain-soaked hair, tangling in the strands, and he tugs my head back just enough to change the angle.
The kiss explodes.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and I taste the rage on his lips mixed with the salt of rain. It’s the taste of the man who killed for me, and the man who’s terrified of loving me.
A broken sound—a sob, a gasp, I don’t know—escapes my throat, and he swallows it whole. My own hands scramble forpurchase, fisting in the wet leather of his vest, clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing in a world that’s just shattered. I kiss him back with everything I have, with all the fear and the relief and the wild, terrifying hope he ignited in me.
This is madness. We’re standing feet from a body, in rain that is now falling harder, and all I can feel is the searing heat of his mouth on mine, the solid thud of his heart against my chest. He’s not pushing me away. He’s pulling me in, deeper, as if he can fuse us together.
When we finally break apart, gasping for air, our foreheads rest together. The rain streams down our faces, mingling like tears. His breath is ragged against my lips.
“Ruby,” he rasps, like speaking is impossible.
I nod, already understanding.
Then, there’s the sound of rumbling. Not from thunder up above, but the sound of motorcycles approaching.
Don’t these guys know driving on wet pavement is dangerous?
Oddly enough, I feel relieved. That is, until I see three bikes and a hearse.
Ahearse.Are these guys serious?
I recognized two of the men straight away as they were talking back and forth. Judge and Ripper, if I remember right. The third is the scary scar-looking guy.
Each one of these guys looks scarier than the last, but the one who takes the cake is the one driving the hearse. I’ve never seen a skeleton before, but the man who steps out has to be the closest one to it.
He’s unnaturally tall and gaunt, his black clothes hanging off a frame that seems to be all sharp angles and bone. His skin is a pale, waxy gray, stretched taut over high cheekbones and a sharp jawline. It’s his eyes that steal my breath—they’re sunken so deep in their sockets they look like empty pools of shadow.
He doesn’t walk; he glides toward us, and the air grows cold in his wake. He smells of old soil, and something else… something sweetly rotten that clings to the back of my throat. Just standing near him gives me the creeps, an instinct screaming that this is a creature that deals only in endings.
I quickly learn his name is Grim through a sharp order from Judge, and the name fits him perfectly. I can’t watch as he and two other men from the same vehicle efficiently bundle William’s body into a dark bag. Their movements are practiced, emotionless. Like they’ve done this a hundred times.
But I can’t stop the way my stomach clenches into a cold, hard knot when Grim turns his head. His eyes only pass over me for a second before landing back on Judge. His mouth stretches into a smile that doesn’t touch the darkness of his eyes. His voice is a dry, rustling whisper, like leaves scraping over stone. “Don’t you worry. I can make this look like a suicide. All I need is some rope thick enough to match the marks your man left.”
Judge then pins his attention on us, and by the familiar, furious clench of his fists, I can see he’s vibrating with agitation.
“At least it was a clean kill,” Ripper chirps in the background, happily adding fuel to the fire. He’s smiling as he watches the cleanup. His eyes then slide from Judge to us. “Good thing you said no blood. Imagine getting rid of all the evidence in this rain. Shit gets everywhere. Great job keeping it clean.”
Diesel doesn’t flinch, but his grip on me tightens immediately. He doesn’t take the words like praise.
Now that I’ve made up my mind to stay, he really may never let me go. The terrifying part is, as Grim glides back to his hearse looking like Death’s personal chauffeur, something so horrifying shouldn’t feel as right as it does.
The hearse pulls away, its taillights washing over us in a wave of bloody red. In that eerie glow, I squeeze Diesel’s hand, my own gone cold. The silence left behind is heavier than the rain.
Judge nears with Ripper at his heel while the third lingers behind long enough to dig around in his saddlebag.
I’ve got a bad feeling, a sinking certainty in my gut. This isn’t over. They’re not just here for the cleaning up of a body; they’re here to reprimand Diesel for his actions.
