I’m taken aback by how heavy the object he hands me is. Fortunately, once it’s on my head, I don’t notice the weight so much. I fumble with the chin strap a bit, and Rourke reaches up and fastens it for me, adjusting it so it fits snugly but not too tight.
“Okay.” He turns and straddles the bike, then lifts his chin to motion behind him. “Get on behind me, and put your feet on those pegs down there.” I do as he tells me, noting nervously that there’s no back rest behind me. What if I fall off backwards once the bike is moving?
The roar of the engine startles me and I jump in my seat, stifling a cry. In front of me, Rourke’s body is shaking with mirth. “No need to be nervous,” he calls out over the roar. “Put your arms around my waist.”
For one long second, I consider climbing off the bike and running back into the house.
The bike doesn’t move, and neither does Rourke. As though he knows to give me time.
Good God, Laney. Don’t be such a baby. You spend your entire life either at the hospital or in this house. Live a little. Ride a motorcycle. Go somewhere unexpected with a handsome biker. Stop thinking so much. Just for tonight.
I lean forward and wrap my arms around Rourke.
There’s a soft clunk as he puts the bike into gear. And then we start to move. Instinctively, my arms tighten around his waist. His abs are like steel. They barely yield as I squeeze like my life depends on it.
“Relax, babe,” he says. “I got you.”
For the first five minutes or so, I barely breathe, my muscles taut as rubber bands. It’s as though my body thinks that if I relax, I’ll die. But being that tense is exhausting, and eventually, my muscles start to surrender. Rourke weaves us in and out of traffic as we ride through town, and then we pass the city limits and head out into the countryside. Once we’re out on the open road, I start to notice the fluid movements of the bike a little more. It’s a little bit like being on a bicycle, except faster, of course. And more exciting.
As my muscles relax and I start to breathe more normally, I find myself almost enjoying the feel of the wind rushing by us, and the hypnotic thrum of the engine.
Not to mention the warmth of Rourke’s body against mine.
I turn my head and watch the trees and fields fly by. The muscles underneath his shirt flex as Rourke negotiates the twists and turns. So much power in the motorcycle underneath us. So much raw strength in the man whose life is currently in my hands.
It’s intoxicating.
I take a deep breath in, then exhale slowly, suddenly feeling more alive than I have in I don’t know how long. All of my senses are on alert. I’ve never been so aware of everything around me: every smell, every noise, every sight. The air filling my lungs. The man filling my thoughts.
Minutes later, the bike begins to slow. I hear and feel the gears as Rourke downshifts. Up ahead and to the left, there’s a low, long building with a sign I can’t read and a large parking lot out front. This must be where we’re going.
An unexpected knot of disappointment forms in my stomach that the ride is already over.
Rourke pulls into the lot stops the bike, and cuts the engine. He turns his head, which I take as the sign that I’m supposed to get off first. I let go of him and pull my leg over the seat, awkwardly. I fumble with getting the helmet off, and when I’ve finally pulled it over my head, I look up to see Rourke grinning at me.
“That didn’t take long.”
“What didn’t?”
He chuckles. “You were hanging onto me tighter than a boa constrictor when we started out. You loosened up pretty quick.”
“It was… fun,” I admit, letting myself smile back. “When it stopped being so terrifying.” I look at the building in front of us. “Where are we?”
“Shooter’s,” he says simply. “You ever heard of it?”
I shake my head. “Never.”
“Best burger you’ll ever have. Guaranteed.”
I laugh. “I guess that’s what I’m getting, then.”
“Damn straight you are.”
Inside, the atmosphere is raucous, with classic rock booming through the speakers and bartenders pouring beers as fast as they can. Waitresses weave through the crowd delivering plates of food and platters of drinks. Shouts of laughter rise and fall. Over to the side, the clack of pool tables beats a steady rhythm.
“Come on, let’s get something to drink,” he says. “What’ll you have?”
“Just beer is fine.”
I follow him to the bar and let him push through to order. A few seconds later he turns back around with glasses of foamy amber liquid, and hands one to me.
