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“Don’t take the bait,” I whisper with surprising firmness. “Let’s just go, Brock. It’s just words. Nothing he says can hurt me. Let’s just go. Please, Brock.”
Now Brock glances into my eyes, his brow furrowing briefly, like he’s as surprised as I am about how we’re suddenly acting like we’re a team, like we’re partners, like we’re . . . together.
And then without another word Brock leads me towards the door, the urgency kicking in again for both of us, a sudden realization that Kazi’s perverted lust for me got his evil mother to leave the room in disgust, his ferocious climax taking the edge off his madness just enough to give us an exit.
And we take the exit.
We walk out the door of this ugly concrete building together.
Brock leads me to a heavy motorcycle, glistening black paint and shining chrome. He swings his leg across the seat, heaves it off its stand, then turns his head halfway towards me, the hint of a smile on his lips, the glint of exhilaration in his eyes as he beckons for me to mount up behind him.
Without a word I swing my own leg over the seat, pulling my dress down as far as it can go so it’s not obscene. No idea what happened to my panties, so my wet slit is against the smooth oiled leather seat.
A thrill goes through me as my pussy presses against the cool leather and the hot engines thunder to life between my legs.
Then without hesitation I slide my body close to Brock’s, wrap my arms around his muscled abdomen, rest my head sideways against his broad back, close my eyes and let him lead me to whatever comes next.
8
BROCK
“Next stop is the border,” I call over my shoulder as we thunder out of downtown Juarez, towards the bridge that crosses the Rio Grande River, leading back to the safety of Texas and the United States. Well, safety for Yolanda, at least. I’m safer down here in Mexico, where the Skulls don’t have much of a presence, can’t get to me as easily. “I’ll take you to the walkway along the side of the bridge. There’s a border-crossing station at the end of the walkway. It’s staffed by U.S. Border Patrol, and there’s a Texas Police Department outpost along with emergency services right there. They’ll take care of you, Yolanda. You’ll be safe, all right? The nightmare is over.”
Yolanda flinches against me. She’s pressed up tight against my body from behind, her arms wrapped around my abdomen, her cheek pressed against my back. “You . . . you’re not coming with me?”
I shake my head, grimacing from what feels like a stab of physical pain in my chest when I hear the real question in Yolanda’s voice, understand that it’s not just me who feels like something happened back there, something that bonded us.
Bonded us forever.
Shit, I feel it in the way Yolanda’s clinging to me like she doesn’t want to let go. I sense it in the way my heart screams louder than the wind as the bridge to Texas shows up in the distance, lit up against the night sky like a walkway through the stars, a crossing that signals the end to our story.
Our story that ends with us apart.
How the fuck can it be any other way, I remind myself angrily as Yolanda burrows into me like a rabbit, her fingers digging into my body like claws, our bodies so tight together it feels like we’re the same organism, that what happened back there really did create a bond that can’t be broken, shouldn’t be broken, fucking won’t be broken.
“Give me your phone number,” I say above the roar of wind, trying to lighten the mood even though the heaviness of our looming separation drags my heart down to my damn boots. “I’ll call you once I smooth things over with the Skulls and it’s safe for me to come back to Texas.”
Yolanda says nothing, but the way her body slumps tells me everything. I can feel her heart sink just like mine is already drowning with dread. We both know that nobody’s calling anybody, that nothing is getting “smoothed over” anytime soon. You don’t kill a Skulls brother unless it’s been sanctioned by the Club leadership. And you sure as hell don’t kill a Skulls elder like Durand and ride away clean.
We ride in silence the rest of the way, the heaviness building to where I can barely breathe, the silence building to where I can’t hear a damn thing except my pounding heart. Now the walkway at the far end of the bridge comes into view, and I ease up on the throttle, slow my bike down, then roll to a stop while still on the Mexico side, far enough away from the Border Patrol booths that I won’t get caught on camera. The engine rumbles beneath us as I hold the heavy bike steady so Yolanda can dismount.
At first she doesn’t move. Then slowly she peels herself off me. Her hands let go of my abs. Her cheek moves away from my back. Her pussy unsticks itself from my seat, leaving a hint of her scent which will haunt my soul forever.
I’m afraid to look at Yolanda, terrified that I won’t be able to do the right thing and let her walk away, go back to her safe life in Texas or wherever the hell she lives.
See, you don’t even know where she’s from, don’t know a damn thing about her, I remind myself angrily. Whatever you’re feeling is just a mix of chemicals and hormones, adrenaline and testosterone, gasoline and gunsmoke, whiskey and woman.
Your woman.
“Try to leave me out of the police report, all right?” I say gruffly, still afraid to look at her as I fight back that possessive instinct, that urge to keep her, that irrational drive that says she’s mine, mine, mine. “Tell them you escaped, walked to the bridge. It’s not that far from the center of town. They’ll believe you.”
Yolanda nods. She’s standing on the dusty concrete walkway facing me, looking at me, willing me to look at her. But I can’t. For her sake, I fucking can’t look at her. Sure as hell can’t say goodbye, can’t let that thick lump of emotion make its way up my throat, force me to say things I can’t possibly mean even though my heart swears it’s true, my soul promises it’s real.
“I promise,” she says softly, her voice low and subdued, oozing with hurt that I feel in my heart, dripping with dread that still tugs at my soul. “Will . . . will the Texas Police raid Kazi’s whorehouses to look for Marybeth?”
I frown, glance up at her, see that she’s finally thinking about practical matters, the fear and worry back in those pretty brown eyes. “Who’s Marybeth?”
“My friend. They kidnapped us together. Kazi sent her to his whorehouses. Along with some others.” Yolanda speaks fast now, the panic rising to a peak. “I’m not sure if the others are Americans, but if the Texas Police bust Kazi’s whorehouses, they can free everyone, can’t they?”
