Under Fire, page 18
Pain stirred inside Alisa, knowing just how impossible it would be to save her now. They were far out of the city, and how the hell would anyone find her? Only Maria knew where the clubhouse was—perched at the top of the beach, a multi-million-dollar surf shack obtained by the proceeds of crime.
She closed her eyes, dreading her fate. She stopped hearing the reverend. She stopped feeling Dean’s clutch on her. All she could think about was her mother—specifically, her mother on her death bed. As her mother had drawn her final breaths, she’d been so happy that Alisa was going to med school, so happy that she was going to be someone.
Alisa opened her eyes, listening and observing as they drew closer to the legal part of the short ceremony. Her hair blowing, the beach was still except for the strong wind. It made it serene, almost unreal.
Dean drew her closer against him, grinning as he spoke with the reverend, fondly recalling how they’d met, fondly detailing the course of their four-year ‘situation-ship’. All of it was false.
She saw him for what he really was.
Her mother’s proud face flashed before her eyes once again.
Then Warren’s.
“I deserve better,” Alisa whispered.
The way Dean’s eyes flashed at her told her that he had heard her words—and he didn’t like it.
“What was that, dear?” the reverend asked, leaning forward.
Dean’s expression threatened—speak, and I’ll fucking kill you.
Alisa opened her mouth but froze.
He really would kill her, wouldn’t he? It was just a matter of time.
Yelling crashed through her mind. She should have never agreed to the deal. She’d always deserved better. She’d made a big mistake through all of it, but not the same type of happy mistake she’d made with Warren.
She backed up, peeling herself from his arms.
“What is this?” Dean kept his fake smile up, seeming to know that the reverend wouldn’t marry them if she was under duress. “You okay, doll?”
“I—” she started but chewed her lip as his eyes changed to murderous.
The reverend looked back and forth between them, about to say something. But then, something unexpected happened.
“Y’all need a witness?” A booming masculine voice fired down the beach—a voice Alisa would never forget.
Relief washed over her.
Dean and Alisa spun in unison to find Warren barreling toward them. Alisa sucked in breath as she watched the damn fine SEAL stopping right behind them in all his dominant, confident glory. Arms crossed, his face cold, intense—he stared Dean down like he was ready to fucking kill him.
Alisa didn’t doubt that he actually was.
Dean stepped forward to face the SEAL. Alisa never realized it before, but Warren was that much taller, that much more muscular. If she wasn’t scared shitless, she’d actually be enjoying how wet he instantly made her—and how intimidating he was to others.
And how he’d shown up.
“We haven’t met,” Warren said.
“No, we have not,” Dean responded.
Squaring themselves to each other, it looked like a goddamn duel. Alisa darted her eyes back and forth, realizing she was standing before a ticking time bomb.
Or a goddamn nuclear explosion.
“I’m Warren,” he said, but did not give his hand.
“Dean,” he replied. “Can I help you?”
Warren said nothing, flicking his gaze up and down Dean in disapproval. He sucked his teeth, the icing on the cake. His gaze traced the club patches on Dean’s jacket, seeming to put all the pieces of the puzzle together—all the things Alisa should have told him.
Finally, after letting the question hang for too long, Dean asked it again.
“I said, can I help you?”
Warren finally replied. “Sure. You ride?”
Dean’s mouth widened in a snarl-smile, and he shot back, “Sure.”
The reverend seemed to take a step back, trying to understand what was happening between the two men, who were obviously squaring off. Dean realized that and grinned as if nothing were wrong, beckoning the reverend back. He played it cool—very cool, apparently unwilling to let the ceremony crumble to a halt.
“That’s a military bike club.” Warren nodded at the patches, seeming to know exactly what the Deadeye MC was, surprising Alisa.
She’d always thought the club was fringe.
“Yeah, Marines,” Dean responded proudly, nodding at the marking on his jacket’s chest. “Two tours Iraq.”
