by V. Theia
Hawk had installed it all way back when he was first patched in, according to Rider again.
He installed all the security measures in everyone's homes, as well. The VP was a jack of all sociopathic trades, apparently, not that the scary guy interested her much, but it was good the safety elements were taking care of.
Don’t worry, no one is getting in here, Hawk has got us covered. Rider had told her and weirdly enough she trusted Hawk knew what he was doing in that regard.
Fall air stung Zara's cheeks. She'd only been outside three minutes, if that, the first time in a week, and already frost was gathering on her long lashes, her fingers beginning to numb, her lips bluing.
She was exhilarated in the frozen outdoors.
For too long she’d been trapped inside, refused to venture a foot outside the Raging Rebels door, paranoid she'd beg a passer-by for help, and she fucking would have done.
Assholes.
She hadn't noticed the seasons change, she'd missed leaves dropping from trees, the first day of Spring sunshine fighting to get through the clouds. But it was winter she'd missed most of all. No seasons, no holidays.
No wonder she'd been suicidal. A girl needed Santa in her life.
Zara held out a wish for snow soon. Hard pelting snow, blizzard worthy. Back home in West Newbury, Massachusetts, the snow fell every winter in great globs. Beautiful, and now she missed home. Whereas since living in Colorado for college, it had been hit and miss. Already the mountains were dusted in white, but that was miles away, as yet the forecourt was still just gray cement. Maybe soon, she pondered, eyes tracking to the mountains.
The air stung her nose when she took a long inhale, smelling freedom and gasoline wafting south from the garage.
It was the best scent ever.
The noise came with the solitude, clattering, welding, the sound of machines jacking up cars, an old guy she was half sure she remembered was called Jim was tinkering with a rusted motorcycle, metal meeting floor made an almighty racket.
At first, those new days here Zara had been jittery of every sound, she jumped more often than not, felt that rush of nervous energy and pumped adrenaline through her veins, eyes turning wild, expecting the worst.
But now, the noises were welcome, because it meant all was well in the Souls base.
No attacks, or trouble, this was everyday sounds from men getting on with their work, laughing and co-existing together.
It was subtle. Comforting.
Funnily enough, after her breakdown two days ago, she felt light today, purged from within, able to take a breath again without it causing her pain, it was a weight lifted from her shoulders.
Zara had ripped inside, cracked effectively, recognizing she had been emotionally cutting herself, picking at her scab, until she’d metaphorically bled out on the floor, and Rider had been there to gather up her pieces.
A beautiful bad biker man had literally climbed into the shower with her and bathed her for hours, speaking in hushed calming words while tears and sobs racked her body.
He didn’t try to tell her she was stupid for feeling dirty, he’d simply washed her for as long as she’d needed.
Rider. She was beginning to believe he wasn’t real.
Maybe she dreamed him. Because who did that for another person? Seriously.
The Renegade Souls president looked at her in a way that convinced her she mattered to him, that their history was not just that, it was fresh and real and present between every look and glance.
He was still young, not yet forty. These bikers took their roles seriously, more than any other man she'd ever known and a MC was a world within itself, their own hierarchy, with Rider on the top of the food chain ruling it all from the mother chapter.
Strange the details she'd retained and hung onto, thought of over the years.
Had he been married? gotten himself an old lady at some point? she knew now he hadn't. Now she was plagued with why not?
Ridiculously handsome, seriously man-hunk calendar gorgeous, a man like him would have been inappropriately propositioned more times than Zara had had a hot dinner, and still, he was unattached.
Maybe he was commitment phobic.
Good … terrific … out of this world sex didn’t equate to him being a good husband.
Maybe he was the kind of man to leave the cap from the toothpaste. That was a deal breaker for all women.
God forbid he had mommy issues.
