Slow Burn

by Autumn Jones Lake

  "You okay?" he shouted over the rumbling engine.

  "I think so."

  "Wanna go up to Fletcher Park?"

  Tears stung my eyes hearing that name. "No. Please. Anywhere but there."

  Clay proposed to me at Fletcher Park, and the thought of even a glimpse of the gazebo where he’d sat me down and gotten on one knee tightened my chest. A stab of guilt poked through. What the hell was I doing on the back of this man’s bike on the day of my husband’s funeral?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It may have been under the worst possible circumstances, but I had her. Hope was on the back of my bike. Willingly. I couldn't fuck this up. I wanted to talk to her. Explain why I acted like such an asshole last year. But then she slipped her arms around my middle, rested her chin on my shoulder, and my mind was wiped clean of all thought. Sure, I remembered how to turn the key and twist the throttle, but once the wind whipped around us, it was too late for words.

  Her reaction to my suggestion of Fletcher Park surprised me. It's a popular scenic park with a gorgeous spot to overlook the entire three-county area. From her frantic refusal, I assumed it had something to do with her husband. I wondered if she'd tell me one day. As we wound down the open county roads, I figured out where I wanted to take her. It was odd. Probably inappropriate. But I didn't care. For some reason, I wanted her there.

  Although the MC owns two businesses in the city, they're completely legit. Our clubhouse or conference center, as we sometimes jokingly called it, is out in the country. Nestled deep in the woods, it's not easy to find unless you know where you're going, which was our intention when we bought the property a few years back from a bunch of Hippie-Buddhists who had gotten into a little trouble with the IRS. Technically, a corporation with some flowery sounding name owns the land and buildings the club is situated on.

  Believe it or not, bikers have a sense of humor.

  As I slowed the bike down, Hope lifted her head. Other than molding herself to my back, which was a bit distracting, she'd been a perfect passenger. She made no sounds, though, and that had me worried. For a first timer, I expected some squeals or a sharp intake of breath. Something. But she was silent the whole way.

  The bike took the transition from highway to gravel easily. Thanks to the little sensor on the handle bars, the tall, metal gates swung open as we approached. They'd shut behind us once we we were safely inside. Without that sensor, we would have had to wait for someone up in the center to realize we were out here or punch in a code in the panel next to the gate.

  I sensed Hope's confusion and could only imagine the questions she'd have when we stopped. The property was long and narrow at the bottom. Inside the gate, a massive Buddha garden statue greeted everyone. He's surrounded by low stone benches. Prettily landscaped flowers surrounded the big meditating man. He was there when we moved in, and no one wanted to move him. Club girls or prospects kept him nicely groomed. A long line of pine trees lined both sides of the driveway. Glimpses of other smaller statues and rock gardens could be seen through the trees. After the last hill, the land flattened out and the clubhouse came into view. The driveway circled around to the back of the building. This place used to function as a conference center, but it fit all our various and complex needs. Clubhouse, meeting rooms, bedrooms, kitchen, bathrooms, gym, a very large, private basement that we used as a grow house. To the left sat our crown jewel—an enormous, heated garage. Because what else are bikers going to do all winter, except tear down our motorcycles, and make all the repairs, modifications, and upgrades we've been planning the whole riding season?

  The minute I shut the bike off, one of the club prospects ran out of the garage to meet us. He had to be in his second year of prospecting, or he wouldn't be allowed up here. Every time I saw the kid, he reminded me of Howdy Doody, but I kept that to myself because apparently I'm old and no one else knew who that was.

  "Should I get off first?" Hope asked.

  Several answers came to mind, one of which was "hell, yeah." I managed to restrain my inner asshole and answered her with the respect she deserved.

  "Yup, just reverse what you did to get on. Steady yourself on my shoulder."

  Without having to tell him, the prospect came over and helped Hope off the bike, then disappeared back into the garage. Quiet, but useful—just how how a prospect should act. Hope scrunched up her face in pain and rubbed her hands down the front of her jeans.

