Stephanie Tyler: Vipers Run

Instead of retreading old ground, I said, “I need a job,” and when he paled, I quickly added, “Not one of yours.”

“Good, because that’s not happening.” He gave a smile. “I can show you how to work a camera.”

I opened my mouth but “no” didn’t come out. But really, filming gay porn—and really, many of the guys weren’t gay at all—wasn’t anyone’s life’s goal, was it? Even Tenn had a side business. “I’ve got to find myself.”

Tenn rolled his eyes. “I didn’t realize you were lost.”

“You specialize in that.”

He sobered and nodded in concession. “You hide it better than most. Or maybe you’re not as lost as you think you are.”

I swallowed the last of my coffee. “It’s just . . . you’ve been really good to me.”

“I sense a ‘but.’”

“I can’t stay here forever.”

I waited for the lecture about the dangers, about how I had no money, no job or car, but it never came.

Instead, he checked his watch. “I don’t think we’ve hit forever yet, Calla. Not even close.”

My eyes opened sometime after four that morning. I woke restless as anything and I wasn’t sure why. I tried to read a little, but I couldn’t concentrate. I gave up, went to the bathroom, splashed some water on my face, brushed my teeth and figured I was up for good. Maybe I’d go watch some mindless infomercials or Bravo reruns of Real Housewives .

But as soon as I walked into the living room, my nerve endings tingled, like they were foretelling something of great importance. I looked around the now quiet first floor, a sense of impending change heightening my awareness, and I simply waited.

He stepped out of the shadows and I knew better than to be afraid. Not for my life at least—though I don’t know how I knew. I just did, with the same amount of certainty that I knew that the moon was still there, even if I couldn’t see it through the clouds.

His walk was silent, even along a hardwood floor that squeaked under the best conditions, and despite his heavy black motorcycle boots. Because I’d dragged my eyes down there first, certain that once he caught my gaze in his, I’d never escape.

I tracked up his legs, clad in faded jeans that were especially worn in the crotch area—deliciously so—and up his broad chest to his shoulders. He wore a black T-shirt stretched across his chest, along with a black leather vest with a snake patch on the front.

Black leather.

MC patch.

Snake.

I breathed harshly when I saw the scars, bunched like cords along the side of his neck. I didn’t know what would happen when I looked up farther, but I wasn’t worried. I found myself staring at a pair of angry, beautiful eyes, a calm expression that looked fierce because of scars running down the left side of his face and neck. The fresh scars that riddled his cheek did nothing to diminish his handsomeness. If anything, they made him inexorably more sexy.

“Calla.”

The voice was hoarse. Raw. Dangerous.

Calla.

That one word. I’d fallen in love with him when he’d said my name on the phone that very first time. It was him.

Christian Cage Owens.

There were so many emotions flying through me at the moment, they all fought for equal attention. When I opened my mouth, I had no idea what would come out . . .

“I thought you were dead.” Not a bad opening.

“I told you I don’t break promises, sweetheart.”

I’d been led to think he was dead for nearly two months and that’s all he could say? “Alive, and an asshole.”

He gave a clipped nod of his head, but something flickered behind his eyes before they went cold and hard again. “Now that we’ve got that shit out of the way, let’s go.”

In every dream, every fantasy, Cage came back for me, and I went with him without hesitation.

But we were firmly entrenched in reality. “Go? I’m not going anywhere with you.”

If it had gone smoothly, Cage probably would’ve flatlined. Again. Instead, he stared at Calla, knowing there was no way to keep the hunger from his eyes. In his mind, he’d already laid claim to her. She’d given him something to hang on to—a reason to fight, to live, something to come back to. He’d come back for her because she’d reminded him that there was always a reason to keep fighting.

He’d rehearsed what he was going to say to her the entire ride here.

Hey, I didn’t die. Good to meet you.

Thanks for taking one for the team.

I hope you had unlimited cell phone minutes.

Because really, what did you say to someone after she offered to help you and, in return, you fucked up her entire life? Calla Benson had a bounty on her head, because the Heathen chapter up in New York knew she’d worked for Bernie. And they knew she was missing. And even if she’d run away for reasons entirely unrelated to his shit, the Heathens would be looking for her, just in case.

He had a bounty on his head too, but that was nothing new—he’d been born with it in place.

And since he still hadn’t known what to say, he’d almost turned back. As it was, he’d been avoiding Tenn for weeks. Talon too. And Preacher, even though he and Tals had visited him in the hospital, had known he wasn’t dead even before Tenn did. As soon as Cage had pulled through, they’d all walked out and now he was left with finding a way to make amends to all of them.

But Calla was first on the list. Preacher was going to kill him anyway, so what the hell difference did it make?

Calla.

She was gorgeous. He’d had beautiful women before, but Calla Benson was in an entirely different league. He’d researched her as soon as he could sit up. And he hadn’t been prepared to play bad boy from the other side of the tracks to her “I’m a rich girl pretending to be something I’m not” act.

Although maybe it wasn’t an act.

He stilled as she stared at him. The stare was expected; the softness in her eyes while she did so, not as much. He ignored that part, though, even turned his head so she could get a full look at the scars. They were barely healed, ugly as fuck—and he didn’t give a shit. His heart was still beating.

Because of the pretty, cool blond in front of him. She’d turned from soft to goddamned angry in an instant, and if looks could kill, he’d be a goner. “You’re still pissed.”

“You think?” She wasn’t scared of him. She was angry . . . because he’d hung up the phone. Because he wouldn’t let her help. Because he hadn’t gotten in touch and because Tenn had kept his secret, knowing she’d be pissed at him for it.

There were a lot of pissed-off people circling him. And here he was, prepared to add another one to the already long list. “Calla—”

“Don’t.” She took a step back. Watched him, like she was trying to take it all in. He stayed in place for her inspection, watched her watching him. Jesus, he was naked under that gaze, and somehow she didn’t goddamned know it. Yet.

Cage continued to stare at me. His stance was aggressively, blatantly sexual. All anyone would have to do was look at him to know he’d know exactly what to do with a woman in bed.

When I didn’t say anything, he walked toward me. He moved like a predator, smooth and silent, with more than a hint of danger. Big, strong, graceful. He moved like a motorcycle, sleek, fast, nimble, able to take corners on the fly.

Economy of movement while watching everything without seeming to, and missing nothing. I was vibrating. The need to reach out and touch him was overwhelming, and so I did—ran my fingers along his bare wrist. His skin was warm under my fingertips. Solid. Alive.