Zara shook her head and circled back to the things he'd said to her recently. It was absurd to try to understand the burning energy between them, like a juiced up current of pure electricity coursing from one to the other. How could it be? she reflected, standing beneath the entryway covering as she stared out over the compound, lost in her own thoughts. How could it be real when it had been only a week? You can't pick up a one-night stand and turn it into something with the space of three years between it. It was improbable. She couldn't go from MC slut-toy to MC-girlfriend in a few days.
Could she?
Zara didn't know how to process the feeling without being overwhelmed.
Was she just transferring years of horror into emotions of lust and want because he was showing her kindness and they were feelings she could understand?
Wavering emotions became stronger like she could grasp onto the answer and feel okay again, to set that aside and focus on what should be more important and that was reintroducing herself to normal life again.
Only that wasn't happening, not when every time Rider's eyes landed on her, her belly flipped over and crash landed on her feet.
The day had begun the same as the rest had this week, with Zara's heart unevenly thumping, until her eyes peeled open for her to recognize the safety of Rider's room.
The third day, or pre-crazy-town day, as she was now calling it, she’d found the kitchen and made herself coffee with a slice of toast before anyone else was around.
The silence was golden and for those few minutes leaning against the kitchen counter Zara had forgotten everything. It had tasted so good slathered in real churned nothing fake about it butter she'd made three more pieces. It was there one of the members had discovered her mid-bite.
Seemed reasonable after her mild panic to pour him a cup of coffee, though her legs were urging her to run back to Rider's room where she could lock the door and pretend she was alone.
Cowardly didn't suit Zara, she'd faced bigger monsters and the guy across the counter from her, though he was big, huge in fact, well over six foot and change, with his mop of black hair he religiously brushed out of his eyes, gave Zara mind of a giant teddy bear lumbering around the kitchen. She’d stayed.
Coolly offered to make him toast if he was hungry. He'd grinned like she'd granted him a gold bar. Called her ma’am. And told her his name was Tiny. She instantly like him.
Three more bikers came in. She did the same. Adding eggs once she'd found a skillet. Two more men and more breakfasts were made. It kind of snowballed from there with Zara cooking food that morning for most of the MC. Barely saying a word, keeping out of their way, but listening to their normal conversations. They'd all thanked her, smiled and taken their food off to eat. Returning the plates afterward with another thank you.
She'd been quiet, shy, marginally panicked.
Bikers with manners. It felt a little like the twilight zone.
And then her monumental freakout. For god’s sake, she’d been naked in the shower with Rider.
Naked.
Naked.
And too preoccupied blubbering to even take a lick of notice, to see if his body had changed in any way.
She recalled he’d been incredibly kind. So kind. And the look he’d given her, gaze sympathetic and devastated. Zara had allowed herself two days of solitude and then an hour ago declared enough. Her emotions were pissing her off, so god knows what they must be doing to the man who shared his room with her.
That brought her week up to date, and god what a week, she was exhausted, beat
down from her own baggage.
For all his kindness, Rider hadn't asked her for anything, she'd thought to make him food, but she'd found the kitchen occupied earlier with one of the groupies pulling things out of the fridge, making a holy mess of a plate of sandwiches, did the woman not know how to slice bread? possibly all her skills were in dick sucking, but that was just a guess as Zara looked her over, the leather red mini skirt showing the world her underpants, and the bulging breasts in the black bra top.
Classy sandwich maker.
Zara had offered to help, the girl had scowled, misshaping her already too thin pencil eyebrows, informing her it was her job to provide for the boys and Zara wasn't welcome.
Okay then.
The girl smelled of a territorial bitch and looked Zara up and down as if to wonder what in the hell she was even doing there.
Don’t worry, honey, I’m thinking the same damn thing.
Irrational fear was her answer. She'd latched onto the only one person she had vaguely known outside of the biblical sense, using Rider as a shield and buffer.
Zara left kitchen-bitch to her territory.
One day at a time, she told herself. Today she would take a walk around the MC. And she had, until her lips were gloriously cold and blue, her fingers number stuffed into her pockets.
