He looks so out of place in the clinical setting, all towering muscle and worn leather.And his brooding dark looks would scare any child and most adults if they passed him on a gurney or in a wheelchair.Likely they’d think they were having some kind of drugged-up, hellish nightmare.
I slip into the staff room, grab my purse, and switch my white coat for a denim jacket and then tiptoe back past Todd who is still sleeping with his mouth open.
What the hell am I doing?
Reaper grunts when I return and then heads in the direction of a fire escape.The door is open, which is unusual, and we slip out into the dawn light.
Before me are four Harleys with long chrome handles and flames painted onto the exhausts.Three riders sit astride them, helmets on, cuts all matching.Big menacing shadows waiting to roar to life.
“Where is she?”I ask.
“There.”He nods at a black four-by-four with dark windows.
“Can I see her?”
“We haven’t got time for that.But she’s okay, trust me.”
Reaper guides me to a Harley that has an additional image of a spider on the exhaust.He hands me a black helmet.“Put this on.”
I do as he asks and then watch as he does the same and climbs onto his bike.
“Get on,” he grunts.
Quickly I hop on behind him.
“Hold on here.”He grabs my right arm and tugs it around his waist.
The crinkle of the leather under my arm and the heat of his back on my chest gives me an unexpected thrill, and I lock my fingers together at his abdomen.
And then, with a lion’s roar, the bikes rev to life and we follow the four-by-four out of the hospital loading bay.
I tell myself I’m not going willingly.That I’ve been kidnapped.That I’m going to help Consuela and not because the throb of the machine between my legs is the most excitement I’ve had in a while, and the badass biker I’m clinging to isn’t every sort of trouble I shouldn’t want but do.
Chapter Four
Twenty Miles West of Denver
