Free Flame (Ruin Outlaws MC #4) by Amy Isan Page A

leave the bike."
    "Come here," I say. I extend my hand and grasp his and pull him close. We stop for a moment and just look at each other. "We will make it out of this, we've made it out of all this other shit. The sun won't kill us now. That'd be too embarrassing."
    He breaks into a smile. "You got that right, Cass," he says. He dips down and kisses me, his lips tasting salty and dry, but still so delicious. How is that possible? I'm desperate for water, but for a few brief seconds, that desperation vanishes. We break away and I see the renewed vigor in his eyes. The same iron eyes that I saw as he passed me on the highway a lifetime ago. Steeled, unnerving, determined. An outlaw's eyes.
    To add to my delirium, I'm starting to wish that the border patrol would catch us right now, just so we wouldn't have to be walking through the desert like this. Any wind is brief and tantalizing. Animals skitter and scatter around the trail as we stomp down it, and a rattler makes its presence known with a few lashes of its tail. We avoid it, passing as far away from it as possible without falling into the sage.
    I glance over the horizon toward the red crags, which have moved a bit behind us. With the heat waves coming off the ground, and my vision so battered, they do almost look like skyscrapers. God, if only Phoenix was that close. Within sight. We'd definitely have reception.
    "It's stupid we don't," I mutter to myself. Logan glances at me, and I realize I said the last part of my thought aloud. "Have reception," I explain. "What kind of shitty state doesn't have reception in the desert? Where people can die?"
    "People do die all the time," he says. "You're right."
    I tighten my dry lips and try and suck some saliva from my mouth. Anything to fight off the dryness of my throat. I gather some and swallow it as hard as possible, feeling little relief. "Should've brought more water," I joke. It falls flat and he doesn't answer. I shrug it off.
    "Check the phone again," he says. I unlock the screen and the No Service signal disappears for a brief second and my heart freezes. A small 1x appears on the top left of the phone's screen and I almost drop it in surprise. "We have service," I strain to say. I jog up to him and shove the phone into his hands.
    "Seriously?" He takes it from me and bursts into laughter. Gut-clenching, fall on the ground laughter. He cheers and pulls up a map. It loads slowly and as it does, the battery drains quickly. It warns us that it only has 20% battery left. He clenches his hand under his elbow and tries to hold the phone up into the air. "Come on, motherfucker."
    The GPS map springs into view and our location is marked. The map zooms in and shows us how close we are to Phoenix. Logan cheers. "At least I know where we are now. We can't keep walking... but now I can call for help."
    It's so quiet out here, I can hear the line ringing as if the phone was up to my own ear. A man's voice picks up. "Yeah?"
    "Surge, it's Bomb. I need some help."
    "Bomb?" Surge sounds surprised. "What are you doing? Where are you? You're still in Mexico right?"
    "Not anymore," Logan says. His eyes flit from the horizon to meet mine. "We need a ride. Bring two guys... and some water."
    "We?" Surge answers with some incredulity. I don't understand why he'd be so surprised to hear from one of his club members. One of his oldest friends by Logan's definition, if I remember right. A long pause. "Alright, tell me where you are."
    Logan pauses and looks at the map again. "Here are our coordinates," then he rattles off a bunch of numbers. I'm too exhausted to listen. There's a rock outcropping nearby, and I start moving towards it. Shade would be an amazing relief right now. After reaching the hanging rock, I scare away two rattlers and climb underneath into the shade. It's even better than I thought it would be.
    Some grumbling on the other side of the line, but it's indistinct. Logan looks worried and he clenches his jaw and balls a fist