She felt the same way. His body was magnificent. A work of art. His skin, a dusky light brown, evidence of his distant Native American roots. Corded muscles played over nearly every available surface. For a club Prez, he lacked the overabundance of tattoos that most had. And for some reason she really liked that. That he didn’t change his appearance to meet whatever standards were set. Not to say he didn’t have a load of them, because he did. But they didn’t overtake his body.
Once she’d put her flip-flops on, he looked at her. “You’re gonna have to stay in here for a bit longer.”
She felt her anger rise to the surface. He must have seen it as well, because he added, “This is club business. Regardless of who you are, I can’t have you going home with intel to share.”
“You’d think that of me?” She threw his words back in his face.
His expression screwed down tight at the reminder. Rider walked over to her and cupped her neck, his fingers rough. “Rules are rules. It’s club business.”
It wasn’t an apology. But then again, her brother wouldn’t apologize for kicking her out to talk business either.
Vera glared at him but nodded. Rider squeezed her neck in approval and left the room.
And twenty minutes later she was on the back of Rider’s Harley Fat Bob headed home.
Chapter Six
Cumberland, Maryland
Hawk
Hawk had wanted to drive slow. He wanted to keep Vera’s tight body wrapped around him as long as he could. Feel the heat between her legs pressed up against his back. Her hands exploring his abs in an almost leisurely way.
But Stryker, Hyll, and Slade, the Road Leader, had set a fast pace. They wanted the Princess off their hands.
He’d walked into the bar with a couple of raised eyebrows and one pissed off look from Stryker. Only Stryker had been part of Hades Horsemen when it had split. His old man had gone over to the Sentinels, and so Stryker had followed. He knew about the nature of Hawk’s and Vera’s relationship before the war. Well, most of it. And it was clear Stryker thought Hawk had fucked up huge.
He’d ignored his best friend’s anger and instead had him catch them all up.
“Oldens got us passage into Horsemen territory.”
“Where?”
“The clubhouse.”
Hawk glared at the man. “The clubhouse?”
Stryker nodded. “Shit’s pretty hot with them. Don’t want to do business where prying eyes can take pictures.”
Made sense. Still, Hawk didn’t like the idea of going directly into hell.
“Weapons?”
Stryker nodded. “Will be checked at the gate.” It wasn’t an unusual demand.
Hawk looked around. “I want you all to hold back there. Stay armed. I’ll go in.”
Hyll growled and spoke up, “No fucking way, Prez.”
Hawk turned to look at the man who acted like his personal bodyguard. No one questioned the President of the Sentinels. Hyll kept his glare on Hawk.
“They ain’t gonna touch me,” he told the group.
It was quiet. Stryker studied him but said nothing.
“Neither of us wants war.” He paused and looked around. “It’ll come, but not today. They want Mini, and no trouble otherwise. I don’t blame them. Save the fight for another day.”
Again, it stayed quiet as he decreed what was to be.
Then one by one they nodded.
Hyll was the most reluctant of all. He crossed his scared arms over his chest and gave a grim chin lift.
And now here they were.
Hawk turned off the main road and left his men behind with a nod and two-finger salute. He slowed his bike and dropped his feet to the ground. Vera stayed where she was as he was patted down and handed over his three pieces. The guard, eyes greedy, looked at Vera and Hawk couldn’t fight the jealousy that sat like lead in his stomach as the man’s eyes roved over her. Hawk waited until the man’s eyes met his. He held the man’s glare, conveying the slow, painful murder that awaited him if Hawk had his way. Vera whispered his name, breaking him from weighing the odds of getting out of here alive if he gutted the Horsemen here and now.
He climbed back on and slowly got them going in the direction of where he knew the clubhouse to be.
Vera had been quiet most of the trip. Really, since after he’d left the room. Maybe she was feeling all that he was. Regret that this was it. Anger that he didn’t have more time with the only woman who’d ever meant anything to him. Frustration that their worlds were at war and he might not ever see her again. Seething that her life would go on. That someday she’d get hitched to some biker in the club. Have kids. Have a life. And none of it would belong to him. She would never belong to him.
All the things he’d thought they would have when he was younger came rushing back once he’d been inside her.
But he didn’t operate in alternate realities. This was what it was. Her brother may be the one to kill him someday. Or vice versa.
“Rider?” Vera asked from under her helmet.
“Yeah?”
Her grip on him tightened and then she asked, “What now?” Her question mirrored the thoughts he was having.
He didn’t answer her. Instead, he reached down and squeezed one of her hands.
After a moment she squeezed it back.
“Maybe…maybe we could call a ceasefire.”
He grinned at her bravery. “We?”
“I could talk to Dean. Tell him it wasn’t the Sentinels who killed Dad.”
“Princess—”
“I can get him to listen to me.” Her voice was full of conviction.
“I’m sure you can.” He’d seen firsthand just exactly how Mace let his little sister speak to him.
“Let me try.”
It wouldn’t work. The bad blood between them would always exist. She was grasping at straws.