“Cheers,” I call above the din. “To Mickey. May he be having a miserable time right now.”
Rourke bursts into loud laughter. “Now that I can drink to.”
As we raise our glasses to drink, I feel Rourke’s eyes on me. I find myself wondering what he sees. What he thinks of me. An uptight social worker? A hoity-toity transplant from Louisville with no social life? Something else?
I find that I care about his opinion, very much. A lot more than I want to.
“So,” I pipe up, to break the silence. “This is Shooter’s. You come here often?”
He shrugs. “Often enough. It’s a good ride from Ironwood on a nice day. And like I said, their burgers can’t be beat.” His eyes move to a spot in the corner. “Hey. There’s Mal and Cyndi.”
I turn to look. Over playing darts is one of the Lords I saw at the hospital visiting Bear. With him is a pretty, statuesque blonde who’s dressed to the nines, in black leather and lace and thigh-high platform boots. If she rode here on the back of the biker’s Harley, I don’t know how the heck she did it.
“Let’s go on over and say hi,” Rourke says, grabbing my hand. He leads me toward them, and I’m so stunned by the contact of his skin that I can barely think as he guides me through the crowds of people. Mal sees us and leans over to say something to the woman. She turns, and when she notices Rourke she breaks into a wide, lipsticked smile and lifts a red-nailed hand in an excited wave.
“Hey, Rourke!” she cries, doing a happy little jump in her heels as we get close. Her eyes move to me, and register just a second’s worth of surprise. “Hi!” she says. “I’m Cyndi!”
I’m not sure whether her confusion is because I don’t look like Rourke’s type, or because she expected to see someone else with him. With an unpleasant jolt, it occurs to me for the first time that he might have a girlfriend. Or girlfriends, most likely.
The thought makes my stomach hurt a little. How has it never occurred to me that women are probably all over Rourke? He’s definitely one of the most attractive men I’ve ever seen. And without a doubt, the sexiest. He has this way of holding himself, this way of moving that’s both graceful and powerful. It’s hard not to stare at him, and I imagine other women would feel the same. I mean, even the nurses at the hospital follow him with their eyes as he moves down the hall.
“You have the most gorgeous hair,” Cyndi enthuses. She reaches up to touch the end of my ponytail, which has fallen over my shoulder, but then drops her hand. “Sorry,” she laughs. “I’m a hairdresser. It’s second nature to me to touch people’s hair.”
“That’s okay,” I say automatically.
“Your ends could use a little trim, though,” she murmurs, cocking her head. “No offense. I work at Curl up and Dye. You should come by sometime. I’ll give you the friends and family discount!”
“Didn’t know you had a hot date, Rourke,” the biker named Mal jokes. “How you doin’, Miss Laney? How’d this degenerate get you to come out with him?”
I open my mouth to reply, but Rourke cuts him off. “None of your fuckin’ business, bright boy,” he snarls, but Mal just laughs.
“Hey, you wanna play a couple rounds of darts with us?” Cyndi asks. “I don’t like playing with Mal because he always smokes me. But maybe with teams we’d be better matched.”
“I, uh, don’t know how to play dart
s,” I stammer.
Rourke smirks. “No worries. I could beat Mal blindfolded.”
“That right, fucker?” Mal retorts.
“I’m about to show you that’s right,” Rourke shoots back.
It turns out, Rourke is as good as his word. After they explain to me what the different rings on the board mean, we play two rounds of a game they call 301. I have a hard time following the rules, and I’m not much help. It’s a victory for me that I can even get the darts on the board at all. But in the end, Rourke and I win both games — or rather, Rourke wins. Mal, pretending to be more pissed than he is, buys us a couple of rounds of shots at the bar as congratulations.
By the time Mal and Cyndi say they’re going to take off, I’m feeling fuzzy and loose. As nervous as I was to come here, it turns out I’m having a great time — thank God for alcohol as a social lubricant. Cyndi gives me a big, perfumy hug, and the two of them take off, leaving us sitting on our stools at the bar.