“Cool,” Warren responded, betraying nothing.
“Yeah, I’ve seen a lot of shit,” Dean leaned back, putting his arm around Alisa’s waist, pulling her into him as she squeaked.
His chest puffed. Clearly, he was engaging in a dick-measuring contest, much to Warren’s obvious amusement.
“Lots of shit, huh?” Warren led him on.
“Fuck, I can’t even count the firefights, man,” Dean laughed, bordering on bragging, glancing back at the reverend. “But you know—chicks dig a vet. Iraq was a bitch—”
Warren cut him off, “Tell me about it.”
His tone was obviously sarcastic, drawing ire from Dean, who was used to people fawning over him.
“You been to Iraq, buddy?” Dean scoffed, shooting him the side eye.
“More times than I can count.”
“What—?” Dean began to ask but cocked his head instead. “You military or something?”
“Something.”
“He’s a SEAL, actually.” Alisa pushed Dean off, stepping away from him and toward Warren.
That meant something.
Dean’s focus snapped to Warren and back to Alisa, a whole lot of not good flushing up his cheeks. The reverend cocked his head, starting to understand what was happening—and the dick-measuring contest continued.
“A fucking Navy SEAL, huh?” Dean sneered at Warren, then back at Alisa.
“Yeah, ‘chicks dig a vet’,” Warren repeated the guy’s words, deadpan.
Screaming inside, Alisa sucked in a deep breath, wondering if that was her moment—once and for all. She started walking.
“Where do you think you are going?” Dean snapped, lunging to her wrist.
Warren launched forward, chopping Dean’s arm and sending him backward with ease, his body crumbling down into the sand, but the man bounced back up fast.
“Back the fuck up.”
“She’s mine.” Dean’s eyes grew dark, still holding back.
“Not anymore,” Alisa squeaked.
Warren brought his arm around Alisa, and she twisted her ring in her hand. Dean readjusted his sandy jacket in a huff. The outline of the knife he packed along his ribcage grew obvious, as if he were sending a clear signal to Warren.
But, before anyone could say anything else, Warren turned, hauling Alisa with him up the beach. She didn’t dare glance back, but in her peripheral vision, all she could see was an infuriated Dean flexing to fight and a startled reverend retreating from the beach.
Ushering her along, Warren’s body language told Alisa that he was on guard.
And she was under his protection.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Warren
Warren kept going, marching up the sand, despite Alisa gasping for air as he dragged her forward. He didn’t doubt her cardiovascular threshold. She was just in shock. He didn’t blame her. For once, he was a little stunned, too.
He flickered his gaze down to the mouth-watering woman holding his hand for dear life, like he was extracting her from a war zone. He never wasted time in taking control.
“Thank God you came,” she said behind him as they passed through beachy brush. “I didn’t think anyone was coming.”
“Yet, here I am.”
He felt her quake, clearly not missing his insinuation.
“How did you find me?”
“Maria,” he responded, continually assessing their surroundings. “She suspected Dean was behind it, the way that cop pulled you away.”
He ushered her forward onto the street, where he’d left his truck. There was a lot more to that story, but they didn’t have time to chat. Wasting no time, he wrapped his arm around her, heaving her into his truck. She yelped as he did, seemingly catching her off guard.
“Maria—” she started.
Yanking her seatbelt, Warren said, “So, he’s a fucking biker? And this is his clubhouse? You could have filled me in on those details.”
“I’m terrified to say what I really know, what I’ve seen.”
“You didn’t think it mattered?” he asked.
“Yes and no…”
As he buckled her in, he felt her body tensing and knew instantly what she was thinking. It had only been a matter of time. They’d been playing with fire. Shaking his head, he retracted, but when she placed her soft hand on his cheek, he was halted. The sensation of her gentle, tender touch threw him off, but not as much as seeing the look on her face.
“Thank you.”
Tears flushed into her dark eyes. Those goddamn eyes.
