Free Devil's Fall: Dust Bowl Devils MC by Britten Thorne Page A

he’d let her live? The one that had committed the murder she’d witnessed - she doubted he would be as merciful as Gunner had been.
    Thoughts of calling the police still scrolled through her mind, but how would it look, now? Oh yes, officer, I witnessed a murder and I thought I’d get a motel room and take a shower before I called.
    That and she was hesitant to turn Gunner in.
    Senna felt as though she ought to be angry at the way he'd taken off, running out the door as if a swarm of angry bees were swarming around his neck.
    Instead, she felt relief. She had lost herself enough - any more time with him, who knew what may have happened. She needed to sort it all out in her head - why had she gone with it when he started talking dirty through the door? Why had she let him lay her out on the floor and touch her like that? It was completely out of character for her - and it couldn’t just be about the hair.
    Senna hadn’t dated in a very long time and she wondered if that were part of it. Or, most likely, it simply came down to her brush with death. There was a reason more people fucked after a funeral than after a wedding. Facing death is a reminder of life and you feel it. She certainly had - she felt it everywhere. She felt her lungs expanding, her heart pumping; she felt every nerve, every inch of her skin buzzing with life. Perhaps it was that hyper-awareness of her body that made her so subject to his charms.
    Either way, it hadn’t been enough.
    She’d had to jump back in the shower for a quick rinse, washing away her sweat and his seed. She could still feel it on her skin long after it had washed away, as if he’d somehow marked her. A scary thought.
    She fell asleep early that evening, listening to the news reporting on her father's death, and woke to the voice of the morning show's host discussing the same. "Perhaps it was a hit," they speculated. There were plenty of reasons to assume so.
    She jumped when she saw her own face on the television. They'd managed to dig up a picture of her with her sister, probably off the internet. "His two daughters inherited his shares of the company, though it is still under investigation. They have been unavailable for comment," the correspondent read.
    No shit.
    She didn't want a single piece of his shady investment company, whatever the hell it actually did. Who in their right mind would want to be a client of theirs? She didn't want to be on the news. What she wanted was to go back to school and finish her degree. But that's not an option. Not after all the threats . She eyed her phone warily - no matter how far she ran, no matter how many new phones and new numbers she started and new email addresses she opened, the messages still followed. At least she hadn’t received any physical notes since hitting the road - no pieces of paper with the threats scrawled across them in black ink, slid beneath her door, sometimes when she was home, sometimes not.
    She sipped coffee from the room's pathetic little one-cup device. It tasted burnt and bitter but did she dare venture outside yet?
    May as well . There was a good chance Gunner would deliberately forget her and her sister. Being unwilling to kill her didn't mean he wanted to help, either. He was sure to have enough to deal with on his own. Like disposing of the body . She held her abdomen as a wave of nausea passed. Don't dwell on it. You can't change what happened. Push it away . She could still see the strange man falling, the red mist lingering in the air for a moment before settling to the ground after him. He'd worn a biker vest, too.
    It took her grumbling stomach to convince her to go. He’d brought snacks from the convenience store but chips and pretzels were not “food.”
    Not that her rich girl sensibilities had known “food” since she’d left home. Her stomach had taken a long time to adjust to her new diet of cheap burgers and greasy pizza eaten behind the wheel. She’d come from a world where everyone