  "My thighs burn."

  I swear. I wanted to be a gentleman, but she was killing me.

  I wasn't sure where Rock had taken me. What I saw on our ride took my breath away. But where we ended up looked like some sort of sophisticated camp where people came to spend the weekend meditating and practicing yoga. Glancing up, I noticed the garage where the orange-haired kid ducked back into after helping me off the bike. It was filled with bikes in various stages of repair and disrepair. Several classic cars, a jeep, and a truck also took up space in there from what I saw.

  Three or four bikes were lined up against the back stone wall facing out. Rock got off his bike and opened a compartment to take out his leather vest, shrugging it on. I hadn't seen him wearing that vest in a long time, and the sight of it did something to my insides that I chose to ignore.

  He held out his hand to me, and I took it without hesitating. As he led me inside, the massive Lost Kings mural that greeted us shocked me. It was the same design that adorned the backs of his the vests he and his friends wore. A skull with an elaborate crown sitting on top of a garland of red roses with Lost Kings MC spelled out underneath took up an entire wall. My feet stopped moving as I stared at its shocking beauty.

  "Like it? Bricks did it."

  "Wow, it's really something. He's very talented."

  On closer inspection, it was more detailed and embellished than the back patches, but the idea was the same.

  No one sat behind what I guessed used to serve as a front desk area. It seemed to serve as some sort of biker bar, because bottles of liquor lined the shelves behind it.

  One hallway extended down the left side of the building. There were chairs, tables, couches, and a large screen television taking up the open front room. A wide staircase off to the left, across from the front desk, invited further exploration.

  "Want a tour?" Rock asked, after studying my face for a moment.

  "Sure."

  He tugged me down the first hallway, pointing things out as we passed them. "Storage closet, bathroom, yoga studio."

  My feet stopped at that last one. Rock gave me a lopsided grin. "Well, it was a yoga studio. It's more of a private dance room now."

  I knew he owned a strip club, so the room didn't require more explanation, but he threw open the door anyway. Indeed, someone had installed a shiny silver pole in the middle of the room. Two walls were covered with floor to ceiling mirrors, and the back wall consisted almost entirely of a wide, cushioned bench. I was both disgusted and intrigued by what must go on in there. I spied a glass jar filled with condoms on a table inside the door. Rock's eyebrows shot up and he smiled at me sheepishly before closing the door. At the end of the hall, another hallway extended to my right. "There’s a gym, bedroom, and laundry room down that way."

  In front of us was a huge kitchen and dining room area. There was one large table that could easily accommodate twenty people and several smaller tables. An empty buffet area sat close to the open kitchen door. As I turned, I saw a fully stocked bar running the length of the front wall. A door in the kitchen led to the outside, making it easy to bring in food and drinks without traipsing through the entire building.

  "Are you hungry?"

  I shook my head and dropped Rock's hand so I could take everything in. More skull and crown murals adorned this room. The one behind the bar was fitted with angel wings as well as red roses.

  Rock walked up behind me and slipped his hands over my shoulders. "Ready for the rest of the tour?"

  "Sure."

  He led me back down the hall and into
the main area. We passed the steps and headed to the door that sat in the middle of the wall. Whatever was behind the specially carved, solid wood door must be special.

  "Want to see the board room? Girls aren’t allowed inside, but I'll give you a peek," Rock teased.

  I wanted to be offended, but curiosity kept my mouth shut as I let him lead me inside. It was indeed set up like a boardroom. Or a biker's idea of a board room: large, battle-scarred wooden table, worn leather executive chairs. The chair at the head of the table looked more like a throne and had the word "President" carved across the top.

  I raised an eyebrow at Rock, and he shrugged. "The last president's idea. The whole king/throne thing."

  Oh, yeah. That made sense, I guessed. On the opposite side from his "throne," a black leather sectional and big screen television took up the space at the end of the room. He backed me out of the room and took me to the next door.