We each order a burger and fries from the bartender. Mine turns out to be just as delicious as Rourke told me it would be.
“That was fun, playing darts with your friends,” I grin at Rourke. “Even though I seriously suck at that game.”
“You’re a beginner. You’ll get better. You just need practice.”
“This is the most fun I’ve had in forever, actually,” I admit, sliding a fry through my ketchup. “I feel so normal right now.”
Rourke’s amused. “Usually you feel abnormal?”
“You know what I mean. Just a normal, free, happy person. Not Laney the hospital social worker. Not Delaney the senator’s daughter.”
“Whoa,” Rourke says, frowning. “Your dad’s a senator?”
Crap, I forgot I never actually told him that. “Oh. Yeah. Senator Rodney Hart, from the great state of Kentucky.”
Rourke lets out a high whistle. “You told me your family was a big deal. You didn’t tell me they were that big.”
I snort. “Yeah. Big freaking deal. Big enough to believe they’re better than other people.” Blowing out a breath, I hear myself continue, like I’m not even in control of my tongue anymore. “That world has always felt so uncomfortable to me, you know? It’s sort of a relief to have moved away from Louisville. Here in Ironwood, nobody knows I’m a senator’s daughter. Well, no one but you, that is.”
Rourke pretends to lock his lips and throw away the key. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“My parents think I’m crazy, living all the way out here. But if I was back in Louisville, I’d probably have been railroaded into getting married to some rich, prominent guy. Like my little sister.” I stare at Rourke. “She’s marrying a carbon copy of my dad. I’m really afraid she’s going to end up like my mom. Basically a prisoner in her marriage. Unable to stand up for herself. No identity except as the wife of someone important.”
Rourke’s eyes don’t leave mine. “Is it really that bad?”
I nod. “Pretty bad. Sometimes I think the only difference between my parents, and Bethany and Mickey, is money. Well, and that Bethany at least had the courage to kick Mickey out once.”
“Everybody needs some help sometimes,” Rourke responds. “Maybe your mom just needs some help.”
“She won’t get any,” I say gloomily. “She’s got too much at stake. Her money. Her life. Her reputation. Mom tries as hard as she can to believe everything is normal. Fine, even.” My voice quavers a little. “She’d rather live like this than risk the fear of the unknown.”
Shit. I just went from having the time of my life to dragging the whole mood down. “I’m sorry,” I laugh, shaking my head against the tears that threaten to come. “I didn’t mean to be such a downer.”
“It’s okay.” Rourke’s words come out low, even gentle. He’s silent for a moment, and then starts talking.
“I have a little sister, too. Regan,” he tells me. “Like I told you before. We grew up with an abusive dad. My mom got pregnant with me when they were still in high school. She dropped out before graduation, and got married to him because her family wouldn’t help her. Once I was born, she didn’t have any money to leave. My sister was born four years later.”
I sit silently, trying to digest that Rourke Powers is actually opening up to me about his childhood. He raises his glass and takes a long drink, then continues.
“My mom died from complications from pneumonia when I was nine and Regan was five. By that time, my dad was a full-on drunk.” Rourke’s expression turns sour. “He didn’t much like us kids when Mom was alive, and after she died, he was pissed as hell about having to be a single father. He went back and forth between basically ignoring us and beating the hell out of us.”
Rourke trails off, lost in his thoughts for a moment. I’m afraid he’ll stop talking if I ask any questions, so I just sit and wait.
“When I was old enough and strong enough, one day I guess I’d just had enough. That weekend, he got drunker than usual and came after me. I kicked his ass and moved out.” He raises his glass to his lips, draining it. “I was sixteen. My sister was only twelve, but I couldn’t leave her there. I got a job at a garage, after school and on weekends. The place was owned by the dad of a buddy of mine, who knew who and what my father was. I convinced him to let me live in an old RV parked in the back lot of the place.
“I went and got my sister out of the house, and she lived with me in the trailer until I could get us an apartment. I knew my dad would never come looking for us, so I figured we were safe. As long as Child Protective Services never found out.”
