Iron & Bone (Lock & Key #3)

by Cat Porter

  Copyright © 2015 by Cat Porter

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.catporter.eu

  Cover Designer: Najla Qamber Designs

  Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  Proofreader: Perfectly Publishable

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names of motorcycle clubs are not to be mistaken for real motorcycle clubs. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Epilogue

  Other Books by Cat Porter

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  RUNNING.

  We’re always running from something. We convince ourselves we’re free, but we aren’t, not really.

  Running from the bad things, running from the good things—they both have power over us. Both haunt, fluttering over us with vague glories, tinting us with deep failures.

  Plenty of failures.

  I doused my failures with gasoline. Held them at bay with knives, guns, my hands, my bike, my brothers.

  My iron will.

  But not my heart.

  No, my heart was the flame that would light the match, ignite the blaze.

  My heart made me hang on.

  Because my mother’s quiet faith and stubborn determination made me believe in a better day, someday.

  Because, once upon a time, my cousin would hold my hand. Her trembling would ease, and so would mine.

  Because my best friend had seen me through the worst, the darkest part of myself, the both of us dirty, bloody, bruised in the back of a truck heading out of Colorado and into the unknown. Because he’d killed for me, and I’d killed for him.

  Because my friend Grace had come home and had risen from her ashes. She’d breathed new life into me, making me believe that there could be brighter days instead of the endless pages I had surreptitiously torn for myself from the notebook of my life.

  I’d been running but essentially standing still for years. Left behind and edging forward on my own, I’d created my niche in my club, and I was content. I didn’t need a hell of a lot, and I really didn’t give it much thought. My way of life had become rote, straightforward, a day-by-day of not too much, not too little, and just enough.

  Then, out of the blue, sixteen years later, on a weed-filled cracked sidewalk in a tiny Nebraska town on a cloudy afternoon, surrounded by suitcases, boxes, and crates crammed with her stuff—all of it obviously quickly collected—there she was.

  The pixie, the angel, the herald.

  Jill.

  Grace introduced us. Tania, Grace’s friend, held a baby—Jill’s baby—settling her into a car seat in the back of Jill’s shit-box car.

  Her face was flushed, her strawberry-blonde hair knotted into two loose buns at the back of her head. Her shoulders were set in a rigid line. Dogged. Determined. Relieved.

  She was running.

  She’d been running a long time, too.

  Her body stilled when she saw me.

  It’s you, isn’t it?

  Yes, it’s me.

  Ah, Jill, you’ve come back to haunt me. To pull things from me, damnable things. I don’t want to look at them or touch them or feel them. Their spiky edges will tear my skin. I’d tightly bound them all in chains long ago and thrown away the keys.

  I can keep you bound though, where you need to be, alongside the others and all my smoke. Otherwise, I will have to pay with what is left of me.

  Pay with my scarred body.

  Pay with my ripped, already severed soul.

  “I’M A LITTLE OBSESSIVE. I admit it freely and openly.”

  “You can’t live without these mochas, huh?” Matt asked.

  “Guilty as charged.” I led the way to the sugar and creamer counter, taking in the rich roasted coffee and cocoa fragrance rising from the white mug in my hands. “Only the Meager Grand Cafe’s mochas. And my daughter is just as obsessed with their cupcakes.”

  He laughed. “Then, I’m glad I came here with you. If you like this place, it must be fantastic.” He beamed his white smile at me, and my cheeks heated under his unabashed gaze.

  Here was something new, something I wasn’t used to—a nice guy liking me. A nice guy wanting to impress me. A nice guy doing nice things for me.

  Time to get used to it.

  Matt moved in closer to me at the counter and grabbed a few napkins from the dispenser, brushing up against me. That had to be on purpose.

  With a sip of my latte, I squelched the tickle rising in my throat. Matt was cute and sweet, and every time he saw me at the rehab center where I took Rae—my ex-boyfriend’s mother—he would be helpful and attentive, like he was being right now. Rae had just been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis and could no longer be on her own. My daughter—her granddaughter—and I had needed somewhere to stay, so we were currently living with her, and I’d help take care of her.

  I tore open a Stevia packet, adding a bit to my decaf mocha.

  Matt handed me a stirrer.

  “Oh, thanks.”

  I took in a tiny breath. Who the hell handed you a stirrer when it was right in front of you? Only a thoughtful, kind gentleman—that’s who.

  This was why I had picked up and left Nebraska at a moment’s notice, wasn’t it? Because I was done with the wondering and the arguing and the wishing things were different, wishing that my ex, Catch, was different. I’d finally made a clean break with him, the one-percenter outlaw who’d cheated on me, was never really home anyhow, but we’d managed to have a baby together. Our relationship had once been passionate and fun, but both our insecurities and ambitions had chipped away at it until its luster had worn thin, and a mountain range of resentment had torn right through it.

