Fast Ride Read online

  A Fast Ride

  by

  Nancy Warren

  A Fast Ride

  Copyright © 2014 Nancy Weatherley Warren.

  A Fast Ride was originally published in Bad Boys on Board, by Kensington publishing, 2003.

  All rights reserved

  Discover other titles by Nancy Warren at

  http://www.NancyWarren.net

  These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Melody Simmons of eBookindiecovers.com

  eBook formatting by http://www.ebook-format.com

  Table of Contents

  A Fast Ride

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Other Books by Nancy Warren

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The low rattling hum, like a hornet refusing to retreat, had Gertie’s head jerking up from the middle row of the vegetable garden, where she’d been staking peas. Those dratted motorcycles were as bad as hornets, too, she thought as she wiped perspiration from under her straw hat. There was never just one. They came in swarms, causing nothing but trouble. Pests.

  And like pests, the motorcycle gang should be fumigated, swatted, and otherwise encouraged to leave.

  Gertie’d lived in Harleyville all her life. The town was named for Dr. Ernest Harley, one of the town’s founding fathers, and not Harley Gee Dee Davidson. Gertie’s swift movements belied the bent crow angles of her aged body as she scuttled to the two-lane road that bordered her property.

  Well, if those motorcycles couldn’t respect speed limits, or the peace of the Lord’s day, she’d remind them with her own homemade speed bump.

  With jerky movements she dragged out the felled poplar branch she’d placed at the roadside for just such an occasion and swiveled it across the road, huffing a little with the effort and the heat.

  The buzzing grew louder and she did an arthritic sprint back to the pea patch before the sight she’d begun to loathe came around the bend in the road faster than the wrath of God Almighty.

  She caught a glimpse of leather vest, too-long tangled brown hair blowing in the wind, sunglasses—the kind that looked like twin mirrors so you couldn’t see the eyes behind them—and the nasty, low motorcycle.

  Then everything happened at once.

  She heard a curse that made her clutch her arms around herself in horror and duck her head. Then the sound of the motor changed. Good. The crazy devil must have seen the speed bump and was slowing down.

  But the driver slowed too late. The front wheel hit the branch, and the next thing she knew the motorcycle lifted right off the ground.

  Gertie’s jaw dropped until her upper teeth threatened to slip off her gums. She shut her mouth with a clicking snap.

  Up they went into the air, motorcycle and rider. They seemed to hang airborne for a long timeless moment; then the bike dropped while its occupant kept flying—head first into the string beans.

  Gertie took one trembling step toward the silent lump of leather and denim in the middle of her vegetable garden, then another. Before she could take a third, her great-niece, Nell, came tearing out the front door and raced to the man’s side.

  Gertie’d never been so glad to see anyone.

  She watched Nell drop to her knees in the dirt, bend over the motorcycle man, and press her ear to his massive chest. After a long moment Nell raised her head and their gazes met.

  “Damn it, Gertie! You’ve killed him.”

  * * *

  Nell pushed her fingers harder into the man’s neck. She was pretty sure that was his carotid artery she was pressing on. He had a muscular neck, so it was difficult to be certain, but there was still no pulse. She bit her lower lip trying to dredge up everything she’d learned in that CPR course she’d taken a couple of years ago.

  Heat prickled the back of her neck and pure blind fear prickled every other part of her body. He couldn’t be dead. That would make Gertie, whom she loved more than anyone in the world, a murderer.

  He sure looked dead, though.

  He was utterly still, wild strands of dark toffee-colored hair trailing in the dirt behind him. He wore the colors of the Hog Squad, the motorcycle gang that had turned quiet Harleyville, Kansas, into Trouble, USA, in the last few months, but in death his face didn’t look mean.

  It appeared strong and sensuous. Dark lashes lay in innocent silky crescents under his eyes. His nose was a bit on the big side, but straight. His lips were full and firm, but parted as though in sleep.

  She wished she could shake him awake and send him on his way. He was warm, which gave her hope, until she recalled the sun could be heating his body.

  She heard Gertie grunting and muttering and turned her head in time to see the older woman drag the branch out of the road. She didn’t have time to help her. How many minutes was it before brain damage set in? She couldn’t remember.

  Gingerly she placed her hand beneath the man’s neck.

  Taking a deep breath, she slowly tilted his head back. Not hearing any gross crunching bone noises gave her the courage to pinch his nostrils shut and put her lips over his.

  His lips were warm, too. She forced her own breath into him, trying not to think about how different it was blowing into a man’s mouth than practicing on a plastic dummy.

  She pulled back, breaking the warm connection, and watched his chest begin to deflate. That was good.

  She placed her palm in the middle of his chest, fisted the other hand on top of it and started pushing, counting to five.

  Back to his mouth. She breathed out, forcing her breath into his body.

  Back to his chest.

  “Come on!” she wailed as he continued to lie there.

  His mouth, his chest, again, and again. How much time had lapsed? Would he be brain damaged? Was she even doing this right?

  She shoved harder against his ribs, trying to get through all that muscle and bone to massage his stubborn heart.