Rourke’s last words are spoken with a sharp, angry edge. Something clicks in my mind.
“But they did,” I say softly.
He nods, and shoves his glass away, motioning to the bartender for another.
“Someone at Regan’s school figured it out. The social workers came to get us both.” Rourke’s jaw works as he stares straight ahead. “They couldn’t place us both in the same foster home, so they separated us. I spent the next couple years barely seeing her. Hardly even knowing where she was. I figured, once I was eighteen, I’d be able to get her out.” His lip curls. “But they said I wasn’t an appropriate guardian, or some shit like that.”
“God. I’m so sorry, Rourke.” I’m starting to understand why he was so hostile to me at first. How could he possibly have a good opinion of social workers, given his own experience?
Rourke blows out a breath. “I’ve been pissed about it for a long time. But hell, CPS probably thought they were doin’ the right thing. Tryin’ to find the best solution to a shitty situation.”
“Where’s your sister now?” I ask, almost afraid of the answer. But to my surprise, Rourke’s expression softens.
“She’s in college. Senior year. Wants to go to law school, if you can believe that shit.” He smiles. “It’s takin’ her a while, because we’re payin’ it together, as she goes along.”
My chest grows tight. The pride he feels in his sister is obvious. “She’s lucky to have a brother like you,” I say.
“She deserves all the help I can give her.” He turns to me. “She’s smart. Like you. You’d like her.”
I’m suddenly speechless. A compliment from Rourke seems like rare currency. I don’t know how to respond, without showing how moved I am that he thinks anything good of me at all.
“Come on,” Rourke murmurs abruptly. He stands up from his stool and takes my arm. “Let’s get you back to Ironwood while you’re still sober enough not to fall off the bike.”
“I’m not drunk at all!” I protest.
He leans in and chuckles low in his throat, the sound sending a burst of tiny explosions of heat through my body. His eyes… God, his eyes. I could drown in them. They set me on fire. Flashing gray and black in the low light of the bar, like the Devil himself is looking at me.
“Okay, you got me,” he rasps against my ear. “This bar’s gettin’ a little too crowded for my taste. I want to get you back to Ironwood, and have you all to mys
elf.”
18
Rourke
Good God. There’s just something about a girl in a simple white T-shirt and a pair of worn-ass jeans that hug her hips like a lover.
Watching Laney wiggle her ass while she concentrated on aiming those darts was an exercise in torture. I don’t think she has any idea how fuckin’ good she looks — or that practically every man in Shooter’s was staring at her while she took her shots. Hell, even Mal wasn’t makin’ any secret of it — which earned him more than one dirty look from Cyndi.
I sure as hell liked watching her loosen up at the bar, too. Shit, she’s a senator’s daughter. No wonder I thought she was a stuck-up bitch when I met her. At least she came by it honestly. I’m still surprised she opened up to me about her family as much as she did tonight. Probably the booze talking, I know. But still, something about the way she looked as she talked about her mom and her sister felt like it’s not a story she tells to very many people.
Maybe that’s why I found myself talking about my own past. About my piece of shit father, and about Regan.
I wasn’t kidding when I told Laney I thought they’d like each other. They’re both smart, and fiery, and determined. They’re both the type to give any man a hell of a run for his money.
Lord knows Laney’s had me going around in circles practically since I met her. Tellin’ myself she was a stuck-up bitch I couldn’t stand. But even so, somehow I just couldn’t fuckin’ stay away from her. Couldn’t stop myself from thinking about her. Couldn’t help wanting to know more about her.
Turns out I’ve been lying to myself the whole time.
Laney Hart’s got herself under my skin.
Deep.
Laney’s a lot more comfortable on the bike as we ride back to Ironwood. And a lot more friendly, too. She snuggles up against my back, tits pressing against me, and I swear to fuckin’ God it’s all I can do not to just pull over to the side of the road and take her right there, gawkers be damned.
Iron Will: Lords of Carnage: Ironwood MC Page 12