Page 3 of Run Little Killer

NIX

" R eady, old man?" I ask Rhett, opening my wallet as I push up to my feet.

He tips his head back, draining the rest of his drink before slamming the empty bottle down on the table. "I am now."

Grabbing a crisp hundred, I wave it in the air before slapping it down on the lacquered surface and nodding towards the bartender.

It’s more than enough to cover the six beers, plus a solid tip for him and the frail old hag that served us.

The worn out gash hovers over the register, scowling in our direction.

The kuttes and rockers always earn uneasy stares, so her judgment doesn’t even begin to faze me.

I mutter a thanks as we head toward the exit.

Even if I didn’t have a fresh stack of cash sitting in my wallet, it’d be a cold day in hell before I’d waste my efforts robbing some hole in the wall joint like this. Petty ass crimes like that are never worth the bills in the drawer.

I check the time on my phone as we step out into the half-lit parking lot.

Not as late as I thought it was . Briarwood should've been long in our rear-views by now, but no , fucking Rhett laid eyes on a rundown bar at the first exit with a banner boasting that it carries Angler's Ale, and he just had to stop.

The beer sucks– it's unfiltered and tastes like stale Cheerios, there's a damn good reason many places don't carry it– but this last run was a long one, and I didn't feel like fighting with his ass.

“Westbrook?” Rhett asks, pulling on his leather gloves.

“Nah.” I shake my head, trading out my phone for the black bandana in my pocket. “We can make it a little further. Cedar Point?” Gravel crunches under my boots as I tie the bandana around my face and twist my hat around. “Unless it’s too far past your bedtime?”

Rhett scrubs a hand down his face before cracking his neck with a smirk. “Lead the way, ya little shit.”

Squeezing the clutch, I swing a leg over the leather seat of my Harley Dyna and hit the starter.

The V-twin engine rumbles to life between my thighs as I shift my gaze towards Rhett.

He mounts his bike, tying on his own bandana and cranking the engine.

With a lift of my chin, I peel out, sending dirt and gravel spraying out behind me.

The sharp bite of the late October chill cuts through my hoodie as we pull onto the frontage road that runs parallel to I-80. Rhett slides up beside me, revving his engine before he flips me the bird and rips past. I dart a glance down at my speedometer. It's a safe bet he's pushing triple digits.

I chuckle as his taillight blazes up the road ahead. The bastard may be forty, but he sure as hell doesn't act it.

Rhett's basically the older brother I never fucking wanted. When I joined Mav's crew, he took it upon himself to be my mentor, and somehow along the way he became family with or without the patch.

Twisting the throttle, I take it wide open and the needle climbs higher as I close the distance. Eight-five… ninety… ninety-five. Adrenaline buzzes through my veins the faster I go, giving me a rush that rivals even the deadliest high as I catch up to him.

Nothing, not even good whiskey or easy pussy, seems to give me the same thrill that I get from riding at night.

There’s just something about the way the world seems to halt.

The air is calm, streets empty, like I’m the only one still in existence.

I’m not a religious fuck, but the sense of peace that settles deep in my marrow as I cruise down an endless stretch of highway cloaked under the stars with the wind whipping past– that’s the closest I’ll ever get to heaven.

Which is exactly why I don’t mind taking these overnight protection runs.

Well, that, and the payouts aren't half bad.

Rhett lets off the throttle, settling into the ride at cruising speed as I stagger myself behind him.

Tension eases from my shoulders, left hand coming to rest on my thigh as the city lights dim at our backs.

My mind starts to quiet as the trees lining the sides of the road grow more dense with each mile until they’re all that surrounds us.

Downshifting, I lean into the curve, following the bend in the road past thickets of trees.

When I straighten the bike, something catches my eye in the gleam of our headlights.

"What the fuck?" I murmur as we roll up on an old Chevy truck parked on the shoulder, its hood propped open.

Coming to a stop beside Rhett, our bikes idle roughly in place as we share a look of confusion. "That don't seem right," he says, leaning over and hooking a thumb at the pair of bloody cut-up feet hanging off the tailgate. "We should check on them."

"Yeah," I sigh, scrubbing a hand over my face and pulling down my bandana .

I knock the kickstand down and dismount my bike, grumbling a tentative “hey” as I round the bed of the truck.

No response.

