Precarious

“I’m not spoiled,” I say, tugging on my cuffs.

He snorts. “Not spoiled my ass. Look at you. You’re up yourself so fuckin’ far you can’t see your own head.”

“That’s not true,” I protest.

“Ain’t it, babe?” he snorts.

“I could put you on your ass in a matter of seconds, buddy,” I spit at him.

“Is that a challenge?”

“I’ll make it one when my ribs aren’t broken.”

He smirks. “You’re on.”

I refuse to answer him. He pulls out a cleansing wipe and reaches towards my face, but I flinch away.

“Don’t touch me,” I growl.

He glares at me, his grey eyes narrowing. “You got two fuckin’ choices here; think carefully. You either let me help you, or you sit here in your own dried blood.”

I stare at him, my expression filled with hate. “Fine,” I grate.

He leans forward again, wiping the dried blood from my face. I keep my eyes trained on the wall beside us, not wanting to look at him. He cleans me up, and then puts a patch on the laceration under my eye. His face is still battered from his fight, and for a moment I think that we’re matching with our eye gashes.

“You need to clean up and get some clothes on that aren’t covered in blood.”

Remembering Larry and Peter has my stomach coiling tightly. “You killed them?” I say, my voice shaky.

“They had it comin’. Believe it or not, babe, those men were bad guys.”

“I’m starting to believe that,” I mutter.

He nods. “Because of that, we need all evidence gone. We gotta burn your clothes.”

I snap my head up. “This jacket was more than five hundred dollars. Look at it, it’s epic.”

Why did I wear the one jacket I actually loved today? That’ll teach me. It’s a biker jacket, too. All leather and spunk. Dammit.

He snorts. “Well, it’ll make nice firewood then, won’t it?”

I grit my teeth. “I have no other clothes.”

“Plenty of women’s clothes here.”

“Why would there be clothes here? Is this your whorehouse?”

He smirks at me, showing me a dimple in his cheek.

“You got it right on, babe. It is a bit of a party house, lots of fucking.”

“You’re disgusting. You can play all you want, biker, but I know what you really are. I saw you in that prison; I saw what your brothers here didn’t see. So act it up. I know the truth.”

His eyes flash and I know I’ve hit the nail on the head. Who is the real Beau? It’s certainly not this act he’s putting on for me now. He hurts; he just won’t admit it.

“Listen here, princess,” he growls, a low rumble forming in his chest. “Don’t pretend you know anything about me. I told you before, I won’t fuckin’ repeat myself: the reason I didn’t give you fuckers anything is because any word I fuckin’ say can be used against me or my club.”

There we go with the my club again.

“You tell yourself whatever you want.”

He opens his mouth to spit something else at me, but someone comes into the room. Another biker, this one is . . . I blink . . . that can’t be right. I blink again. He’s in . . . a wheelchair? Krypt sees me staring at the man and barks, “Take a fuckin’ picture, it lasts longer.”

I jerk and turn my gaze away from the man.

“Tyke,” Krypt says, “watch her for a minute. I gotta talk to Rhyder.”

Rhyder. Tyke. Krypt. Clearly these guys don’t use their real names. The man in the chair wheels himself in, his strong arms rippling as he moves. Krypt shoots me a glare before leaving the room. I turn and stare at Tyke. He’s a really, really stunning man.

He’s equally as bulky as the other men, with rippling muscles running up his arms and no doubt continuing under his shirt. He’s got messy russet-colored hair and deep, deep brown eyes. They’re almost black. He’s equally as scary and intimidating as the rest. I turn my eyes away when he holds my curious gaze.

“Never seen a man in a chair before?” he grunts.

I turn to him. “I, uh, yeah.”

“Just not a biker?”

I shake my head, my cheeks flushing. “No, never a biker.”

“Accident,” he says. It’s clear he’s probably had to tell this story a lot, so now he shares it before the question is asked. I get that. “Fucked my legs. Crushed all the bones from my thighs down. Can’t feel anything from just slightly under my knees. Enough that I can’t stand real well, so I spend most of my time in this.”

He pats his chair and I stare at it, unable to stop the smile creeping across my face when I see it’s been decked out, Harley-style. Flames have been painted up the side, making it look like a gas tank. It has thick wheels with a whole lot of bling.

“Will you ever walk again?” I ask, feeling sorry for him.

He shrugs. “Probably—they tell me most of it’s in my head.”

“They?”

“Shrinks.”

I scrunch up my nose. He wheels forward, using his big hands to pull the chair across the room. He goes right past me, leaving the door open. I’m not ashamed at my thought in that moment—he can’t chase me. I never said it was right, but I certainly don’t want to be stuck in this house with a group of bikers who are keeping me prisoner, for longer than I need to.