Tomorrow who knows what steps she’d take towards building her future again. But she knew one thing, she was done being anyone’s victim. It was just an ugly look, and Zara hated it.
Bad shit happened, and it was down to you how you let it affect you.
She’d even smiled at one of the bikers earlier. She didn’t know his name, he looked young, a mop of blonde hair, not a beard in sight, but he had the start of some scruff around his chin, he seemed to be around her age, he’d smiled and asked how she was. Progress, she mused, happened small and often, day by day. She was dressed, not naked shaking in the shower, she was walking outside in the fresh air.
All in all, it was a good day.
The outside world was as calm and serene as she'd left it, funny how the world kept on keeping on while her life had been at a standstill, all her plans were gone, everything else had become her prison and in a way, she'd become accustomed to it, all animals acclimatize to their cages after a while.
Readjusting was key and proving harder than she thought. The determination was significant. And if it fucking killed her Zara was not letting this beat her down anymore. You got this, girl. I sorta have it. I will get it.
Was it wrong she was using Rider? Maybe a little bit. Even if he didn’t seem to mind. Leaning heavily on his gentleness.
Feelings shouldn't come into it while she was still this fearful former shadow of herself. And still she couldn't stop the awkward wedge of her heart as it rolled into her throat with that first sight of him tinkering half bent over a car, his overalls were dirty from use, tight around his ass as he leaned into the engine, long legs braced, she watched the play of his back muscles with each movement.
She visibly inhaled, holding it in her lungs until she felt steady enough to exhale again.
Her protector was far too handsome. Why couldn't he have grown ugly, a pot belly, bald? She would have even accepted a wife, the Queen biker bitch at his side, it would have lessened the pull towards him.
But he's single and you want him. That tiny voice spoke.
Christ. Shut up. Far too much dreamy thinking. Zara over-analyzed everything. And it was driving her insane. She could admire a handsome man without wanting to jump his bones, or think about jumping his bones, was more realistic.
The actual doing made her belly twist.
To stop her mind going wild she went for another walk, this time in the opposite direction for different scenery. Not too far, it wasn't as though she left the compound at all, but she headed behind the buildings where grass still grew, trees swayed in the breeze, and she could see clear across to the base of the mountain range, on her second sweep around, hands buried deep into her hoodie pockets she stopped, looked across to the garage again, her eyes pulled in only one direction until she noticed all three men looking her way. Zara peered behind her, expecting someone to be stood there.
Nope. Just her. What the hell were they staring at? All of them gaping like silverback gorillas on the prowl looking for a ripe banana.
"They want you to bring them coffees, missy" Grinned Jim from a few feet away, as he tampered, crouching on the ground, wrench in one hand and a stain of oil brushed against his old craggy cheek.
She had no idea what he was actually doing, the way he tugged and grappled with the piece of metal looked strenuous, she thought about offering her help for a second, but he was also covered in grease and oil and her hoodie and jeans were brand new, the first real nice clothes she'd had for ages, there was no way she getting them dirty.
The thought was enough her charity-driven mother used to say.
"W-what? How do you know that?" her head cocked. If she was honest they all intimidated the hell out of her. Larger than life bikers, covered in ink and sarcasm. Not her favorite kind of men to have chats with.
And she recognized first hand they didn’t have many rules, she’d heard the groans and moans every night from the inside the compound when the club sluts ... groupies … fans ... whatever they called themselves came around.
When she’d heard many of their orgasms teamed with “oh god, fuck me harder, babydoll, right there, harder, take me deep.” it was difficult to engage any conversation with them after that.
"Because the prospect left to go pick a part up for me, and those boys are lazy as slugs, they're looking for the next servant to bring the drinks. Capone takes a pound of sugar in his. Hawk likes it straight black and Preacher takes it anyway it comes as long as it’s hot and wet. I expect you know how Rider has his coffee, missy."
She did. A touch of cream.
