I reached for my bra, watching him watching me, his eyes locked on the sway of my breasts. I’d always thought they were too big, too much, when they should have been delicate and pert. But he seemed hypnotized by them and that only added to the warm glow.
I swallowed, put on my bra and grabbed the dress. It looked like something a girl might wear to her prom in the fifties: electric blue with a long, flaring skirt and a tight, low-cut bodice. But it was pretty, with stylized flowers embroidered on the front in silver thread. I pulled it on and zipped up the back. “Okay,” I said. “I’m done.”
He slowly turned around and looked.
And looked.
I felt my skin begin to prickle in an unfamiliar but very pleasant way. “What?”
“Nothin’,” he grunted. He sat on the edge of the bed and offered the box. “Hungry?”
I hadn’t eaten since lunch the previous day. When he lifted the lid of the box, the smell that rose up made my mouth water: sugar and caramel, the tang of berries and the thick, rich scent of butter pastry.
There were pain au raisins, the custard smooth and creamy, the fruit succulent and sweet. There were donuts, still warm from the fryer, puffed up and crispy on the outside, luxuriously soft on the inside. And there were my favorites, maple pecan twists, the nuts shining with syrup, the pastry flaking and melting in your mouth. We ate and ate, pastry shards around our mouths, sugar dusting our lips.
When we’d finished the box and drunk the coffee, I flopped back on the bed, arms above my head, grinning from the sugar rush. It was the best I’d felt since the whole nightmare had started. “That was amazing,” I told him. I ran my hand over the too-tight bodice of my dress. “Good job that was the end of the box. Any more and I’d burst out of this thing.”
I meant it as a joke but I caught his eye and saw the burst of ferocious heat there, as if he quite liked that idea. I flushed. Then he seemed to catch himself and stood up. “Time we got going,” he told me gruffly.
I stood as well, dusting crumbs from my dress. “Where are we heading?”
He stared into my eyes for a second and I saw the frustration there, the battle he was having with himself. What’s going on? What isn’t he telling me? “My town,” he said at last. “Where the Hell’s Princes are based. Haywood Falls.” He opened the motel room door and swung a leg over the bike. “Let’s ride.”
13
Annabelle
When we’d fled the bar the night before, I’d been too scared—and too naked—to enjoy the ride. This was a totally different experience.
Carrick stuck to quiet streets and back roads until we hit the highway. A few times we heard other bikes and he held back until they’d roared past. We had a nervous few minutes when we first joined the highway, but after a few miles it was obvious that the Blood Spiders who’d been guarding it in the night must have given up, probably figuring that we’d already slipped past them. It was still early and there was barely any traffic so Carrick opened up the bike and we roared along the deserted pavement.
I’d never felt anything like it. It was nothing like driving. In a car, you’re cocooned in a metal box, your air filtered and the noise of the outside world muffled and mixed with talk radio until you’re barely aware of it. When you ride, you’re there: you lean with every turn, you feel the wind go from a gentle tickle to a full-on rush through your hair as the bike accelerates...it’s more like flying than driving.
And I was doing it with him. My arms were wrapped around his waist, my breasts pressed against the warm leather of his cut. He sheltered me from the fiercest of the wind, unless I peeked out around his shoulder: just like in the bar, he was my mountain, my rock. My skirt whipped and billowed in the wind, demure one second and revealing the next, and I didn’t care at all.
As we left the highway and started to descend a winding mountain path, it got warmer. Carrick throttled back and we cruised: long, lazy turns, the engine dropping from a roar to a throb. I’d already fallen in love with the Harley. Riding it—even as a passenger—was like a partnership, like being on a faithful horse who’ll do your bidding as long as you treat it right. I wanted to get down on my knees beside the thing and just stare at it, fingering the mechanisms until I knew how everything worked. God, I’m such a geek.
At the bottom of the mountain, we rode into thick forest and followed a road that skirted a lake. As we came to a break in the trees, Carrick pulled over and nodded for me to look. I turned my head...and gasped.
