Axle's Brand (Death Chasers MC 3)

I tell myself this all the way down the stairs where Axle, the smirking bastard, who probably knows what I’m thinking, is waiting on me near the bar. Drex is drinking a bottle of water across from him, and Jude is lying on top of the bar and throwing a baseball up and catching it on its way down.

“You wanted me to come be boring with the rest of you wild ones?” I muse, slipping easily next to his side, and peering up at him with scrutiny when he just continues to smirk.

Jude casts a glance at me before rolling his eyes and resuming his task of tossing a ball straight up and catching it.

Reckless danger going on here, people.

Axle says something to Drex that I miss, and then he turns, grabbing my hand and guiding me toward the door.

“Where are we going?” I ask, still following like a follower.

“For a ride,” he states flatly.

“Is that smart?” I ask, jogging to get to his side instead of trailing behind, still holding his hand.

“It is if no one can see our faces. We’ll look like some randoms just taking in the sights as long as we use one of the spare rides, since mine is too well-known.”

I start to argue as we step into the massive beast of a bike hangar that only has a few bikes in it today. He drops my hand and goes to grab two sleek, solid black helmets off the wall that are equipped with darkly tinted visors on the front.

Okay then. That’ll do.

He hands me one, and I take it, tugging it on a little forcefully. Snugly hidden from sight, I follow him to a black Harley with chrome fixtures.

Nice. Glad to see this is just a spare.

Wordlessly, he takes a seat, helmet on already. I imagine his eyes are staring at me impatiently, but they’re completely hidden behind the tinted glass of the visor.

Finally, I take his hand, using it as a balancing tool as I climb on back, sitting with my legs spread around his hips as close as possible, since the saddlebags on this thing are huge.

The damn thing is so obnoxious when it roars to life that I might squeal a little. Not that you can hear the sound over the damn loud-ass thing under us.

As soon as my arms wrap around his waist—tightly—he shoots out of the hangar without warning, not bothering to crawl out like I expected. My grip tightens even more, and I clutch his middle as I peer over his shoulder at the roads he’s crossing, driving us toward the edge of town.

As soon as we’re on an open, car-less stretch of highway, I stop tensing and just start enjoying the ride. A stupid, pointless, and somewhat confusing grin spreads across my face for no reason at all.

I’m not supposed to like motorcycles, damn it.

But in this moment, I love everything about it. The freedom. The openness. The fresh I taste when I lift the front of the visor. The feel of the wind against my skin.

The bugs fucking suck because they feel like stray hail slapping me.

But I can deal with the occasional insect collision right now, because the positives outweigh the negatives.

My ass is numb way too soon, though, and my legs are cramping from holding this position for so long. It feels like we’ve been riding for days instead of hours.

Fortunately, Axle parks us just outside a hotel. A nice one, by the way.

Hello, room service. I’ve missed you.

He pulls his helmet off, and I follow suit, grinning at him even though my head is a little gross and sweaty.

“A hotel? Trying to get lucky?” I quip.

He huffs out a small laugh as he undoes one of the saddlebags and pulls out a backpack I didn’t know was in there. With a curious eyebrow arch, I watch as he tosses the backpack on one shoulder and clutches the helmet with his other.

“I figured you could use some time out of the warehouse, but you’re not safe just anywhere. I’d take you to my house, but it’s not any safer right now with all this shit going on with Herrin.” He gestures toward the hotel without looking at it. “So this is our only option.”

A grin spreads over my lips as I waggle my eyebrows.

“So you’re angling for sex and a blowjob.”

He rolls his eyes, walking by me.

“Never had one of those,” he says conversationally.

I laugh, shaking my head. “Your jokes are seriously terrible. You need to stop trying to make them.”

He looks over his shoulder at me as I follow, and his brow furrows. “I wasn’t joking.”

I actually stop walking just because it takes all my concentration to focus on the nonsense he just said. And was serious about.

He pauses at the door, seeing I’ve stopped walking.