Julie Walker - Born Wild

“It’s enough,” she murmured to herself. “If I can have his friendship, it’ll be enough.”

But the words fell flat on her ears, because what she wanted from him, what she’d always wanted from him, was so, so much more…

Belmont Avenue

4:15 p.m.

Mac was beat. We’re talking dead-dog-roadkill tired. Or as he father used to say, too pooped to pop—whatever that was supposed to mean. Because not only had he spent the entire day with Bill and Eve and the shit-storm of angst that seemed to swirl around those two in a dizzying funnel cloud—something had happened between them last night that’d turned all their overt animosity and ill-disguised insults into covert glances and tense silences—but he’d also just blown the last hour trying to wheedle a yacht club members list from a guy with salon-quality hair and handmade Italian loafers.

The dude had had silver spoon stamped on his forehead and giant, unremitting asshole scrawled on top of that. And Mac had suffered so much of the guy’s sneering, condescending looks that he’d been two seconds away from strangling the cocksucker, when Eve stepped in, cool and unflappable, finally getting the information they needed.

He had to give the woman some serious props. She was the picture of poise and grace, of geniality and charm…well, except when she was around Wild Bill. And now he was back to the first of his day’s headaches. He glanced over at Bill only to find the man surreptitiously watching Eve in the rearview mirror. Eve, for her part, was staring out the rear passenger side window and gnawing her lower lip like the thing was tastier than apple pie.

What happened between those two last night to wind them tighter than fiddle strings? he wondered for the zillionth time. Then, quickly following that, he thought, ah to hell with it. Because he was done trying to figure them out. It was making his headache worse. Plus, he’d learned long ago it was best to leave all that ooey-gooey stuff to Ace.

Tilting his head from side to side, he was in the middle of working out the kinks in his neck when his iPhone blared the opening bars of “Amarillo Sky.”

Damn. Sometimes he missed Texas.

“What’s up, Ace?” he asked, holding the phone to his ear.

“Bad news.” Ace sounded annoyed. “The motor on the door to the Bat Cave on this end has broken. Again. And I can’t get the sorry sucker open.”

“Shit,” Mac muttered, rubbing a thumb against his pounding temple.

“That about sums it up,” Ace concurred.

To avoid the reporters hanging out in front of BKI—Samantha Tate had been true to her word, it seemed—they’d exited the Knights’ compound that morning via the top-secret underground tunnel that originated behind a heavy, twelve-foot-wide, brick and iron door in the motorcycle shop and terminated in a parking garage across the Chicago River. So, unfortunately, with their only other way back into BKI officially closed for business, they were left with the options of either driving in through the front gate—which couldn’t happen because then the reporters would know that Black Knights Inc. came equipped with a very fancy, very illicit backdoor, and wouldn’t that be just enough to pique their interest?—or he and Bill could stash Eve somewhere safe before frog-manning their way across the Chicago River, scaling the ten-foot-high, razor-wire topped fence commando-style, and helping Ace repair the motor. Fixing that rusting, old behemoth was always a two-, sometimes three-man job.

“Shit,” he said again, realizing that instead of a couple of ibuprofen and a quick nap in his future, he was doomed to engage in full-on Mission Impossible-style maneuvers. “Hold tight, Ace,” he muttered. “I’ll call you back in a sec.”

When he clicked off the phone, he turned to find Bill watching him with an expression like a bio-hazardous waste sign. “Let me guess,” Bill said. “The motor is broken on the Bat Cave door. Again.”

Mac just smiled and nodded, taking a page from Ace’s book and batting his lashes.

“Shit,” Bill cursed, yanking the steering wheel on the Hummer, maneuvering the beast into a cramped parking space on the side of the street. Slamming the giant SUV out of gear and switching off the engine, he ran a hand through his hair and muttered again, “Shit.”

“I’m sensing a theme here,” Eve piped up from the back seat, and Mac turned to explain what the problem was and, as a result, what all the only possible solution entailed.

“Well,” she shrugged, “I guess you can drop me back at my cousin’s condo, or…” She wrinkled her nose. “I suppose I could go to my dad’s house. At least that’d stop him from calling me every five seconds.”

Bill shot Mac a sharp look.