Across the calm waters of the lake, nestled at the foot of the mountain, was a small town with wide, pretty streets and buildings that looked like they hadn’t changed much in a hundred years. A waterfall started partway down the mountain and split into three separate falls just a hundred yards from the main street. The town faced onto the lake and the whole scene—the mountain, the forest, the town, the falls—was reflected in the surface. It was picture-postcard beautiful.
“Haywood Falls,” muttered Carrick, trying but failing to keep the pride out of his voice.
I didn’t say anything. I thought of Teston, with its grimy strip malls and shuttered, abandoned houses. Of my old house and its dusty field of failed crops. This was a different world.
Carrick twisted the throttle and the Harley’s throb rose to a glorious, unashamed bellow, a joyful yell that echoed off the trees, announcing our arrival. It was impossible not to grin.
As we reached the edge of town, a sheriff’s car fell in behind us. The man driving trailed us for a few seconds, then pulled alongside. The sheriff was in his fifties, his uniform stretched tight over his rounded stomach. He glanced across at Carrick and Carrick nodded a sober greeting, as if he knew the guy.
I saw the sheriff glance at me, then raise an eyebrow at Carrick and grin. He looked friendly...but then I remembered the chief of Teston police. He’d seemed friendly and trustworthy, too.
The sheriff pulled ahead of us and sped off. As we came into town, Carrick slowed and started pointing out places: a warehouse the MC owned, where they sold cheap clothing; the sheriff’s office; the movie theater; the church. I didn’t recognize the names on the stores. There was no Gap, no Walmart...not even a Starbucks.
We pulled up in front of a place that optimistically called itself a department store—if that was true, each department must be the size of my living room back home. “We’d better get you something else to wear,” Carrick said as he switched off the engine.
I looked down at my dress. “What’s wrong with this?”
He twisted around, which pressed his knee between my legs. His eyes met mine and I kind of gulped: I’d gotten so used to cuddling up to his back, I’d forgotten how close he’d be, when he turned around. For a second, he just looked into my eyes. Then his gaze tracked down over the low-cut front of my dress, over the tight bodice and down to where my legs were revealed by the skirt. “I’ve gotta stop in at the clubhouse and let them know I’m okay. I ran out on them last night. But if you walk into the clubhouse like that, you’re going to start a riot.”
I flushed. Me? But I followed him into the store.
He told me to pick out whatever I wanted. I settled on sneakers, a pair of indigo blue jeans, a couple of tank tops and two bra and panty sets and then went looking for a blouse to keep my arms out of the sun. With my pale skin, I had to be careful.
That was when the two girls found me. Tall, blonde and willowy with rich, even tans, both of them in shorts and tight t-shirts that showed off their perfect little upthrust breasts. Meanwhile, I was standing there in my weird, handmade dress looking like a top-heavy reject from the fifties.
One girl blinked at me. “Oh my God.”
“I like your dress,” the other one said, smirking. “Did you make it yourself?”
I felt myself redden. For a little while, riding around on the back of Carrick’s bike, I’d felt proud, almost like some biker girlfriend. Now I was back to feeling like I had in high school: a freak. I’d developed a thick skin as a waitress and normal
ly it wouldn’t have bothered me but, after everything I’d been through in the last twenty-four hours, it was the final straw. I blinked, the room suddenly blurring….
Then I heard the thump of heavy boots behind me. Carrick stopped next to me, his shoulder almost touching mine. He didn’t speak to the girls. He just looked at them.
I watched as both of them went pale under their perfect tans. They stared at me uncomprehendingly, as if praying they were wrong.
Carrick put a hand on my shoulder.
One of the girls whispered, “Oh shit.”
I saw the other girl gulp. She’d started to sweat, despite the store’s air conditioning. “We didn’t know,” she croaked. “We had no idea. I’m so sorry!”
Carrick kept them pinned with his gaze for another few seconds. Both of them looked as if they were going to throw up. Then he jerked his head towards the door and they fled, dropping the clothes they’d been carrying in their arms.