  “Beat, you bastard!” She yelled, scuffling on her knees in the dirt as she bent forward to force more air into his lungs.

  A fly hovered over his face and she brushed it away. Her hands were trembling from her efforts and from fear. He was probably brain dead anyway from all the drugs and booze. “If you’d worn a helmet maybe this wouldn’t have happened,” she told him sternly, then clapped her lips against his once more.

  She pushed her breath out and it caught on an obstacle. A big, wet obstacle. With a strangled shriek, she tried to pull back.

  The corpse had stuck his tongue in her mouth.

  But, as she moved back, she felt his hand on the back of her neck, pulling her in closer while his tongue made a slow but very deliberate tour of her mouth.

  She should be glad he was alive, but mostly she wanted him dead again.

  She squirmed, trying to get away, but he misread her intentions and yanked her flush on top of him where she discovered another part of his body was also alive and well and functioning just fine. Trust a man to come back from the grave horny.

  At last the pressure eased on the back of her neck and she was able to yank her head out of tongue range and stare down into hazel eyes that gleamed with carnal intentions, the corners crinkled against the sun.

  She felt the surprising pull of answering arousal deep in her belly before common sense returned. Her breath was coming hard and fast. After first breathing for two people, th
en having the breath kissed out of her, she felt lightheaded.

  “Hey baby,” he said in a deep, gravelly voice. “You were great. Fuckin’ A!” He rocked his pelvis against hers and winked.

  “Thanks,” she replied. “You should see me splint a fracture.”

  He glanced around, puzzled. “Why’d we do it in the bushes?” Then his eyes roved slowly over her face and dropped to her heaving chest. “What the hell. Let’s do it again.”

  Oh, oh. It looked like she was too late to prevent brain damage. She tried to figure out what to say to him, wondering how his eyes could look so intelligent when his brain was obviously nonfunctional. Then his lids closed and he was gone.

  “Whew,” she let out her breath on a shudder.

  “Thought you said he was dead,” said Gertie.

  She glanced up to see the old woman tugging a bean plant from under the man’s booted foot. She always had bits of twine in her pocket, and she tied the plant up against a still-standing stake with fingers gnarled by age and hard work.

  “He was dead. I brought him back to life,” she said not without pride

  “Hmm. What are you going to do with him?”

  Harleyville didn’t have an emergency room. Not even a hospital. Its three thousand souls were still serviced by one country doctor. The closest hospital was fifty miles away.

  “There must be some kind of ambulance.”

  “He got medical insurance?”

  “I don’t know.” She had to tug and pull at his hip to get to his back pocket, where she assumed his wallet would be, but the way he groaned when she moved him had her dropping him back in place. “I’m not sure how badly he’s hurt.”

  “I’ll call Dr. Greenfield,” said Gertie, rising and dusting off her hands. “He’ll know what to do.”

  Nell stayed where she was, moving her body so the sun didn’t beat in the injured man’s face, and watched his large chest rise and fall. She’d retrieved his sunglasses, amazingly unbroken, but didn’t slip them back on. If he opened his eyes again, she wanted to know about it.

  * * *

  Shit. What had he been doing? Everything hurt. His head ached, his leg burned. He tried to move his hand to rub the leg and a sharp pain shot through his wrist.

  He opened his eyes and frowned. Three faces loomed over him. An old crone who looked like Granny on The Beverly Hillbillies grimaced at him, making him feel like a kid who’d peed on her rosebushes. An old guy in a suit was taking something off his arm, and, finally, he saw a face he recognized.

  His vision was blurry and her image shimmered for a minute. He squinted harder, trying to bring her face into focus. She was a stunner with gold-blond hair, big sexy green eyes and a mouth that looked as if it could do things that would make a grown man cry.

  She had a jaw with attitude, he noted hazily. Looked the kind of woman who’d enjoy making a man beg. A challenge. His favorite kind of woman. He winked at her.

  “Well, he’s awake.”

  Her voice was flat Midwest with a hint of California. She made him think of prairies and surfing. “Corn and sushi,” he mumbled, his voice emerging hoarse and unfamiliar. “Hard wheat and soft scallops.”

  “See what I mean? I think he was deprived of oxygen too long,” the hottie said to the suit, who nodded gravely.

  Her voice was as intriguing as the rest of her. Like thick luscious honey over something hard. Which brought on an image so intense that he instantly had something hard for her to pour honey on.

  He quickly shifted his gaze to the old crone, which solved his temporary problem. But not the bigger problem of where he was and why they were staring down at him. “What’s going on?”

  “You were in an accident,” the old guy said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Can you tell me what day it is?”

  He rolled his eyes. “It’s…” He frowned. Turned his gaze back to the babe, as though her familiarity might remind him what infernal day it was. “It’s…” He was a big believer in bluffing his way out of sticky situations. “It’s Tuesday,” he said firmly.

  Those beautiful green eyes fluttered in distress. Damn. “I mean, Wednesday.” Another flutter. Hell, he couldn’t play Russian roulette with the calendar. “I can’t remember,” he finally admitted with a scowl.

