Biker’s Property: Property of Steel (Rebel Barbarians MC #5)

Chapter 7 – JOSLIN

Chapter Seven

JOSLIN

T his man is downright disgusting. I can tell from his good looks and the cocky ass way he talks that he’s used to getting away with treating women like this. He doesn’t know that I’m telling the truth and I can tell he doesn’t believe me. He’s like everyone else in my life who assumed I was too weak to stand up to my husband.

I ignore Steel’s “We’ll see about that” comment. We won’t be seeing about shit, because I have no intention of catering to a single ounce of chauvinism in my life anymore. I’m just plain over it. I look out the window until I feel a large, warm hand on my thigh. A shiver runs straight through me, but my instincts are sharpened. I smack his hand so hard that he sucks in air sharply.

“Shit,” he says. “I was just checking on your ass. You got real quiet.”

“I’m still thirsty.”

“We’ll stop,” he says. “I don’t know who told your crazy ass to throw away my whiskey.”

“Drinking and driving is illegal.”

“So is killing your husband,” he says, giving me a smile that doesn’t match the situation. He clearly still thinks that was a lie I told to get him to keep his hands off me. My side eye doesn’t deter him. Steel laughs.

“I know you didn’t kill your husband,” he says. “But I’ll get you water and make sure he doesn’t get his hands on you again.”

My gaze snaps to him instantly, but Steel doesn’t even realize what he just said. I’ll make sure he doesn’t get his hands on you again. I shift uncomfortably. This can’t be happening. This is the only time in my life since my daddy died that anyone has even offered to protect me. It’s definitely the first time anyone has ever suggested my ex-husband didn’t have the complete right to put his hands on me.

And this man is clearly a criminal. Not a church-going man like my husband. I wish I could shrink into the seat, but I’m stuck with him. And my confusion.

We drive with more uncomfortable silence. I can’t stop the images from the desert from popping into my head. The beheadings. That was the worst part. The men didn’t even scream. They didn’t cry out. Not even the twins. I can’t say I could have done the same in their position.

I never imagined feeling so much relief at the sight of civilization. I don’t even bother asking where we are, because I don’t know if I care. Steel supplies the information.

“We’re going to Santa Fe,” he says. “Driving us through the San Carlos reservation right now. But we’re gonna stop once we get to New Mexico. Motel in Quemado.”

It might be a stretch to call this part of the San Carlos reservation “civilization”, but there’s a gas station and a general store. It’s the dead of night, so both are closed. You can still pump your own gas, obviously, but I’m thirsty enough that I want to close my eyes and just let this biker’s will take over – a terrible idea.

I get out of the truck, delirious with my desire for water. I barely make it a step forward before Steel appears in front of me and blocks me from wandering off. Did this man leap over the top of the freaking truck? He puts his hand out to stop me from moving forward.

“Stay in the truck,” he says. “I’ll find you water.”

I want to argue with him, but I’m too thirsty to do anything except just stand there and allow this man to take control over the situation. Considering the gas station is closed and likely has a security system, I don’t know what his plan is for getting me water. I lean against the truck, almost too tired to pay attention. He struts away from me towards the glass door, giving me a better opportunity to observe him.

Holy shit, this man is good looking. Better looking than I realized. That might be the dehydration talking, but he’s 6’5” and muscular. The black shirt he’s wearing hugs his shoulders and covers some of his tattoo sleeves, but I can tell they go all the way up his forearms to his shoulders.

There aren’t any tattoos like the ones the guys in the desert have, but one of his tattoos looks like a coverup and it looks fresh. My mouth is too dry for me to ask what he’s doing. He removes something from his wallet and then slides it in front of the door a couple times. I don’t know what he’s doing. He moves the door a little bit and then it just… opens. No security system. No alarm. The lights don’t turn on. He walks inside and the door swings behind him, leaving me alone outside.

Three seconds alone and terror sets in as my brain allows one thought in and then an endless rush of thoughts. What the hell did I just witness? Who the hell is this man? How did he just walk into that damn gas station like he had the key? Why does his ass look like two of the biggest watermelons at the grocery store stacked side by side?

Dehydration delirium must be setting in. The truck feels as comfortable as a king-sized bed and I’m not even lying down, just leaning. Steel’s five minute shopping spree feels like an hour as I notice how empty it is out here and feel like a mouse hiding from birds of prey in an open field. There’s nowhere to hide out here and unlike a mouse, I don’t know who might be circling us. I don’t even know if the man who saved me could turn on me and kill me. Or worse.

Steel opens the door again with two cases of water stacked on one shoulder and a grocery bag of who-knows-what in his other hand. Holding half the gas station in his arms causes his muscles to flex, giving him an even bulkier appearance than before. Even if he weren’t an ex-con, this man would be terrifying. He looks at me with fierce possessiveness, like he assumed I would run off.

Where the hell would I go? His expression doesn’t change from stiff and possessive until he’s standing right in front of me. He sets the cases of water on the truck bed and takes one water bottle out, uncapping it and holding it up to my lips.

“Drink.”

“I know what to do.”

He doesn’t hand me the water bottle. Instead, this giant pours water into my mouth at a steady pace, which he controls entirely. It’s not too fast and not too slow, so water doesn’t spill out of my mouth. He doesn’t stop pouring until I finish the bottle and then he crushes it slowly in his palms, continuing to stare at me.

“Your stomach can’t handle too much at once. Get back in the truck, I’ll pump gas.”

He hands me another water bottle and opens the truck door. I take a step up and then feel firm hands on my waist as he lifts me up. I want to snap at him about my ability to handle a simple step up into a truck, but the water feels too good and I don’t want to distract myself from the pure bliss of having my thirst satisfied.