“Yeah, well, here’s the thing,” he said, wracking his brain for a way to serve her this bitter pill of truth so that it went down smoothly. Then he realized this was a situation where it was probably best to avoid the truth—at least the whole truth—altogether. “We’d feel a lot better if we stashed you with someone we know and trust.”

“Why?” Her brows formed a perfect V.

Good Lord, the woman was determined to make him perjure himself. He shrugged. “It’s just better if you stay away from your usual spots.”

“Oh.” She nodded, her face clearing. “That makes sense.” And he was going straight to hell for being a liar-liar-pants-on-fire. “Okay, so where to?”

Mac glanced at Bill, proposing, “Shell and Snake’s house? There’s a key to their place in the glove box and—”

“Boss would skin us, fillet us, cook us, eat us, and then use our bones as toothpicks if we involved his sister and his nephew in anything even remotely dangerous,” Bill stated. “And that’d be a cakewalk compared to what Snake would do to us once he comes back from Mali.”

Mac knew the guy wasn’t just being dramatic. Boss, like any good big brother, was extremely overprotective of his sister and her son. And Snake? Well, let’s just say that when it came to his wife and child and their safety, the man lived up to his code name. Deadly.

“Okay, so that leaves us with…” He made a rolling motion with his hand, encouraging Bill to offer another option since none of the rest of the Knights had family—or even close friends—living nearby.

“Red Delilah’s,” Bill said, and Mac’s hand stopped turning as every cell in his body started running around like a blind dog in a meat factory. Delilah Fairchild, the owner of the biker bar Bill had just named, was everything Mac’d spent his whole life avoiding.

First, she was beautiful. Okay, that wasn’t really true. She was beyond beautiful. From her deep auburn hair and her green eyes that tilted up at the corners, giving her the look of a guileful feline and making it appear as if she were privy to the world’s secrets, to her slow, sultry smile that informed everyone around her she wouldn’t be sharing with any of them, she was, bar none, the sexiest woman he’d ever seen. And that was before you got to her body. Because, damn, Mother Nature had given her a set of curves guaranteed to lower any male IQ from within a hundred yards.

Next, she was used to getting any man she wanted. Any man. And that kind of power warped a person’s psyche. He knew that from experience.

And last, but certainly not least, in any situation he’d seen her involved in, she’d come out on top. Whether it was bar brawls, raucous drunks, or bums who couldn’t pay, she was somehow able to manipulate all sides into the middle and get what she wanted from anybody just by being herself. And that crazy ability made every instinct in him yell loud and clear to stay far, far away from her.

Unfortunately, she seemed determined he should do just the opposite. She was a big ol’ scoop of sweet, melting, strawberry ice cream, and she was constantly daring him, daring him, to take a bite. She flirted with everyone, that was her nature, but she flat-out propositioned him every chance she got. And he was terrified he might one day, in a moment of weakness and unbearable horniness, take her up on one of those offers.

Which would be bad. For many reasons…

“I’m not sure Eve will be comfortable hanging out in—” he began but was cut off when Eve said, “Oh, no. That’ll be good. I’ve met Delilah a couple of times. I like her.”

Yeah, who doesn’t?

“Perfect,” Bill restarted the engine. “It’s all set, then. We’ll drop her at Delilah’s then go get wet.”

Oh, goody. This day just keeps getting better and better…

Red Delilah’s Biker Bar

4:38 p.m.

Delilah Fairchild liked four things: her motorcycle, her bar, her double-barreled shotgun—those folks who treated her right only saw the business ends of her motorcycle and bar—and Sunday nights.

Because Sunday nights were calm, at least when compared to the usual biker bar bullshit and chaos, and they allowed her a much-needed break. Tonight would be filled with the “usuals.” The usual customers; those barflies who preferred to spend the last night of the weekend bellied up to a length of nicely polished mahogany. The usual drinks; whiskey and beer, both cheap and straight up. And the usual music on the jukebox; eighties hair bands and hard-driving rockabilly.

For her, this was a little slice of heaven.

And yup, she didn’t know if that was poetic or just plain sad…

Running a dishtowel over the ring of condensation left behind by the empty Budweiser bottle she tossed into the thirty-gallon recycling can—the loud clink let her know she was about a twelve-pack away from needing to empty the sucker—she asked Buzzard, her most loyal and loveable patron, “Another round?”