She worried her lip. Did they really want her to bring coffees, or was it Jim manufacturing a chore for her? She shrugged making up her mind. In any case, it was just coffee, she supposed, they could toss it out if they didn't want it.
It had nothing to do with her missing Rider.
Wanting to see Rider.
Nope. Not that at all.
She walked a little faster back inside. Ignoring the kitchen bitch who was now fawning over the same blond guy she'd seen earlier, boobs rammed in his face, how was he meant to eat his sandwich with giant saucer nipples up his nose? If you asked Zara she would have preferred a bag of barbecue chips.
Ten minutes later, carrying a tray with five plain white mugs, she stopped first, to hand Jim a cup, he grinned to show three teeth missing, soft bristles on his chin and gray hair blowing around his face. She returned his smile shyly. Man, he was cute like Santa Claus. She was going to develop a little fatherly crush on Jim. She slipped him two extra packages of pumpkin spice cookies.
With the tray held to her hip, she took the short walk over to the shop, Jay-Z pumped out of the wall speakers, sounds of drilling and you, cocksucker I was using that wrench! greeted Zara.
She stole a glance across to Rider who was stooped over a desk, pen in one hand, concentrating on whatever he was attending to, a red and black bandana holding his hair back, his coveralls, once a slate gray, were filthy, worked and well-worn at the knees and butt, the shirt he wore didn't fare any better, sleeves were cut off in jagged angles showcasing the best-fucking-guns she'd ever seen before. The man could stop her heart then send it long jumping into a fast gallop.
Just look at him.
Far too handsome. And that was just the sight of him from the back. The front could devastate.
"Finally! A man could die of thirst." Broadcasted Capone in a booming voice.
Okay, enough ogling. She warned and dragged her gaze away from the president. Her heart started up again with a sputter once she was free of the tall sight of Rider.
Greedy hands all descended on the tray grabbing a mug each and a handful of the cookies.
"Thanks
..." Offered a rough voice so quiet she barely heard it over the thump of Jay-Z. Zara's head lifted and was slammed with pale blue eyes. Hawk stepped out of her way in the next blink before she could find her tongue to reply him.
He was an odd man, she decided. He was never without a scowl etched onto his face. A face she couldn't decide if it was handsome it was hidden with all the hair hanging around his ears, and an ungroomed beard.
But then he extended a well-mannered thank you in stiff opposition to the reputation even the devil would cower from.
Rider's VP scared her, and rightly so. Darkness lurked within him, that much she recognized and if she knew anything it was those kinds of men that caused the most damage. And besides that, Zara had a feeling Hawk didn’t approve of her at all, didn’t want her here at the MC.
"Thank you, niña. Ahhhhh..now that's what I needed. It’s cold enough to freeze my balls." Of all the bikers, Capone perhaps was the friendliest. He always smiled, joked and generally seemed happy in his environment and he'd had several nice words for her, so she held him in high favor.
“You mean you call those shriveled prunes hanging between your legs balls?” cackled Preacher. It was met with “Fuck you, Preach.” Who only laughed more.
She hadn't realized she'd been rating the biker outlaws; those bad wicked men she was closely watching from all the corners she hid in. Now she smiled inwardly, she absolutely was rating them. She supposed for reputation and scowl meter alone Hawk would be at the bottom, Capone being near the top and Rider.
She sighed.
Of course, the president would reign above all. There was no other place for the man who had brought her out of the dark and spoke dirtily to her without shame, and a wicked grin on his face. Hot.
She'd become an expert at watching these men silently observing their behavior, looking for signs that they were no different than the Raging Rebels.
So far so good. It looked as though Rider's friends were nice people (she didn't include Hawk in this. The man didn't like her. It was just a feeling she had)
As if betraying her will, her eyes slipped across the shop, ignoring the men working diligently on three motorcycles and strayed towards Rider, his hip propped to a chrome counter covered in tools, he was watching her right back.