Uncle Karl walked me out to the car, waited while I found my keys, and then told me, “Someone will walk you out every night. If I’m not here, you can trust Killer, Dash, Mike, or Billy. Most nights, one of us will be around. Soon enough, you’ll get to know a few others who are trustworthy enough. Till then, I’ll be sure one of us is here.”
He paused and looked at me like he was searching for some answer on my face. His hand came down on my shoulder, stopping me as I was about to get into the car. “If you need to talk about anything that happens at the bar or with one of the Wolves, you come to me, you hear?”
“Thank you.” Impulsively, I hugged him.
“You’ll be just fine,” Uncle Karl said with a pleased look as he stepped back from my hug.
“I think so now,” I agreed. “Thank you for giving me a shot.”
“You’re Maureen’s granddaughter. If there wasn’t a job for you with us, we’d have helped you find something. We take care of our own.”
I paused a moment before asking the question I’d been pondering. I was pretty sure I knew the answer, but I wanted confirmation. “I don’t suppose you’d tell me why you include me and my grandma in that category? I haven’t seen a Harley jacket in the house, and unless I’m mistaken, women can’t be Wolves.”
“You’re not wrong.” Uncle Karl shook his head. “Maureen is still family, though. She’ll tell you what she thinks you ought to know. Without being her granddaughter, though, you’d be ours all the same now. You work in Whiskey; that makes you family.”
“Does she work for you, then?”
Uncle Karl laughed. “I’m old, but I’m not a fool. Don’t nobody cross your grandmama, not if they have a lick of sense.” He shooed me toward the car. “Go on, then. You need to get on home, and I have paperwork to tend.”
I was still relaxed when I pulled into my grandmother’s neighborhood—at least until I saw the cruiser and ambulance lighting up the street outside my grandmother’s house. My panic ebbed only when I realized that it wasn’t her house that had been burgled. One of her neighbors was sitting in a lawn chair with paramedics at her side.
Grandma Maureen stood with a group of senior citizens. Most of them looked more angry than afraid.
“What happened this time?” I wrapped an arm around my grandmother’s waist.
She reached over and patted my hand. “Idiots with a brick scared Christine halfway to a heart attack.”
“Is she hurt?”
Another of the women said, “No one is ever hurt. So far they just scare us, mess up our things, and vanish.” She motioned toward my grandmother. “If Maureen wasn’t retired, I’d be asking if she was passing out a stack of failing grades again.”
My grandmother hmphed. “It’s not students. There’s a reason for it, but it’s not kids angry at us.”
The senior citizens’ conversation lifted and fell as they talked about possibilities. The small group was mostly women. There were a few men, but it looked like either the women here outlived their husbands or the men were elsewhere. A cursory look around located several more old men talking to police and paramedics.
“They feel as helpless as we do,” my grandmother said.
“Not Beau or Elliot,” another woman quipped. “Beau’s feeling like he’s Perry Mason, and Elliot’s making time with half the girls ‘so they aren’t home alone.’ Old codger thinks he’s clever.”
“Least Christine can’t pretend to be in the family way this time,” one of the women said.
“What do we do?” I asked.
“We catch the bastards,” my grandmother said. “I’m too old to be woken up all the time like this.” She sounded tough, but I knew her too well to believe it this time. There was a new and noticeable tremble of fear in her voice, and that frightened me more than the sirens and the crimes.
“You could make that call,” one of the women suggested quietly. “He’d handle it. For you, he’d fix this.”
Grandma Maureen pressed her lips together in a tight line and looked away. Her reaction further confirmed my suspicions—and created new ones. Whatever the story between my grandmother and the bikers, it was one with some serious complications. Sooner or later, someone was going to fill me in on it. I was starting to think it would need to be soon. The simple truth, for me at least, was that if her mysterious Echo was able to ease the stress on her face, I was with the neighbors on calling him in. If I met him at the bar, I might just tell him myself.