As soon as I lean forward to peer inside, I jerk back in surprise. Shit , laying in the back of the truck is a girl in what looks to be a blood-stained sweatshirt. I swear to god if this is a dead body, I will fucking lose it. I'm not in the mood to deal with that shit tonight.

"Hey!" I say louder, slapping her foot.

"Fuck off!" she screams as she starts to thrash around, kicking me straight in the sack.

"Goddamn it!" I spit, my stomach churning as I double over in pain. This is exactly why it doesn't pay to be a damn good samaritan.

The chick is still fucking screaming when Rhett stalks up and darts a glance in my direction. Gritting my teeth, I cup my balls with one hand and motion to him with the other. "Shut her up!"

The last thing we need is someone to hear this shit and come blow it out of proportion.

Rhett lunges forward, snatching her by the ankle and yanking her towards him.

Covering her mouth with his other hand, he holds her against him, dipping his head lower to tell her we won't hurt her.

He keeps talking softly to her, trying to get her to calm down, while my hands come to rest on my thighs and I take a few more deep breaths, willing my balls to drop for the second time.

After a minute or two, I straighten, adjusting myself as I close in on the wild-eyed brunette in Rhett’s grip. "We all good?" I ask, lifting a brow in his direction.

"Yeah," he answers, lowering his hand from the girl’s mouth and shooting her a wink as he lowers his bandana and smiles. "Aren't we, darlin'? "

A little puff of air parts her lips as she leans her head back against his chest and studies his face.

Rhett’s got a smile smooth enough to convince a nun to blow him, and that’s all it seems to take for this girl, too.

Slowly, she nods her head in compliance as her rigid posture softens.

With a sigh, she runs a hand through her chestnut waves and turns to look at me with a set of eyes unlike any I've ever seen.

Steely gray irises lock onto mine, both strikingly unique and hauntingly beautiful.

Placing a hand on the tailgate, I lean in closer, lips curling up in a smile as I ask, “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Her throat bobs with a harsh swallow as she tugs the crimson splattered cuffs of her gray crewneck down over her hands, darting a nervous glance between the two of us.

“Lennon,” she offers as she shifts her position, putting distance between her and Rhett.

I drag the ball of my tongue ring across the back of my teeth, humming in response as I take in her delicate features.

She’s all soft curves and creamy skin except for a scar running up her cheek and into her hairline.

A faint blush creeps across her cheeks the longer I stare.

She pins her bottom lip between her teeth, and I can’t help but wonder what she's doing out here in this state all by herself

She’s a pretty little thing, no doubts there, and the way she gnaws on her pouty lower lip only makes my dick perk up in interest.

“Well, Lennon, I’m Nix and this is Rhett,” I say, hooking my thumb in his direction.

“A real pleasure,” she mutters.

I ignore her attitude and ask, “Having engine troubles, Lennon? ”

“Uh,” she averts her eyes, scooching closer to the edge of the tailgate. “Something like that.”

My eyes track her movement, gaze sweeping over her form, lingering on her red-tinged fingers as they curl around the edge of the tailgate. The more blood I notice on her, the more I get the feeling that something isn’t right.

"So,” Rhett cocks his head, folding his arms across his flannel-clad chest. “Why are you back here?" He’s just as suspicious about this situation as I am.

"Well, this has been fun and all, but I should get going," she sighs, her knuckles whitening as her grip tightens on the lip of the tailgate. She leans forward, feet stretching towards the pavement.

Wrong answer.

I surge towards her, erasing the distance between us before she can move another inch. “Don’t even think about it,” I warn, caging her in with my arms.

Lennon sucks in a gasp, her body stiffening as I fully invade her space. She tilts her head to the side, eyes locking onto mine. Her full lips curve into the faintest of smiles as she peers up at me through her thick, dark lashes. "You're in my way."

Dropping my head, I can’t help but chuckle.

Aside from bike bunnies and other members, most people seem scared shitless of me and especially of the six foot five fuck beside me.

Rhett’s the Sergeant at Arms, the club president's right-hand man, controller of chaos, and by a questionable choice of his own, my keeper turned brother.

Guys always give us a wide berth when we pass, women clutching their purses tightly.

But aside from the initial shock of us confronting her, this girl seems more annoyed by our presence than anything .

"Why ya in such a hurry, little one?" I murmur into the shell of her ear.