Warren sucked his teeth, trying to get a grip. They still had big problems.
He growled, “I’ll never understand why you’d throw your life away like that.”
Her palm flat against his cheek, she angled his face to hers, her lips trembling. “I never thought I’d fall in love.”
“Keep telling yourself that—and it will come true.”
“I was wrong. I know I was wrong because—” But she stopped talking.
The way she trailed her gaze up and down his face, pursing her quivering lip—it hit Warren hard. He knew exactly what she was going to say next.
And he didn’t want to fucking hear it.
Instinctively, he pulled back, perceiving danger. He wasn’t wrong.
“Leaving so soon?” Dean called out from the bushes lining the edge of the beach.
Warren whipped around, squaring himself to her approaching ex, hearing her cry out behind him to get in the truck. She didn’t want him fighting Dean. Laughable. Warren slammed the passenger door to the truck shut, and she didn’t have a goddamn choice anymore.
He was going to handle things his way.
“I think we need to have a conversation,” Dean said, cockily stepping up to him like they were evenly matched.
“Go fuck yourself.”
Dean put on a show of making a surprised face, then snapped, “Ah, too fucking cool, huh?”
Then, Dean lunged forward, lashing out his knife from underneath his jacket and hacking at Warren. Warren defended, pushing Dean off, easily sending him backward. That seemed to only piss the guy off further, and he clutched at his knife.
“Coming at me with a knife?” Warren challenged. “Must be too fucking scared to fight me like a man.”
“I ain’t scared of nothing!”
Warren laughed. “How about you drop the knife, and we can see about that?”
The expression that crossed Dean’s face betrayed the truth. The man was, in fact, scared of something.
“How about we make our own deal?” Dean said, circling.
Warren grew silent, standing strong, guarding Alisa in the truck. He wasn’t going to show any sign of weakness. He knew he had a problem. His back injury and his scar had been screaming at him all day. He had to bite his cheek not to wince in pain.
Dean continued, trying to look tough. “How about I kill you—and get Alisa. Does that sound fair?”
“Keep threatening. Keep giving me cause.”
He knew he could break the guy in half if he wanted to. He just needed a reason to make it plausible self-defense.
Overconfident, Dean jumped forward, slashing out with his knife again. Warren shifted to block him and punched him hard several times, winding the man and drawing blood from his face. Aggression was pumping through Warren’s veins, and his training had him on autopilot. He knew exactly what to do.
Well, that was until Dean lunged forward one final time, and Warren’s back seized. That was the moment he faltered. That split-second delay in defense proved to be the advantage Dean needed, catching his knife alongside Warren’s ribcage toward his back, driving hard in that vulnerable spot.
His fucking scar.
Enraged and losing his cool, Warren grabbed at Dean’s throat, holding him in mid-air with one hand while he punched the asshole into a state of semi-consciousness. He dropped the guy to the ground, and Dean moaned in pain.
“I’m going to do us all a favor because I’m a real nice guy.” Warren opened his wallet. “How much does she owe you?”
“I don’t want your fucking money,” Dean said. “It’s never been about the money.”
“No, it never was. You just used money to control her, to keep her under your thumb. Not anymore.”
“She’s not getting away this easy.”
Warren cocked his head, realization washing over him. Then, he let out a long laugh. Amused. He reached down, grabbed Dean at the throat and squeezed.
“She’ll get away with murder, if I say so. And so will I,” Warren said. “This is your last chance. How much does she owe you?”
Dean coughed up blood, grunting something about two hundred thousand.
Warren scratched two-hundred-and-fifty thousand on a blank check, rounding it up. In the memo, he jotted down—Alisa’s debt. He folded up the check and tossed it down on Dean’s chest, unceremoniously.
“Take it to the bank,” he growled. “And stay the fuck out of our lives. She’s mine now—and if you even so much as think about her again, you’ll be face down in a ditch.”
