by Jc Emery
“Grady was right. One tough bitch.”
“I don’t feel tough.” I shove the chip back in my pocket. It feels at home there, comfortable.
“Even superheroes have their moments,” she says and nods her head to the bed again. This time I don’t argue and sit down, expecting her to join me. Instead of sitting down, she gives me a firm nod and, with outstretched arms, offers Robin to me. I fight back the lump in my throat. I’ve been wanting to see her for months, but not once did I really think about holding her. I can barely hold a glass without having a freak-out over condensation. How in the hell am I supposed to hold a tiny little human?
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. You just have to be brave. I trust you.”
“You probably shouldn’t.” What if she’s hot to the touch and I tense up and squeeze her too hard? What if she sneezes and the moisture freaks me out? What if she hates me? Too many what-ifs flying around my head for me to hold her. No, I think I’ll just sit here with my hands to myself and watch her as she slips back into sleep.
“I’d die protecting her, so trust me when I tell you that I feel safe with you holding her. I wouldn’t say that if I didn’t have faith in you.”
“I might hold her wrong.”
“I’ll show you.”
Balancing her baby in her arms, she shows me how to properly hold Robin’s neck and everything. I will myself to be okay with this, to fight off the panic before it begins, and to—for once—refuse to let my damage get the best of me. Nic tries to avoid touching me as she places Robin in my waiting arms, but it proves too difficult. My eyes slam closed as my heart rate picks up, and I find it hard to breathe. My lungs fight to keep the flow of oxygen going as the heaviness in my arms stretches her tiny little legs and yawns.
The reminder of her presence brings me back to the here and now. If I selfishly let myself fall into the blackness, I’ll never get to hold her again, and that would break my heart. I always wanted to be a mom. I was that girl who fantasized about growing up and becoming a wife and mother. There’s so much I wanted in life, and it’s all gone now. I’ll always envy Nic this—her beautiful daughter.
“See?” she says reassuringly. “Not so bad.”
“What do you know about Ian?” I instantly regret the question. Nic’s face screws up, and she shakes her head. Unable to look at her, I redirect my attention to Robin, who is sound asleep in my arms. I should have asked Holly, but I don’t need the lecture or concern that’s sure to follow by asking her anything about Ian. Not that she doesn’t already know.
“Be careful with him. Lost girls talk and, well, I don’t think this is a road you want to go down. What about Wyatt? He’s not tied down. There’s always Diesel.”
“It’s not like I’m looking for a man,” I defend. “I’m too messed up to try to hitch my wagon to someone else’s.”
“But you like Ian?”
“I was just curious if you know anything about him,” I say a little harsher than intended. Nic’s tough. She doesn’t quibble about it.
“Oh no you don’t. You have the same look you did back when that Italian fuck would come into Universal Grounds. You’d get this goofy smile on your face. Christ, I can’t believe I didn’t realize it sooner.”
“Is it so terrible for me to like Ian?”
“Yes.” The sound in the room echoes with not just Nic’s voice but Holly’s as well. Well, shish kebobs. I didn’t realize Holly had made her way in here, but apparently she has and just in time to scrutinize my affections. I watch carefully as Holly and Nic make eye contact. Neither seems comfortable with the topic at hand, and neither will elaborate. Instead I’m left with burning questions and no answers from either of them.
It looks like I’ll just have to get them from Ian.
“Here you go,” I say and nod to Nic. She lets out what I think is a disappointed sigh and takes Robin from my arms. I give her and Holly both a reassuring smile and stand. I hitch my thumb to the open doorway and say, “Bathroom.”
I exit the room quickly and get into the hall bath before anyone catches up with me. I’ll have to come out eventually, but for the next few minutes, I can be alone and avoid the judgmental questions regarding Ian. How dare any of them judge him. He’s no more screwed up than the rest of us.