I stood there for a second, open-mouthed. The hand on my shoulder felt good. The idea that I was under his protection felt fantastic. But...was this how he was seen around town? People were terrified of him? I remembered how the Blood Spiders’ President had reacted to him, too. Whatever reputation he had, it carried between towns. He was feared.
I turned to look at him. He was gazing back down at me with a sorrowful look on his face.
This was why he kept pushing me away. His reputation...and whatever it stemmed from. I knew I should be grateful to him but all I could think was how lonely it must be, to be that feared.
I looked down at the clothes in my arms. “I can’t pay you for any of this,” I said awkwardly. “I mean, I’ll pay you back, when I have the money….”
Carrick just looked at me like I was being silly. “If you ever owe me anything,” he told me, “I’ll let you know.”
He paid for the clothes and I ducked into a fitting room to change into the jeans and a tank top. It was a relief to be in sneakers again after the heels. I felt like me again. Although, for just a second, I sort of missed the low cut, tight dress. The way Carrick had looked at me had been a thrill.
I sighed and stepped out of the changing room. And stopped.
Carrick was right outside, his arms folded across his chest, biceps bulging as he looked at me. I felt his gaze like a desert wind, scorching my face and then gliding down over my neck, my breasts, the swell of my hips.
It hadn’t been about the clothes.
And that lit a warm glow in me, right in my chest, even as the heat soaked down to my groin.
“C’mon,” he said. “We’d better get to the clubhouse.” For a second, he seemed to have forgotten to be gruff with me. His voice was surprisingly gentle, like a bike engine just barely idling. Each throb, each syllable, was low but powerful, resonating through my entire body.
Getting back onto the Harley was easier, without the dress’s long skirt. And I was modest, now, without all the leg showing: it shouldn’t have felt like anything at all. Just two...friends on a bike together. But in my new, tight jeans, I seemed to be able to feel the hardness of his ass all the better on my inner thighs. And when I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around him, I discovered that the cotton tank top really wasn’t very thick: I could feel the heat of him through his leather cut, follow the motion of his back as he breathed. If I held my breath, I could feel his heartbeat.
And I knew it wouldn’t matter if I was wearing freakin’ hockey padding. Riding with him was never going to feel like we were just friends, because we weren’t.
We roared down the town’s main street, the wind playing with my hair, the sun’s warmth soaking into my bare arms. People turned and looked: some of them nodded to Carrick, most looked nervous and quickly turned away. But no one was indifferent. As someone who’d spent her entire life living in the background, I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to have everyone know you.
We cruised to a stop in front of a big, sliding metal gate with razor wire looped along the top. Through the mesh I could see a long, low building with a neon sign atop it and bars on the windows. A couple of oil drums seemed to be on fire and there were bikers everywhere. My arms tightened in fear around Carrick’s waist. We’re going in there?
He reached down and rubbed my knuckles, reassuring me. Then a biker saw us, slid open the gate and we roared into the compound.
14
Annabelle
Bikers stopped what they were doing and stared as Carrick gunned the bike slowly past them. He seemed to fit right in: same sort of Harley, same leather cut, same badass attitude, so I didn’t understand the shocked silence at first. Then I realized they were staring at me...or maybe Carrick with me. Why? He was freakin’ gorgeous: it couldn’t be that unusual to see him with a woman.
Now we were inside, I saw that the entire compound was surrounded with high fences and razor wire. There were a line of garages along one side and I could see a man working on a bike in one. In the far corner was a double wide trailer with smoke rising from the chimney.
But my attention was on the clubhouse itself. Low and squat with tiny windows: there must be barely any light inside. And the heavy metal door and barred windows made it seem like a prison. When Carrick parked the bike and climbed off, I actually sat there for a second just staring fearfully at the place.
“Come on,” he told me. “It’s okay.” And he offered his hand.
I took a deep breath. He’d protected me this far. I took his hand and he led me inside.