Shoving his wallet back into his pocket, Warren heard the distant roaring engines of motorcycles. As the sun dropped, Warren felt an odd chill—one he shouldn’t feel given the heat of that LA summer. His instincts didn’t betray him—and the distinctive noise of motorcycles grew closer, ripping down the Pacific Coast Highway.
Warren gazed over, realizing that the bikers were pulling onto the street, looking around. It didn’t take long before a few of the guys had caught sight of him—standing tall over the bloody body of their boss.
“That’s right,” Warren grumbled to himself. “I fucking beat your boss. Take a picture.”
Satisfied, he jumped into the driver’s seat of his truck. He flipped the engine on, too impassioned to say anything about the tears streaming down Alisa’s face, too furious to listen to her when she gasped that he was bleeding through his shirt and too damn fired up to feel where Dean had slashed him open.
“He called in reinforcements.”
“What?” she panted. “Did they see you?”
“I don’t give a fuck. We’re done here.” He hit the gas, peeling to the edge of the parking lot where it met with the highway.
“Where are you taking me?” Alisa whipped her head to face him, seeming to drink him in.
His body shifted in his seat. The way her dark eyes hit him… He gripped the wheel of the truck just to ground himself.
“Warren.”
“Just trust me. I got this.”
* * * *
I’ve stolen a biker’s girl, Warren grumbled to himself as he parked his truck in his garage.
Oh, he knew exactly what it was…after he’d seen that fuck’s jacket. There was no mistaking it. The goddamn Deadeye MC—Warren knew about that club. Vets mostly, some Army, some Navy—one of the roughest military biker clubs. Started off good but went to the wrong side of the tracks real quick.
“Should we head inside?” Alisa called over to him from the garage landing. Trepidation still coursed through her tone.
“Yeah,” Warren said, stretching around his ribcage to feel the blood on his back.
“Are you coming?”
“I’ll be a minute.”
Even though he could tell she didn’t want to, she listened to him.
And once she was gone, he made his way to the sink in the garage—cleaning out his wound.
The asshole had only caught him a bit. It was just a surface laceration. Removing his shirt, patching up the cut, he couldn’t help but grind out a deep, guttural groan in agony, nearly falling over the sink. He clutched the sides as he felt pure pain ricochet through his back. His scar. His injury. He’d been doing everything he absolutely shouldn’t be doing, making it so much worse than it had to be.
Sucking it up, convincing himself that it didn’t hurt, he paced to the front of his garage. At his height, he was able to glare through the small windows in his garage door, keeping an eye on his quiet street. He was too fired up to be trusting. He had to have a plan.
Warren pulled out his phone, texting his friends—the ones who had left the SEALs and lived nearby. He needed a goddamn insurance policy—not for himself but for her. After a few minutes, he strode inside, finding Alisa standing at his kitchen island, her trembling hands trying to peel a banana.
“You must be hungry.” Warren observed her every move, still processing everything she’d said to him.
“I’m tired,” Alisa admitted, and only ate half of it. “And I shouldn’t stay. I’ve missed an important meeting—for my career.”
“It can wait.”
She shot him a look. He wasn’t interested in arguing.
“Whatever it is, it can wait. You can call them and reschedule. Rest. You know where the bed is,” he said. His shoulder muscles twitched, and he felt the overwhelming need to protect her—to take care of her.
She dropped the rest of the peel and pushed away from him. She left in silence, but she had listened to him, climbing up the stairs.
Cracking the Scotch in his kitchen, he poured himself a heavy glass. Was that what it felt like to have a woman in his life? It wasn’t just the alcohol burning down his throat. There was something else boiling inside him, something about what she’d said to him. He didn’t want to think about it.
The Scotch seemed to agree with him, reminding him how far he’d come in such a short time with Alisa— How much she’d opened his eyes to what he was doing to himself. She’d been doing it to herself, too—self-medicating through work.