I watch him through the truck window. He puts the water bottles and most of the mysterious groceries in the truck bed. It doesn’t even hit me for a few minutes that this man just robbed a gas station and he’s doing it cool as hell. To make matters even more confusing, he pulls out his debit card to pay for the gas.

Maybe it isn’t his. Clearly, he doesn’t have a problem with stealing. I watch his biceps tense and study the tattoos on his arm as he starts the gas pump. Considering what I just saw in the desert, I want to be sure. I don’t want to end up dead with a swastika tattooed on my forehead. It’s hard not to think the worst out here, but Steel’s bicep tattoos seem relatively benign.

Relatively.

I don’t think it’s normal for a man to have a Friday the 13th mask tattooed on his arm with blood dripping from a knife next to it. It seems like the type of thing you get tattooed when you’ve been through some shit. I shiver and try not to think about how scary he is. He gave me water and so far… I think he only threatened me because he thought it would make me crack.

If he wanted to hurt me… he could.

Steel climbs back into the driver’s seat and tosses a package onto my lap. I look down and angle myself away from the window so I can see what it is. Beef jerky?

“You need to replace your salts,” he says, following up with a blue Gatorade. “Blue has medicinal properties. Drink that too.”

I don’t think different Gatorade flavors have different healing properties, but keeping quiet seems like the best option right now. I don’t exactly know what to do about this beef jerky, since I’ve never had it before and I don’t know if I’ll like the taste.

“Come on,” he says. “Open it up. I’m risking going back to prison for this shit.”

He laughs when he sees my worried look. “Just playing. I swiped Bucky’s credit card. Let’s go.”

He pats my thigh again, and I can’t stop myself from flinching. I get the packet of beef jerky open and the smell makes me gag. What the hell is this white nonsense? I wrinkle up my nose and try to make sense of the smell and the weird barbecue flavor.

“Fuck, that smells good,” he says. “Hand me one.”

I can’t believe his positive response to this nasty dried meat. I hand him a few pieces and he eats them eagerly. I put one in my mouth and although I want to spit it out, the salt hits me like a drug. I wasn’t allowed to drink coffee growing up, but I tried it once and that salt hits me almost like that one forbidden cup of coffee I had before my marriage.

My cheeks sink into my mouth as my face scrunches up. Steel laughs.

“What? You don’t like it?”

I shake my head, but the more I chew on it, the more the flavor grows on me. There’s a slight barbecue sweetness that makes the intense salty flavor a little easier to handle. Plus, I feel like I have better control of my mind.

Steel reaches into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulls out a 32 oz Coors’ Light. Cracking it open, he brazenly tips the beer down his throat. I want to open the damn door and jump out just as much as I want to scream. That’s why he really broke into that gas station. It had nothing to do with getting me water. I reach for the can, but he swerves like he’s going to kill us both the second I lunge for it. I shrink back.

This damn drunk is crazy enough to kill us both just for his Coors’. I grip the door and glare at him until he finishes the can, crushes it and throws it into the back seat of the truck. He smirks with undeserved self-satisfaction.

“What? Thought your little trick would work.”

“Congratulations. You get to drink and drive.”

“And you get to sit there like a passenger princess.”

“You mean a captive?”

He laughs. “I could always drive you back out there.”

I don’t find it funny.

“I won’t,” he says. “Don’t worry. I won’t make you suck dick either. Once I get word from the boss… I’m taking you back to your husband’s house.”

It’s my turn to consider taking the wheel and swerving us off course. He looks over at me, like it was some kind of test.

“I just want to make sure he’s dead. If he isn’t… I’ll arrange that. I’m not leaving you there.”

He reaches over and grips my thigh possessively, leading me to believe that there isn’t anything altruistic about his offer to ensure my ex-husband is dead.

“Where are you from?” He asks, once I don’t reply to his little test and the validation that follows.

“I don’t want to go back,” I explain. “I really did kill him. I can’t go to prison.”

He looks over at me and his gaze softens for a second. I see the guy who brought me cases of water bottles slung over his shoulder. A hero in the desert.

“You’re right,” he says. “A dyke would fuck your ass with a hairbrush in prison.”

I scowl at him. There was absolutely no need for him to say all of that, but I need to pick my battles with this man. The alcohol abuse is a much bigger issue than his foul language, although I don’t approve of either of them.

“Sorry,” he says, squeezing my thigh again. “Won’t let your skinny ass go to prison. Don’t worry.”

It doesn’t help me to feel any better. He sighs. “Okay, sassafras. I’m gonna keep this truck going for another half an hour or so and we’re gonna stop at a motel. Don’t worry. The club owns it.”

He keeps telling me not to worry, but getting more deeply involved with gangster bikers isn’t making me feel better. I just wanted to escape to Denver and now, I barely know where I am and I don’t know where this man is taking me. It doesn’t make sense to ask. I don’t have any more money or more supplies.

Is it crazy that it’s still so much better than being under my husband’s thumb?

Ex-husband.

I need to think of him as my ex-husband.

Steel reaches into his jacket and pulls out one of those little bottles of vodka. He tosses it onto my lap.

“Open that up for me, sassafras. Throw it out the window and I’ll drive us straight off the road.”

He says that crazy shit calm as ever, but I know he means it this time. Unfortunately, I’ll only get away with throwing his liquor out the window once, so I’ll need to find another way to stop him from drinking before I get behind the wheel with him. Just my luck to end up with a drunk. I crack open the mini bottle of vodka.

Steel pours it down his throat and steps on the accelerator, pushing the truck to 90 mph.

How the hell did my escape plan go so wrong?