But in that moment he knew he’d give her anything.
Maybe she’d remember that someday after he was gone. Maybe she’d forgive him all his other fuck-ups for this one thing he could give her. Hope. False hope, but she didn’t have to know that.
So he told her, “All right.”
She squeezed his hand again.
He rolled his bike to a stop and lifted off the seat. He looked around the yard. Men, armed to the teeth. Ignoring them, he helped Vera dismount.
Vera lifted the helmet from her head and Hawk watched her raven black hair tumble down around her shoulders.
Fuck.
He didn’t want to let her go.
Hawk reached out and cupped his hand around her neck. A bold move in front of the MC. And as they turned, Hawk’s old best friend, Mace, appeared in the doorway. Mace’s body held the illusion of calm but Hawk knew he was strung tight. He watched as Mace’s gaze narrowed on Hawk’s hand clasped around her neck, and for some reason it made him grip her tighter.
He didn’t want to let her go.
Hawk looked down at the small woman next to him. His gaze traveled to her eyes. She was nervous.
Looking at her, Hawk realized he would give her anything. He grinned down at his princess and they stepped forward.
About the Author
Olivia Night, a fictional character herself, has always been an avid reader and writer. She found the romance genre in college and has never been able to get enough. One sleepless night, the main characters of Book One in her Men of FTI series sprang from her head fully formed. They demanded she tell their story; so she did. As they revealed themselves, so did two other intriguing characters. Those characters convinced her to give them their own books because their stories were worth telling too. And so Olivia suddenly became a romance author. When Olivia is not writing, she has the best job in the world, which, too, will remain a secret. In her free time, she reads, write, drinks wine, or is, most likely, out emulating Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Olivia lives in one of the most diverse and vibrant cities in the U.S.—Baltimore. She lives with her cat, whom she is convinced was a
gladiator in his past life. Olivia plans to continue being awesome at this thing called life. Really, that’s her only goal.
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Crossing Jordan
By Ryan Jo Summers
Chapter One
Will
Will Larkin lifted his eyes to the ceiling, drew a deep breath, and let it out slowly as he counted the tiles above him. His mother’s voice continued in his ear, extolling the many splendid virtues of her fantastic idea. He had his own fantastic idea, which sounded nothing like hers.
“I think it’s a perfect solution, honey.”
Will dragged his gaze off the mesmerizing tiles to stare sightlessly out the window. “Mom, a buddy and I already made plans till our orders come in. We—”
“This way you can help your grandmother.”
Grams. He disliked the café his grandmother and mother ran, but he loved his grams and mother. He allowed that her idea did probably sound perfect to her. Was it selfish of him to want to decompress with a buddy since he just completed his second tour—which ended badly, by the way—as they waited for their new orders? He exhaled deeply. Yeah, it probably did sound selfish. Because across the ocean, back in tiny Cimarron Shores, his mom had hurt her leg and Grams needed help at The White Orchid. He felt his knees weaken at his mom’s prompting sigh.
He sucked in another defeated breath. He may be a First Lieutenant with a silver bar on his uniform, but to his mom and Grams, he was still Little Will.
“Okay, Mom. I’ll tell my buddy about the change of plans.” He glanced at the calendar, wanting to burn it. “I should be back in Cimarron Shores by…late Saturday.”
Her delighted exclamation made him feel a little better about this trip. He’d think of it like just another tour. He’d get in, complete the mission, and get out. He’d make his mom and Grams very happy. He’d leave Cimarron Shores a hero with new orders. What could possibly go wrong? It was only temporary…
Chapter Two
Jordan
“Really? The White Orchid?” Jordan Kelly launched into her boyfriend’s arms. “I thought they would be booked for their Valentine’s Day tea party. This is fantastic!”
Derek Copeland squeezed her briefly, then stepped aside. “You said you liked that place.” He dusted the lapel of his jacket. “Booked or not, a Copeland has always been welcome where they wish to go.”
Jordan self-consciously adjusted her sweater as she told herself—again—that Derek didn’t mean to sound aloof and smug. All the Copelands were reserved and a little conceited. It was in their DNA. Besides, his name just guaranteed them a table at the annual tea party at her favorite café.
The sweet old lady who owned the place, along with her daughter, reminded Jordan of everyone’s favorite grandmother. And a little like Mrs. Santa Claus. Whoever had Mrs. Larkin for a real grandmother was a lucky person. While Jordan barely remembered her own grandmothers, she always dreamed they had been like Mrs. Larkin.
She studied Derek as he flipped through his phone, her earlier excitement at his announcement fading. Was it her imagination, or was he becoming more distant lately? Maybe he was simply stressed with work. He’d made a few comments about work lately. He had ensured her a place at the tea party, so maybe she had nothing to worry about. She moved in, pushing his phone aside to plant a kiss on his cheek.
“That was very sweet and thoughtful, Derek. What time do we arrive?”
He turned back to the screen in his palm. “One-thirty. I can meet you there.”