Chapter 8
THE NEXT MORNING, Grandma Maureen acted like the trouble hadn’t happened. I wondered how often I’d failed to notice her being worried or stressed because she hid it so well.
“So who do they want you to call?” I asked as I poured a cup of coffee.
“What, dear?”
I had to give it to her, my grandmother was great at feigning ignorance when it suited her. I obviously hadn’t realized just how great she was at it. “Your neighbors. Beau mentioned Echo and—”
“There’s a saying about sleeping dogs, lovie,” she interrupted. “You let them stay that way. You know what I’m saying?”
I sipped my coffee, weighing just how much I wanted to push this. I didn’t want to upset her, but things weren’t getting any better and if Echo could fix it, I wasn’t entirely opposed to waking him. In a voice only slightly tremulous, I asked, “What about sleeping Wolves?”
“They’re worse than dogs, I suspect.” She nudged me to the side so she could get to the coffee pot. “You’re getting your sass back. It looks good on you.”
I shook my head. “I don’t have any sass to get back. You must be thinking of some other grandchild.”
Grandma Maureen clucked her tongue at me. “You’re my only one. When you were a tiny thing, you had more attitude than pounds to you. You grew into your attitude, and then . . . you locked it all up.” She lifted her gaze from the sugar she was spooning into her coffee. “I thought the mess your parents were making of everything was going to bring you back around to that little girl who was all fire and defiance. You just created another of those schedules of yours.” She sighed and pressed her lips together for a moment before adding, “My son and his wife are being idiots. They need to stick together and sort out the mess your dad got into, as a team, but . . . no one asked me for my advice . . . except you.”
“I don’t want to be a burden. With the job, I can pay you rent or get a car—”
“You don’t need to pay me rent, lovie, and that car’s yours as often as you need. We’ll sort that out just fine.” Grandma Maureen sipped her coffee. “It’s good to see you trying to get up on your feet, though, and I’m not of a mind to object to your questioning me. These past years you haven’t challenged me no matter what I said or did. It was disappointing.”
“Oh.”
She reached out and patted my hand. “Yes, ‘oh.’ A little bit of sass is a useful thing for a woman.” Then she topped off her coffee and walked away, calling out, “You need to get a move on. Beau said there’s construction over by the school.”
For a moment, I stood and stared after her, trying to figure out what had just happened. Then it occurred to me that she’d dodged my question. “Don’t think I missed that you didn’t answer my questions about Echo,” I yelled as I walked toward my room to get dressed.
Her only answer was a laugh.
I got ready and headed to campus—not ending up late only because of Grandma Maureen’s warning about the road construction.
Ellen waved as she sailed by me in the hallway. “I expect free drinks. Finder’s fee.”
I laughed.
“And we seriously need to brighten up your clothes,” she added as she walked backward away from me. “It’s no good for my reputation as a designer if I don’t update your look.”
“Pushy,” I said.
“Guilty as charged,” she acknowledged before she ducked into a classroom.
I was still smiling when I walked into American Lit: The Romantics. I could do w
ithout ever trying to read Thoreau again, but much like my history course, Am Lit was one that would undoubtedly either transfer for a requirement or at the very least have a match at Reed or wherever I ended up if Reed remained too expensive to swing. A matching course meant that the credits wouldn’t be dismissed. That was my priority when picking the classes I’d be taking in Tennessee. I wished I could take something more unusual. There was a 300-level “Animal Fables Through the Ages” course at Reed, and the Intro to Fiction 200-level course that focused on “The American Con Artist.” Those were the sort of courses that I’d been looking forward to taking. Instead, I was stuck reading Thoreau and Emerson. It made me want to cry.