  Now, I was living the daydream I used to have while working at that launderette in Nebraska or pouring drinks for Catch’s brothers at the clubhouse or planning a trip to the nearest Walmart, which wasn’t very near at all, feeling as if it were a shopping trip to New York City. Back then I’d dreamed of being free from living my life according to the laws and demands of the monstrous global enterpr
ise known as the Flames of Hell MC. I’d dreamed of not belonging to a tribe whose needs I had to usually put above my own. Most importantly, I’d dreamed of giving my daughter a real sense of family.

  Here in Meager, I was truly happy for the first time in what felt like forever. I could sit in this great cafe and have coffee with a good guy who clearly liked me and literally not have a care in the world. I had even explained my surrogacy pregnancy for my friend Grace and her husband, Lock, to Matt last week. His eyes had widened as he’d emitted a long “Wow.” The knowledge had only boosted his already eager attention.

  Matt leaned in closer to me. “I meant what I said earlier, if you want to find out more about becoming a physical or occupational therapist for when you’re ready, after the baby’s born, I can introduce you to one of my old professors, take you on a tour of the school.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Of course. You said you were interested.”

  I was interested in a lot of things, if only I could decide.

  My thumbs rubbed the side of my hot mug. “I just finished this part-time class in social media marketing actually. I liked it.” I fingered one of my dangling silver feather earrings. I enjoyed my little hobby of making charm bracelets, earrings, and necklaces, and in the very back of my mind I hoped to sell them online one day. That was my new secret idea.

  “Mrs. Reigert just has a few more sessions at the center, right?” he asked, referring to Rae.

  “Three more until her Medicare cycle is done.”

  “Am I going to see you after that?” His voice grew lower, dragging out the words, his shoulders rolling forward. “I mean, I’d really like to see you, Jill.” His brown eyes held mine.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  I averted my gaze to the creamy swirls floating in my mocha latte.

  “Jill, you want to see me again?” The soft lilt in his voice made me raise my head.

  But instead of Matt’s handsome face, my vision was filled with his face over Matt’s shoulder.

  Boner. One-Eyed Jacks Sergeant at Arms. One of Grace’s closest and dearest friends. Among the club members, he was an easygoing eccentric of sorts, and when he grinned or laughed, which was often, that ease would show. However, with me, he maintained a shroud of seriousness. I just knew something else lurked underneath, and I’d remained fascinated since I’d first met him, which actually was many years ago and under emotional circumstances for the both of us. Death and regret.

  Staring at me right now was that creature of the shadowy unknown. His gaunt face was set off by an incredible long mane of inky dark hair, a thin mustache and a trimmed beard. His eyebrows framed gorgeous green eyes that were a shade of beach glass. I had even looked up green gemstones on the Internet once to compare to that color. Jade. Peridot. Tourmaline.

  Those remarkable take-my-breath-away eyes were piercing mine right now.

  “What’s up?” he asked in that familiar growly tone.

  A stab of heat shot right through my middle and fired away down in my lady parts.

  I choked back my hot coffee. “Hi.”

  He didn’t move a muscle, not one, except for a slight twitch on his left cheek and his stiffening jawline. Those sharp green eyes of his claimed my breath and incited shivers as they traveled over me in one long sweep.

  “Uh…you know this guy, Jill?” Matt turned in his seat, the unusually high pitch of his voice revealing an unexpected stress level.

  Who wouldn’t be stressed? I was stressed. I was stressed every time Boner came within a few feet of me. No, actually, every time he was in the same room with me, I got stressed. Very stressed.

  I liked this stress though.

  I’d become transfixed, addicted to it.

  Last night, awake at three o’clock in the morning, I’d fantasized about him as my fingers took care of my stress level. Moaning into my pillow, I’d imagined Boner’s lean and contoured body over mine, his ringed fingers clamping over my wrists, his long dark hair teasing my breasts, as his mouth traveled down my torso until it finally, finally reached my—

  “Jill?” Matt sat up, brushing against me.

  Boner’s eyes narrowed, the ridge of his brows shadowing the green depths.

  My back snapped up against the seat. “Boner, this is Matt. He’s a physical therapist at the center where Rae gets treated.”

  “Hi.” Matt rose to his feet, offering an outstretched hand.

  Boner exhaled as he lifted his chin, studying Matt, as if scrutinizing a cockroach he was about to crush.

  “This is Boner,” I said.

  Matt’s gaze scurried over the many patches on Boner’s worn leather vest.

  Boner was a sight to see.

  Over six feet tall, he wore faded jeans on his long legs ending in scuffed black boots, a ripped black club T-shirt, a tangle of leather bracelets around each wrist along with his bulky silver rings. A snake tattoo twisted up one of his sinewy arms. Two small silver hoops in one earlobe along with his exceptional hair and beard rounded off the image of the dark-road caballero, the insolent gypsy, the outsider rogue who wouldn’t fit into any peg or give in to any rules, and that was just the way he liked it, damn it. And damn you if you didn’t.