She recoiled, both at his brush off and the suggestion. She’d hoped he’d pick her up and treat this like a real date. Just because they’d been dating a bit over a year didn’t mean she didn’t want to still have real dates once in a while. Especially considering it was Valentine’s Day. It was special. Nonetheless, she straightened her shoulders, smiled, and nodded at his bent head. “I can’t wait.”
Chapter Three
Will
Will slowed his truck down as he reached the town limits. He gazed around and tried to suppress the weary sigh building up within him. Only temporary. Just till your new orders come through. It’s a tour. It’s for Grams and Mom.
He’d practically begged his CO to put a rush on his orders, without going into too much detail. While he loved Grams and his mom, he could not make himself like Cimarron Shores. It was…he looked around…so limited. His gaze took in the cutesy touristy traps and the sigh escaped anyway.
Typical. There was his word. It was the quintessential typical coastal tourist town. Everything bore a nautical name and signs were marine themed. It was impossible to miss the boats bobbing in the bay—precisely why he went into the Army instead of the Navy. One could never miss the automated revolving light of the nearby Roney Island lighthouse.
He parked in front of the sweeping Victorian manor that had been his family’s home for almost two hundred years. He rested his hands on the steering wheel and contemplated it, waiting for the splash of homesickness to hit him.
The White Orchid—one of the few non-nautical names in Cimarron Shores—filled the house’s lower southeast corner. Entertaining and kitchen areas occupied the rest of the lower level. Bedrooms and living spaces were on the top two floors. Balconies and graceful porches with scrolling gingerbread trim flowed like ribbons around the towering white-clad structure. February, so there was no green grass, but he remembered as a kid ripping out many a pair of jeans on the mossy thick lawn and mature oak trees. Today the lawn was brown and the trees bare.
He stepped out of the truck and promptly shivered. It was colder than he recalled. February, you dummy. Of course, he’d last been in an inhospitable part of Afghanistan where February topped out at fifty-five degrees and dipped to thirty-two at night. About an inch or so of rain and snow or both fell in the twenty-eight short days of the month. And daylight lasted something like eleven hours. This would be such an improvement.
“Will! Darling. You’re finally here.”
A loud slam drew his attention back to the front door. Grams raced to him as fast as she could, arms spread wide, and a huge smile on her face. Her enthusiastic welcome chased away his melancholy mood. He strode up to her, meeting her outstretched embrace. Her happy squeeze stole the air from his lungs. Now the homesickness hit him.
“I missed you, Grams.”
“It’s so good to see you.” Grams stepped back, cradling his chin in her hands as she studied him. “You look like you need to be here.”
He wasn’t sure what that meant, but it felt good to see her. “It’s only temporary, Grams, just till my new orders come through.”
That was apparently the wrong thing to say. Sadness swept over her face, briefly erasing her jubilation. She gave a shake of her head and patted his cheek. “We can only hope that doesn’t happen soon, can’t we? You’re my favorite grandson.”
Now he felt guilty for suggesting his CO rush his orders through. He didn’t want to be here in town, but he already regretted when he had to drive away.
“I’m your only grandson, Grams,” he pointed out with a crooked grin. “The house looks good.” He turned toward the house and spotted his mother hobbling awkwardly out on a pair of crutches. Crutches? Yes, he knew she’d hurt her leg, but this bad? He rushed up the steps, heading her off and taking her into a tender hug.
“Mom. What happened to you?”
“There were some loose boards on the porch. I was trying to fix them, took a misstep and broke my ankle.”
He bit back a curse, silently vowing to inspect ev
ery single board, step, shutter, shingle, and porch rail on the entire house. This place would be able to pass any inspection one hundred percent before he left.
Twenty minutes later he stood at the threshold of his old bedroom, on the third level. He knew the view from the dormer window overlooked a small pond in the back and the lead glass window gave a view of the rose gardens Grams had painstakingly planted when she was a young bride. He’d better check out the landscaping too, and see if there was any manual labor that needed to be done there as well. He tossed his twin duffels on the old bed, shaking his head as it creaked, and spun on his heel.
Minutes later, down in the kitchen, he gratefully reached for the coffee mug his mom handed him. She smiled as he slowly inhaled the delightful, nutty brew. He took a slow, satisfying swallow, eying the ladies over the rim.
“Delicious as always. Don’t change your brand.”
Grams flapped her hands at him. “It’s the pure spring well water that makes it so good. Surely you haven’t forgotten that?”
“I may have forgotten a few things, but not that. I also remember the year the well went dry. It was the drought of ’99, and Gramps and Dad tried every trick in the book to get it going again.”
They chuckled as they took turns contributing stories to the memory, reminiscing about loved ones now gone.
“You’re just in time to help with the tea party. We’re booked solid, as always.”
He bit back a silent groan at his mom’s words. How had he forgotten about the annual tea party held each Valentine’s Day? Even with their capable knowledge and great organization, it somehow was always chaotic and made for a long, long day. He feigned a smile and lifted the mug again. “That’s great.”
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