Noah joined me in the classroom, sliding into the seat next to mine. It was still early enough that he had a cup of coffee that he’d obviously picked up at the little kiosk on campus. He took a sip of it, and I couldn’t decide if I was envious that he had coffee. I’d had the one cup at the house, but I could’ve gone for at least one more. I had become fond of fussy coffee drinks when I was in Oregon, which was a veritable coffee mecca. Here, I had adjusted to only having the good stuff at home. Basic literature courses and bad coffee . . . this was so not the life meant for an English major.
“What’s that smile for?”
“English major humor,” I said sheepishly.
He made a “go on” gesture with his hand, as if he could spool the words out of me, so I explained what I’d been pondering about Thoreau and the classes I missed at Reed.
“There was a con man class?” He shook his head. “I think I’d have liked your other school.”
I sighed. “I did.”
Noah shot me a sympathetic look. “Sorry. I’m not sure what happened, but I’m sorry you’re not where you want to be.”
“Can’t pay the tuition right now,” I said with a shrug.
“Sucks.”
“It does.”
He paused for a moment before his expression switched to the sort of grin that made me think he would’ve understood the con man course innately. “Give me a chance, though, and I can help you see the delights of wondrous Williamsville.”
It was impossible not to smile back at him, but I still said, “No thanks.”
There was an easy charm to Noah that made me wish he tempted me the way Zion did—just as much as I suspected I shouldn’t want that. Noah felt safe. Nothing about Zion felt safe, even with the bar rules in place. With a shake of my head for letting my mind wander to him again, I forced myself to look to the front of the classroom, where the instructor was opening her bag.
She had the harried look of someone who taught too many courses in too few days. I’d guess she was as thrilled to be here as I was. Without saying a word, she began passing out the syllabus, and I readied myself for another rousing class of outlining rules and expectations that truly should be obvious to anyone who had taken even one course prior to this . . . which meant everyone here, since there were prereqs.
Noah caught my eye. “I expect tutoring. Name your price.”
I remembered his earlier remarks that he wasn’t as good at English as at numbers, so I figured he might be serious. I also guessed that he could be quite persuasive if I tried to say no. I whispered, “I’ll think about it.”
And then I forced myself to stay focused on the course review that the instructor, a Ms. Malowski, was inflicting on us.
By the time class ended, I felt a surge of guilt. English majors should like classes in their major . . . but honestly, half the syllabus was stuff I’d read before. The rest was stuff I had no desire to read.
As the class let out, Noah stayed beside me. “I wasn’t joking about the tutor thing.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” I tucked the syllabus into a folder and slid it into my bag.
“Because . . .”
I shook my head, ignoring the question and any potentially awkward answers. Maybe he didn’t mean anything by it or the flirting at the bar. Maybe he was just friendly.
“Aubrey?”
“I have work and classes already.”
“I’m not that stupid,” Noah said lightly. He motioned for me to precede him out the door. “I’m talking about a few hours here or there.”
There was no way to ask if he was interested in something beyond that without . . . well, asking it outright. But that could sound like I wanted him to be interested. I hated this part of talking to guys. I decided to ignore the question entirely—my typical answer to the problem. “I need to head to the bar.”
“Come on, then. I’ll give you a lift.”
“No.”
“I need to go over anyhow,” he continued. “We can carpool. That’s an Oregon sort of thing to do, right?”
“It is, but I have a car with me, and I can’t leave it here. Thanks anyhow.”
Noah met my gaze and stared at me like he was looking for some sort of clue in my eyes. “You’re not sore about something I said or did, are you?”
While we were talking we’d walked to a side door of the building, a shortcut to the parking lot from the looks of it. I said nothing as he pushed the door open and waited for me to exit. Outside, I stepped to the side so the people behind us could pass. “Why are you offering me rides and asking for tutoring?”
“Because we’re going to the same place and you seem to already know the authors we’re going to be reading,” he said.
When I didn’t reply, he added, “And because you’re easy on the eyes, you seem pretty smart, and you’re different. If you had been here before, either Killer or I would’ve already been chasing you.” He held his hands out. “I like the look of you . . . and the whole virgin thing is tempting.”