  Ah, shit. Me, too. That’s just the way I like it.

  My sinful fantasy, my wicked addiction, my secret crush, my delusion.

  I cleared my throat. “Working today?” What a master of conversation I am. I swallowed more of my mocha.

  His brow furrowed as he shifted his weight. “Yeah, came to get coffee for me and the guys.”

  I swallowed him with my eyes as I licked the traces of coffee from my lips.

  Holy hell, he’s my mocha.

  His large Adam’s apple moved in his throat, his heavy eyes still on me, as if he wanted to say something but was busy talking himself out of it.

  “Hey, there you are!” A tall brunette in a pretty light-blue off-the-shoulder asymmetrical top, big bangle bracelets, tight cropped skinny jeans, and high-wedge sandals clasped Boner’s arm. She tossed me a quick look and then just as quickly ignored me.

  I slightly slid down in my seat, and Matt’s eyes widened for a second, as if the floor show had just gotten more interesting. Was he envious? He should be.

  Mindy was a dancer at the local MC-owned strip club, the infamous Tingle. She was also Boner’s latest woman and younger than me. Her toned, curvy shape pressing against Boner made me bite my lip as my hand went to my belly.

  Boner glanced at her. “On a break.”

  “All set, Boner!” Erica, the owner of the Meager Grand held a full white paper bag out over the counter.

  Boner nodded at her and went over and took the bag. “Gotta get back to work,” he muttered at Mindy.

  His eyes slid back to me, and Mindy and Matt faded into a fuzzy background. Boner lifted his chin and strode out of the cafe.

  I watched through the big picture window as he headed to his Harley parked out front, Mindy on his heels. He packed up his bag of coffee, mounted his chopper, and seemed to shove at the vintage bike with a slight but cocky motion of his body.

  I clenched my jaw.

  Man and machine were one.

  He flipped on his sunglasses, a pair that suited him so well, and I suppressed the groan rising in my throat. These shades weren’t the athletic-style ones I’d noticed he used when he rode long distances. These glasses had a more delicate, sophisticated frame along with a purplish tint to the lenses, giving a refined, sexy note to his otherwise grungy vibe.

  He stared straight at me through those glasses, right through the big picture window. I could feel the heat of his gaze as intensely as if he were next to me, touching me, his breath heating my skin. The clink of cups, the din of chatter, the ringing of the cash register—all of it faded under the power of that gaze.

  He gripped his handlebars, and his engine erupted into a roar. Mindy gave him a quick kiss, and then she backed away, coffee cup in hand. Boner too
k off, pipes blasting, his hair flickering behind him like a dark flame in the wind.

  “That guy’s a real biker, huh?” Matt’s voice snapped me back to my dull, cold reality. “There’s a club in this town, isn’t there?”

  My eyes unglued from the fading vision ripping down Clay Street and returned to Matt.

  Nice Matt. Cute Matt. Conscientious Matt. Friendly all the time Matt. Colorless Matt. Flat Matt.

  I cleared my throat. “The One-Eyed Jacks.”

  “How do you know him?”

  My stomach grew heavy, and my taste buds deadened. I pushed my coffee to the side. “He’s a friend of a friend, that’s all.”

  Yes, it was time to get used to that fact of my life. That was all Boner would ever be—a friend of a friend. That was all.

  I needed to let go of my little secret obsession.

  I HAD TO GET OUT OF THERE.

  Jill, on a date. Jill, smiling and laughing with a guy who had grinned at her like he’d do anything for her, like he’d wanted to gobble her up whole.

  I knew the feeling.

  I had stood there, and they’d both looked up at me—his face riddled with concern, hers with a kind of astonishment. Jill’s initial expression was one of promise, shimmering with suggestion. I’d soaked it in, and then reality, my reality, had jerked me away.

  I took the long way back to the clubhouse.

  Every time I saw Jill, my insides would jolt and shove against each other, like some sort of seismic tectonic shift. That was me all right—pieces of cracked shell that rested on hot, molten rock. If I went back to work now, I’d be a moody mess and not get much done. I liked to keep my shit tight on the inside and easy on the outside.

  I headed for the wide open spaces. The dried fields of brush and yellowed grasses sucked me in on both sides of the blacktop on the main road out of Meager. The sun poured its brassy heat over this stretch of farmland, over me, and I savored the warmth.

  I hated small spaces, had for years. Living out here in South Dakota had changed that for me. I could open my lungs and breathe in this land’s seeming infinity, the massive sky stretching over me, daring me to touch it, willing me to soar. The endless sameness of the prairie or the farms or the grasslands was my relief.