  The old guy nodded.

  He was tired of staring up at these people. He’d managed to figure out he was in a bed. A single brass bed with a crisp cotton bedspread covered in faded roses that couldn’t possibly be his.

  “What’s your name?”

  He beat back panic as he tried to focus. What the hell was his name? “What’s yours?”

  “I’m Dr. Greenfield.”

  There was a pause while he breathed slowly, noting this room smelled musty, like nobody’d been in it for a while.

  “And this is Gertrude Hopkins and her great-niece, Nell Tennant.”

  “Hey, babe,” he said to Nell. Did he call her Nell? He doubted it. He probably had a pet name for her, but his aching head couldn’t dredge it up.

  By gritting his teeth hard he made it to one elbow. He panted with the effort and felt sweat break out on his forehead.

  “What’s your name?” His sexy angel asked him, dropping to her haunches so her eyes were level with his.

  “Hell if I know,” he admitted.

  This time, distress didn’t flicker in her eyes, it darkened them and a worried frown puckered the creamy skin of her forehead. “Can you remember anything?”

  He smiled at her. “I remember how you taste,” he said softly, hoping only she could hear. “And the way you feel against me.” He let his gaze roam her body. He might not know his own name or what day of the week it was, but at least he had great taste in women.

  Her cheeks pinkened at his low words, but he had the satisfaction of seeing the worry disappear as her gaze heated beneath his.

  “Are you my wife?” he asked her, a momentary shaft of alarm poking him at the thought. He didn’t feel married.

  Her eyes widened and in them he read an answering panic. “No. I’m not your wife.”

  He was feeling better by the minute. All that sexy sweetness and no shackles. He nodded sleepily. “Girlfriend.”

  Much better. Her lips opened and he wondered if she was thinking about kissing his hurts better, hoped she was, and then darkness claimed him.

  Chapter Two

  “I am not your girlfriend!” Nell snapped in a voice much too loud for a sick room, but it was clear she could bellow into his ear and she wouldn’t get a response. The injured gang member had passed out again.

  “What are we going to do with him?” she asked the doctor whose somber expression didn’t bode well.

  “I could send for an ambulance to transport him to the hospital, but he’s got no identification on him. You’d be responsible.”

  The sick feeling in her stomach came from knowing they were completely responsible for him lying here in the first place. They couldn’t afford costly medical treatments, but on the other hand, she couldn’t let him remain here if he was seriously hurt.

  “He doesn’t look like he’s carrying Blue Cross, but we’d better make certain.” Between the three of them, they managed to get the man’s jeans unzipped and carefully removed them.

  He had muscular legs, tawny skin and dark hair that thickened as it approached his groin. The fact that he was wearing underpants was an unexpected bonus. They were plain white briefs and even though she tried not to peek, she noticed that he filled them nicely.

  She hated to touch the filthy jeans, but forced herself to search the pockets while Gertie and the doctor watched.

  “No wallet,” she said as she pulled out a money clip, in the shape of a dollar sign, untidily stuffed with bills. She counted quickly. “Around three hundred dollars.”

  “Not even enough for one night in the hospital,” Doc Greenfield said as she dug through the rest of his pockets.

  The final pocket yielded a crumpled piece of paper. She opened it, glancing at the un
conscious man. Wes, the note said, Market day, Thursday. In place of a signature was a single scrawled initial. It looked like a D or maybe a P. Not much to go on.

  Gertie and the doctor were staring at her curiously. She shook her head. “His name’s probably Wes, but he doesn’t have a single piece of identification on him.”

  “I can tell you where he belongs. Down at that noisy clubhouse with all the other hooligans, destroying our peace, leaving their beer cans all over. Causing trouble,” Gertie glared at the comatose man.

  “He won’t be causing anyone trouble for a while yet,” soothed the doctor. “Come on downstairs and we’ll work out what to do with him.”

  With no better ideas, and happy to escape the disturbing presence in the spare bedroom, Nell followed the other two into the hallway and downstairs.

  As she was leaving she heard the man mutter, “girlfriend.” She turned back in surprise and, even though his eyes remained closed, she could have sworn his lips twitched.

  * * *

  “In my opinion, he’s better off here than in a hospital,” Dr. Greenfield said over coffee in the big old kitchen.

  Gertie harrumphed but didn’t argue. Maybe they weren’t begging for Dr. Greenfield’s services at the Mayo Clinic, but here in Harleyville he was well respected. He’d attended more births than deaths, since most of his patients recovered from the various ailments and accidents he treated them for. Nell supposed that counted for something. And besides, Gertie thought the doctor was infallible. Nell, however, had to seriously question his latest plan.

  “Stay here?” she all but shrieked.

  The old doctor shrugged and sipped his coffee. “He’s got no broken bones, just some bumps and bruises. His -- forgetfulness will likely pass in a day or two.”

  She tapped her fingernails against the pale green Formica table top. “Have you ever had an amnesia patient?”