The walls had been painted a deep scarlet. The little hallway that led from the door was hung with photos—some of them so old they were black and white—showing Hell’s Princes from days gone by. Every member looked like a big, muscled badass. There were other mementos: a set of brass knuckles, what looked like an exhaust pipe and a framed set of rules that was fading and worn at the edges. There was a wooden packing crate on the floor, its lid ajar, and I could see baseball bats and crowbars inside, ready to be grabbed for defense. It was the most intimidating place I’d ever been.
We approached a big set of double doors, the scratched wood so dark with age it was almost black. I hung back, my arm stretching out as Carrick walked on ahead of me. I was remembering the doors that had led into the Blood Spiders’ bar, all that noise rising up to meet me, all those eyes on me. My stomach suddenly lurched. The bike ride to Haywood Falls had taken my mind off what had happened but now all the memories of the auction were flooding back. What the hell was I doing with another group of bikers? Were these guys really any different?
Carrick squeezed my hand, reassuringly firm but gentle. “It’s okay,” he told me. “This is a safe place.”
I looked again at the red walls, the weapons crate, then looked up at him with huge eyes.
“It’s safe when you’re with me,” he clarified. He reached down and put his free hand to my cheek, brushing his warm thumb across my cheekbone, and immediately I felt myself calm a little. Then his thumb stroked slowly across my cheek again, as if he couldn’t resist doing it one more time. Warm pleasure spiraled out from each brush of his skin: I wanted him to never stop. I looked up into his eyes and, for a second, he looked almost helpless.
Then he seemed to catch himself. He dropped his hand and looked away. He still held my other hand but the grip changed, loosening a little: friendly and protective but not as tight as before. Immediately, I missed it. Carrick shook his head as if he’d been dumb and pushed open the doors.
It was a big room but it seemed even bigger. The walls were the same dark red and I’d been right about the windows: there was hardly any light from outside. What there was came from big, old-fashioned light fittings, the bulbs throwing out an orange glow that didn’t penetrate the shadows. It was daylight and even now I had to squint to make out the far wall. Rock music was pumping out of speakers somewhere but it was almost drowned out by the chatter of bikers.
Until all that chatter abruptly stopped and every single Hell’s Prince turned to look at us. T
here were maybe twelve of them but it felt like a hundred, a sea of frayed cotton, tattoos, tan muscle and leather. What the hell am I doing here? These were real outlaws, one-percenters. They weren’t fond of outsiders.
I nearly turned and bolted. Carrick must have sensed it because he put a spread hand on the small of my back to block me. Then one of the bikers, a huge brown-haired guy, tossed down his pool cue and marched over to Carrick. I shrank back in fear. The guy was so big the floor seemed to shake under his feet, his black boots at least twice the length of my sneakers. Shit! He grabbed hold of Carrick—
—and wrapped him into a bear hug. “Carrick, you dumb bastard,” he rumbled. “Where have you been?”
I let out a long sigh of relief.
Carrick returned the hug, patting the big guy on the back. His voice was tight, as if his ribs were being crushed. “Had a little trouble.”
“Trouble?” The biker who stepped up beside us wasn’t anywhere near as big as the first guy and he wasn’t loud—in fact, his voice was low and growly. But it was one of those voices that carried, even over the music, and he had presence. I checked the patch on the front of his cut. President.
“Nothing,” said Carrick as the big guy reluctantly put him down. “Just a run in with the Blood Spiders in Teston. It’s done, now.” He rubbed his back, wincing just a little, and I winced in sympathy, remembering the beating he’d taken for me.
The president gave him a don’t bullshit me look, patient but firm.
“It’s done.” The Irish in Carrick’s voice made it sound like a stone door slamming closed.
The president’s look softened. I could see concern there, but he just nodded and thumped Carrick on the shoulder. “OK. Good to have you back, brother.”
Then the president turned to look at me. “I’m Mac.” He nodded at the big guy. “That’s Ox.”
Ox? “Annabelle,” I told him.
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