I held up one hand and counted off facts on my fingers. “One, thank you on the compliments. Two, I’m not that different. Three, I don’t date. Four, I’m not a virgin.” I was down to my pinkie finger. I held it up and said, “Five, I’m not interested in being chased.”
He was silent for so long that I thought I’d offended him. Then he looked at me. “But you’ll think about tutoring me? As friends . . . or friends who will flirt with their tutor but are willing to pay for tutoring?”
“I’ll think about it.” I folded my arms. “Stop with the flirting, though. I seriously do not date.”
“Can’t.” He shook his head. “Especially now that you’re a bartender. Your job is to sell us drinks and flirt. I’m just helping train you. You don’t have to go out with me, but I’m duty-bound to flirt with you. All of us are. That’s why Uncle Karl only hires people who are pretty or interesting.” He paused, then became exceedingly serious and added, “Take Mike, for example. He’s very pretty. Brings the whole look of the place up by two or three degrees.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Mike was, like most of the people I’d met at Wolves so far, a bit rough around the edges. “The whole bunch of you are ridiculous.”
“Yeah, but you like us. Admit it.”
“Maybe. Some of you.”
Noah walked me to my car and waited till I was situated before he gave me a cheeky grin and said, “I didn’t really need to go to the bar. That was just a ploy to get you on my bike.”
I rolled my eyes, pulled the door shut, and drove off. I could get used to Noah, maybe even call him a friend in time. Sure, he was gorgeous, but he didn’t make me feel like I was going to combust just from looking at him. Only Zion did that.
Walking into the bar a short while later felt a lot less comfortable. The first two hours, I’d be on my own. Mike was going to come in before it got busy, but until then, I was the bartender on duty. I could handle the register well enough. The fear of someone ordering a complicated drink was the only real issue.
I went into the ladies’ room and changed into bar clothes. I felt funny changing here, but the alternative was changing at WCC. It was one thing to wear bar clothes here, but it was totally different to wear them on campus where classmates would see me. I generally tried to dress to downplay my body,
but the T-shirt Uncle Karl gave me to wear was tight and the black skirt I had brought was above the knee. It wasn’t risqué by any standard, but it felt more revealing than what I was used to wearing.
I took a deep breath and walked out of the restroom—only to find myself all but frozen in place by the biker who’d just sauntered in the back door.
“Red.”
Trying to match his relaxed tone, I greeted him. “Zion.”
His gaze swept me from top to bottom and back up.
“Do I pass?”
“More than. But you passed in your schoolgirl clothes too.” He smiled, making my knees unsteady and my throat dry, and then asked, “Can I get a cold beer?”
“Any particular type of beer?” I started toward the bar, determined not to rush despite the heat of his gaze searing into my back. I knew he was right behind me, knew he was watching me, and I was not going to let him see the way it affected me.
“Longneck Bud.”
My first customer as a solo bartender was the man who’d rescued me and filled my dreams. I bit my lip to keep my smile from looking deranged as I opened Zion’s beer. It was a silly thing to be so pleased by.
He dropped money on the bar and took a swig of his beer before asking, “What’s the smile?”
“When you took me home, I’d never been on a motorcycle, never talked to a biker, never been in a bar . . .” I shook my head. “There’s a lot about leaving Oregon that sucks, but this”—I gestured around the bar—“isn’t on that list, and you seem to be there for all of it.” I shrugged. “I guess you make me smile.”
“Good.” Zion looked like he’d say more, but a group of bikers came in laughing and loud.
“Killer! Leave that little lady alone, boy!” one of them hollered.
Another added, “You flirt this one out the door, and I’ll kick your scrawny ass.”
Zion flipped the man off without looking his way. “Good to see you, Red.” Then he took his beer and walked over to join the crowd that had just come into the bar. I didn’t even pretend not to watch him walk away.
Undaunted: Knights in Black Leather Page 7