It takes a few minutes, but when I eventually realize that I can’t very well spend the entire night pretending to be occupied in the bathroom, I splash water on my face and open the door. I take one step into the hall before my eyes land on the leather vest crowding the space in front of me. My hands fly up in front of me and land on his hard chest. His chin is tilted downward, and his deep brown eyes are almost kind now, a slight difference from earlier at the kitchen table. His blank expression gives way to a regretful one. He lifts his hand and pushes his hair away from his beautifully scarred face and gives me what I think is supposed to be a smile.
“You ate soup.” His words are so soft and comforting. It’s lovely. I want more of this softer side, but honestly, I’ll take any side he wants to show me. Even the angry, maniacal side I know lingers just below the calm exterior he always displays around me.
“I did.”
His chest rises and falls a little quicker now, and ever so slowly he lifts his hand to cup my cheek but stops just before touching me. Just like the other night. I give him a gentle, discontented smile. My head tilts into the palm of his hand. I relish the feel of his touch. He won’t hurt me. He’ll never hurt me. I don’t even have to will away the panic. It never creeps in. For a split second, my eyes fall closed. I let my body settle into this feeling of security, something I don’t think I’ve ever had quite like this. When I open my eyes again, I find that his are closed. I want to let this moment drag out forever, but I know it will end eventually. Everything good must end.
“Did good, babe.” Cautiously, he slips his hand away from my cheek and opens his eyes. I lift my head and give him a gentle nod. I don’t want him to leave. God, I don’t want him to leave so much it hurts.
“Where are you going?” I ask. It’s none of my business. Damn it. I hate that it’s none of my business.
“Clubhouse. Party.”
“Oh.” I want to come but don’t want to ask. My lingering comment hangs in the air awkwardly. Somehow he understands that I want to go. I know he does. I can see him working out the options in his head. Leave me here, take me with him. Stay here with me. He kind of has to go. The club would probably rag on him for ditching out. That is, assuming, he doesn’t even want to be there. What do I know, anyway? Nothing, that’s what.
“We’re on my bike.” His words come out tense and uneven. He’s not happy with what he’s saying, but he does anyway. I try to hold back the squeal that builds in my throat. My cheeks heat from the effort. “You remember what I told you? Anyone caught dealing to you answers to me?”
“Yes, sir. I haven’t forgotten,” I say casually with a huge smile on my face. I can’t help it. It’s like a date, only it’s not a date. But it’s with Ian, and I’ll take whatever I can get. Something in my reply catches him off guard. His eyes darken and he smiles, a look so sinister I think Satan himself would run for cover. But I don’t run. Instead I take a step closer to him and slowly reach out for him to take my hand. He wraps his large hand around mine gently and pulls me down the hallway. It feels amazing. My stomach does flips and my heart speeds up.
I’ve always been addicted to something. As a kid, it was Barbies. As a teen, it was nail polish. Then I met Heath and it was all about him, and then the drinking and the drugs, and then the no swearing. And now it’s Ian and getting better.
He’s my favorite addiction to date.
Chapter 7
We walk out of the house hand in hand just in time to see Grady and Duke take off down the driveway and speed off down the road. The deafening growl of their bikes quiets as they disappear in the distance. And it’s just us. Beside me, Ian lets out a heavy breath. He’s not relaxed, exactly, but he seems to
be settling into something. I like him like this, when he seems so settled and just here in the moment. Just us. We won’t be alone for long, but I like the little bit I get.
“You ride?”
I shake my head. He turns his face toward mine and waits as though I haven’t answered him. Maybe he thinks I haven’t. I guess I’ve been silent too long, because he squeezes my hand and continues to stare at me with searching eyes. I shake my head again, and this time he sees it and nods his head in return. He drops my hand and climbs on his bike. He nudges the kickstand up and holds the bike upright, offering me a helmet with an outstretched hand.
“Wear this, then climb on like I did and place your feet here,” he says and points to a cylindrical black peg that juts out of the bike. “Don’t drop your feet and let your body lean into the turns.”
He’s patient with me as I stand here and psych myself up. I’ve had maybe a fantasy or two about a sexy man on a motorcycle, but until Ian it was just that—a passing fantasy that went as quickly as it came.