  "The other officers and I share this workspace. It’s nothing special." After that, we walked over to the staircase, and I followed him up. The first landing was wide enough to accommodate a vintage motorcycle. Photographs of the club throughout the years lined the wall. I tried to pick out Rock's face to determine how long he'd been a member, but we passed by too quickly. One day, I'd like to sit and study all these photos. Don't ask me why.

  Instead of room numbers, there were words or names outside each room. "Free" for the rooms near the staircase. There was also a large dorm-like bathroom at the left end of the hallway. A small laundry room was situated next to the bathroom, and absently, I mused that whoever thought of that was pretty smart to avoid lugging loads of laundry up and down the stairs.

  Rock led me to the right. At this end, the signs changed from "Free" to words like Guest, Family, Road Captain, Treasurer, Vice President, Sergeant-at-Arms, and at the very end of the hall, President. I noted the last five doors had deadbolts. Rock pulled out a key and opened his door.

  I should have been nervous. I should have been feeling some sense of wrongness at entering what essentially amounted to Rock's bedroom. But only curiosity pulled me along. Would his room be some disgusting, perverted man-cave or an elegant gentleman's oasis?

  It was neither. Or maybe a little of both. A king-size bed dominated the far wall. It was covered in black bedding. Black comforter, black, white, and gray sheets with a dainty scroll pattern, then more black pillows scattered on top. Drawers were built into the bottom of the bed frame. He had one dresser and a large flat screen television taking up one wall. A door to my right appeared to lead to a bathroom. A trunk sat at the foot of the bed. Some oddly shaped furniture scattered in front of the television—what I thought were video gaming chairs, but may very well have been some sort of sophisticated sex furniture, for all I knew.

  "Do you live here?"

  "No, but I spend a lot of time here."

  "It's nice."

  How many women have joined him in that bed?

  It took a lot of self-control to lead Hope out of my bedroom. I couldn't even come up with a good reason for bringing her in there. It didn't seem to bother her, though. If anything, she seemed a little too fascinated.

  "I should head back. My family will wonder what happened to me."

  I knew she was right, but I didn't want her to leave. Things were so complicated for her, I didn't know when I'd be able to see her again.

  "Of course."

  Thinking it was better not to prolong the agony, I took the shortest route to her house. It was almost dark, and I concentrated on avoiding any suicidal deer that might decide to hop in the middle of the road. Red lights and sirens broke up our peaceful ride. I swallowed a string of curses. For a moment, I considered trying to outrun the sheriff—just for fun—but not with Hope at my back. I pulled over and felt her strain to keep her balance with the sharp braking.

  I set my feet down flat on the ground and kept my hands on the handlebars where the cop could see them. The soft crunch of gravel under his boots told me he was approaching us with caution. I continued to face forward, bracing myself for whatever he was about to accuse me of.

  "Evening, sir. Any idea why I pulled you over?"

  "Nah, why don't you just tell me?" I hated playing games with cops.

  "You're not wearing a helmet. New York has a helmet law, sir."

  Hope must have been worried I'd antagonize the cop some more. "It's my fault, officer. I asked him to take me for a ride on his bike unexpectedly, and he let me use his helmet."

  The cop turned his keen eyes to Hope, and his whole face broke into a smile. "I know you. You work with Barry Hansen sometimes, right?"

  Instant jealousy filled me at the sound of another man’s name in connection with my girl.

  "Yes," she answered.

  "He speaks very highly of you. Says you'll end up being a better lawyer than him."

  Hope's body tensed, but her voice came out firm and polite. "That's very nice to hear. Thank you."

  He swung his gaze between Hope and me. "Okay. Since I can appreciate that you were just trying to keep the young lady safe, I'll let you go with a warning. But, look into getting an extra helmet, sir."

  Seemed like Hope's connections just got me out of a ticket. What irony. "Will do. Thank you," I said without choking.

