Page 9 of Bought By the Biker

“Kazi, I swear to hell, if you sell her to him, we are finished doing business!” Durand yells. “And that’s my fucking money anyway. He can’t buy the woman with my money!”

Kazi shrugs, then cracks a grin. “Well, that is a private dispute that needs to be resolved between the two of you. But as far as Kazi is concerned, what has been resolved is the price. It is now set at fifty thousand. Going once. Going twice. Sold for fifty thousand to whoever hands me that bag.”

Now Durand lunges for the leather bag, grabbing the handle and trying to wrench it loose from Murphy’s grasp. But Murphy doesn’t let go, instead side-stepping Durand and then swinging his right hand and smashing that whiskey glass into the side of Durand’s head, right above his ear.

The glass shatters against Durand’s skull, sending streaks of whiskey and blood across the room, a line of red drops spattering the front of my yellow sundress. Durand staggers backwards and roars, then reaches behind his back and pulls out a black handgun, firing wildly in Murphy’s direction.

But Murphy is no longer in that direction. Moving swift like the wind the silent biker rolls to his right, drops to one knee, his right hand sliding behind his back and emerging with a silver handgun that’s already spitting fire, its angry barrel pumping hot bullets that slam into Durand’s chest thud-thud-thud.

I hold the sides of my head and scream, the chaos of gunshots and gunsmoke and blood and whiskey all combining to a wild frenzy of absolute madness. Something in my brain screams, “Run, Yolanda, run!” but my body doesn’t respond, my bare feet stay rooted to the floor, my palms stuck to the sides of my head, my scream endless and high-pitched until I can’t hear it anymore, can’t hear anything anymore.

Then I realize it’s because there’s nothing to hear.

The shooting has stopped.

The smoke clears and Durand is sprawled on the floor, three gaping wounds in his chest, dark blood already pooling on the granite floor beneath his dead body.

Now common sense finally kicks in, and I try to make a run for the door.

But Mother Kazi is too smart—and surprisingly strong.

She grabs my hair as I try to whiz past her, yanking me back so hard that my bare feet slip on the sticky puddle of blood on the floor. With a scream I go down hard on my ass, thankfully landing on dry tile instead of Durand’s blood. It hurts like hell, but for once I’m grateful for the extra cushion that comes with a big butt. Mother Kazi is still holding my hair, and now Kazi has his gun drawn and Russian henchmen are pouring in from every doorway, everyone yelling in Russian as they surround Murphy and point their weapons at him.

I don’t even bother to stand. My shoulders slump in defeat. I probably wouldn’t have made it out of the building anyway. Maybe if I’d run immediately when the shooting started I might have gotten out, but my body just wouldn’t obey my brain in that moment.

Was it shock?

Or was it a decision.

Some instinct that came from my body, overruling my brain.

An instinct that whispered, “Stay.”

Stay with him.

Stay with the biker.

The biker who just bought you.

4

BROCK

All I’ve bought is a quick death. Maybe for both of us.

I place my weapon on the floor, straighten up slow and careful, hands out to my sides, gaze focused on Kazi even though a dozen weapons are pointed at my head. The leather satchel is on the floor, and Kazi grunts and snatches it up, unzipping the top and pulling it open. He glances inside, then grins and zips it back up. He hands the bag to Mother Kazi, who finally lets go of Yolanda’s hair.

My gaze lingers on Yolanda even though I don’t want to look at her, don’t want the beast that’s awake in me to feast its hungry eyes on that scared young woman in her thin-strapped sundress, a slash of her petite cleavage visible from above, her beautiful legs pulled up against her chest as she hugs her knees and stares blankly at the floor, rocking back and forth gently like she’s trying to go to a different place in her mind, away from what must be the worst kind of hell for a woman.

Especially a woman who’s never been touched.

Never been taken.

Never been loved?

My heart hammers behind my chest, and it’s not just the adrenaline from the fight. Killing Durand was pure instinct, a bang-bang moment that’s habit to a gunslinger like myself. A guy draws and shoots in my direction and it’s game on—and game over for the other guy.

But shit, maybe it wasn’t as simple as that with Durand. Although I sure as hell won’t grieve for the guy, the instinct that drove me to kill wasn’t just self-defense, wasn’t just self-preservation, wasn’t just survival.

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