With his pointer finger, he summons me forward and sets the helmet on the tank between his legs. His eyes aren’t kind, exactly, and they’re not dark and sexy. They’re something else that I’m desperate to place but can’t. I close the distance between us and stand before him. Slowly, he reaches out and brushes a lock of hair from my face and tucks it behind my ear.
“Tell me where you’re at,” he says quietly. He tucks my hair behind my other ear as well. I let out a soft, unintentional sigh. I barely hear the question—or order rather—and instead have all my attention focused on his touch. Being able, and even wanting, to be touched is such a wonder. “Tell me I help.”
There’s such a vulnerability about him in this moment as his fingers lightly weave through my messy hair and he asks for reassurance. My breath halts in my lungs. I both loathe and love the sound of his plea. I didn’t even know he was capable of this. Ian is always so strong for me that I think I sometimes forget he’s human.
“I need you.” The words come out on a whisper. I should be mortified, but I’m not. It’s the realest thing I’ve ever said.
He’s silent. Too silent. I don’t like it. His eyes tell me he’s a million miles away, and with every moment that passes, he seems to get further and further away.
I lift my hand to touch his cheek but stop, thinking better of it. I just . . . want to touch him. I want to initiate touch. I just don’t know if he’s going to be okay with it. More than worrying about upsetting him, I fear I may never heal past this point if I don’t act now. So I let the tips of my fingers touch his jaw.
He sucks in a sharp breath and instantly, he’s back with me. Focused deep-brown eyes practically dive into my soul. I want to look into his eyes, I want to drink him in, but it’s too much. My eyes are back on my fingertips as they ghost across his cheek up to the side of his nose. They travel over his nasal bridge so slowly, lovingly, and across the ridge of his brow. I can barely contain the excitement at the prospect of what I’m about to do, what I’ve wanted to do for months. At the outer edge of his brow, I watch my fingers slide down to the corner of his eye. The raised, damaged skin is rough to the touch. Uncomfortable even. My fingers have traveled halfway across the scar to his ear before his hand shoots up and he pulls away from my touch.
“You don’t like people touching your scars.” I get it. I don’t like people touching my scars either. I just couldn’t help myself.
“I don’t like the pity that comes with that scar.” Despite the rushed, almost angry way the words come out, his voice is still soft. Even when he’s uncomfortable, he’s gentle with me. Maybe too gentle.
“It’s not pity,” I say. I always thought he got the scar that runs from the corner of his eye to his ear from some kind of club-related run-in. I might have pitied him when I first found out the truth—that his mother’s ex, his siblings’ father, sliced his little six-year-old face up—but that was before I knew him. I like him just the way he is—scars and all. “It’s acceptance. You are who you are because of your scars.”
He nods his head after what feels like a long time but is probably just a moment or two. I’ve done everything but write Mindy loves Ian on my freaking forehead, and all the man does is nod. I’m such an idiot. While I’m beating myself up for falling for a guy whose primary means of communication is a head nod, Ian goes about placing the helmet on my head, securing the strap beneath my chin, and making sure it fits properly. To my surprise, it fits almost perfectly.
“What about your helmet?” I ask, looking around for another helmet. There isn’t another one, though.
“Don’t need one.” Ah, it’s another one of his double standards. I want to ask about those but decide I’ve pushed his communication capabilities enough for one day. I want Ian to feel comfortable opening up to me, and that won’t happen if I try to force it.
Placing my hands on Ian’s shoulders, I swing an unsteady leg over the bike. I settle on the small, raised passenger seat and make sure my feet are on the pegs as they’re supposed to be. I don’t know how I’m going to be able to hang on when this thing gets moving, but I can’t back out now.
Be brave.
There’s several inches of space between my legs and Ian’s back, so I wiggle forward until the insides of my knees comfortably meet the leather of his cut. My hands drag down his shoulders to the curved patch that says FORSAKEN. I don’t give too much time to it and continue on my path. I pause at the rough, worn feel of the beautifully stitched patch at the center of the leather. I’ve done a little research on the club but haven’t found much. I’ve even managed to get a bit out of my dad, who grouched that, unlike some clubs, Forsaken doesn’t have much of an online presence, making it more difficult to find out what they’re up to. The little bit I did find out is mostly stuff I don’t want to know.