  "Thanks, officer," Hope echoed.

  After checking she was secure behind me, I started up the bike and took off. The turn for her street came much too fast, and I fought the urge to keep on riding. Before I was ready to let her go, we were back in her driveway. Most of the cars were gone.

  "You can pull up to the house," Hope shouted.

  I didn't think it was the best idea, but I wasn't about to argue with her either.

  I shut the bike off as I pulled up to the back door. Hope got off and started fiddling with the helmet. I had to smother a smile as she struggled to figure out how to get it off. Finally, I rescued her and rested it in my lap. She shook her hair out, and I noticed she was wearing it a little shorter than last year. It was still as beautiful as I remembered, and I'd have given just about anything to run my fingers through it or wake up with my nose buried in it every damn day.

  "Thank you, Rock. Thank you for taking my mind off of things for a little while." Her lips quivered as she choked out the last few words, and my normally stone-cold heart broke for her. She had a painful road of grieving ahead of her, and there wasn't a lot I could do to help. I wanted something from her that I knew she couldn't give me at the moment.

  "Anytime, Hope. If you need anything, call me." I took out a card and scribbled my cell number on the back. I can’t put into words how much I wanted her to use it. When she was ready.

  She took the card, staring at it for a moment before slipping it into the front pocket of her jacket.

  "Thanks."

  Then she turned and headed into the house.

  One year.

  I decided right there in her driveway.

  One year to grieve. Then I was coming back to claim my woman.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  (Eight Months Later)

  Slipping out of bed in the dark, I stare at the bedroom door for a while. My chest still rises and falls with each heavy breath. A quick glance at the clock shows me it's three in the morning. I didn't really need to see the clock. The darkness surrounding me is so familiar by now I could have easily guessed the time.

  Every day is like being punished for living, while Clay is in the ground. I want to sleep. It's all I want to do. All day, every day. Sleeping takes me away from the misery of being alone.

  Stretching out my arm, I fumble with my bedside lamp. The damn thing looks pretty, but it's useless. It takes a few seconds for me to find the switch and click it on. With the weak glow, our bedroom comes into focus. I've barely set foot on "Clay's side" of the room since he died. I can't bear it.

  I lied to Sophie about my mother and stepfather sticking around to help me out. My mother hasn't been "motherly" in almost twenty years—she's not going to magically
start now. All this grief belongs to me and I can't stand being a burden on anyone, not even my best friend. Clay's sister only stopped by to give me grief. Eventually she got bored and went away for good.

  While going through his things, I discovered he'd taken a very large life insurance policy out right after we got married. That, coupled with the large insurance policy payout from his employer because he died on the job, means I don't have to go back to work if I don't want to. After struggling for so long to be financially secure, the money is like some sort of cosmic joke. The fact that I came into it under the worst possible scenario is almost too tragic to think about.

  I crawl out of my grief stupor long enough to pay off Clay's car, sell off my old shitbox, and pay off the house and my student loans. After that, I have no obligations, so I am free to bury my head under the covers and let the world carry on without me. I pay the electric bill when they send me those fancy yellow notices that warn me they're going to shut the power off. The cable gets turned off, and I don't even notice for a few weeks. The car insurance and cell phone have been directly debited from our account for years. Not that it matters—I almost never leave the house anymore.

  Friends call to check on me, but after a while they stop. Probably because I am rather unpleasant to talk to and not very good at returning calls. I decline every invitation, and eventually people stop bothering me.

  I'm so fucking angry. I'm pissed at Clay, but I can't be because it's not his fault. In fact, he made sure I'd be well taken care of in case something like this ever happened. Good thing, too, because I'm a mess. He knew me well. He knew how hard it had been for me as a teenager going from one rat-infested apartment to another because my mother couldn’t get her shit together after my father died. I swore I’d never live that way again, which is part of the reason Clay and I both worked so hard.