“She gets loud. You’ll feel her when I start her up.”
“I’ll be okay.”
Because I have you.
Ian’s shoulders jerk and he leans forward. I hear a click and then the bike roars beneath us. The bike feels alive with its warmth and vibrations. It’s intoxicating. The noise and the motion should all be sending me into a panic, but they’re not. Somehow, they center me. Being on such a strong, powerful machine gives me a sense of perspective. I could freak out over the noise or the vibrations. But then, we could also crash and die on the side of the road. Thinking of it that way kind of mellows me out. The worst that could happen is that I could die, and then none of it matters anymore.
“You have to hold on tight,” he says over his shoulder. His voice is just loud enough for me to hear him.
I smile softly to myself and wrap my arms around his torso. The cool, worn leather of his vest feels wonderful against my body. Ian’s chest expands as he sucks in a deep breath and revs the engine. The bike jolts forward, and we roll down the driveway and accelerating when we’re on the street. He blows out a breath when our speed evens. My hands grip his torso, and I pull my chest into his back and place my cheek against the leather. I can’t really describe how it feels to be here, on his bike, with my arms wrapped around him.
I love this. I really love how freeing and altogether exciting this is. With anyone else, I would be terrified and hating the rush of wind that presses in on us. I can’t imagine I would be able to handle the way our bodies lean into the pavement when we turn, or that I would be okay pressing myself into another person in such an intimate way. But this is Ian, and it seems he’s the exception to every rule.
We make it across town without hitting a single red light and only have to slow down twice on our journey. Even when I’ve been running late to work or for an important meeting, I’ve not been this happy to speed through town. The rush, even at slow speeds, is just too incredible to be forced to break at a light. I can’t even believe he gets to do this every day—be this free, in the wind, and so exposed to the world around him. It’s all too much and yet not enough at the same time.
“What’
s the big deal about motorcycles anyway?” I ask Nic. She looks at me blankly for a long moment before nodding her head. Nic’s dad brought her up on the back of his bike, so of course this question would catch her off guard. She seems to get it, though. I don’t know anything about the lifestyle she’s so accustomed to.
“It’s not something you can explain. It’s something you have to feel.” She doesn’t elaborate. She doesn’t have to—her smile says it all.
I remember being jealous of Nic at one point—being jealous that she understood this unexplainable thing. This urge to ride and be free and feel like you’re living your life to the fullest. Even if you’re not doing anything but getting from point A to point B, the ride itself is exciting enough to make you feel like you’re living on the edge.
Excited shouts take me out of the moment. My eyes dart ahead of us, finding that we’re pulling into the parking lot of Forsaken Custom Cycle. Up ahead is the tall chain-link fence that surrounds the clubhouse. Black privacy slats keep Forsaken’s home base private. Two prospects, Jeremy and Rob—nicknamed Baby Boy and Squat, respectively—stand at either end of the open gate. It’s rare these days that the clubhouse gates are left open, really only at times like now when there’s a party going on and somebody is standing guard. There’s too much danger in our small town.
Ian pulls us through the open gates and gives both Jeremy and Rob a head nod. I turn my attention toward Rob and give him a sad smile as we pass. He raises a hand, his expression much like mine. Apologetic, sorrowful. Angry. I don’t really know him, but Aaron talked about him a lot. They were best friends. They decided to prospect together, lived together. Rob and Aaron were as close as brothers. Now that Aaron’s gone, I can’t help but worry that Rob’s all alone. Nobody should have to lose their best friend. Especially not a friend like Aaron.
The bike slows as we near the line of Harleys backed up against the fence near the clubhouse’s entrance. Ian places his heavy feet on the ground and backs us into a wide opening in the middle of the lineup. He cuts the bike off and waits while I slowly realize it’s time for me to get off. I don’t want to, but I can’t very well just sit here all night. If I thought he’d even remotely let me get away with that, I’d huddle in closer to him and never let go. But I’m not that brave and don’t know his limits well enough yet to be that obstinate.