Mac’s gaze flicked up and down my body and I caught my breath, sudden heat rippling through me where his eyes had passed. The grin he gave me was absolutely wicked. It wasn’t the brutish lust the guys at the Blood Spiders’ bar had shown. This was furnace-hot and deliciously dark, like he wanted to take me by the hand and lead me down into temptation. With his thick black hair and the silver skull earring in his ear, it felt like being appraised by some roguish pirate captain.
I swallowed and looked to my side. And saw Carrick staring back at Mac, his jaw set. An instant later, Mac felt the stare and they looked at each other. I saw something pass between them: a warning, almost. Not this one, Carrick’s eyes said. Back the fuck off.
Was he jealous?!
Mac blinked in surprise. He glanced at me again, this time with curiosity. He looked back at Carrick and nodded approvingly, a tiny but delighted smile on his lips. Meanwhile, I flushed right down to my toes. It felt like they were discussing me, even if they weren’t doing it with words. And yet, underneath the embarrassment, there was a different kind of heat. I’d never been fought over before and the idea of Carrick claiming me as his started about a thousand filthy fantasies in my head. And that made me flush even more. Don’t be stupid! Maybe he liked me—it sure felt like it—but every time I thought something was going to happen, he pushed me away.
To cover my embarrassment, I looked at the big guy, Ox. Carrick was big but this man was a monster, not just tall but wide: his shoulders must brush door frames. How the hell does he ride? Any bike would look like a toy with him on it. “You the one who called him?” he rumbled.
I nodded.
He rubbed his stubbled chin, which made a sound like someone sanding down a table. “Good. Sounded like some bad shit.” For all his intimidating size, the look he gave me was gentle.
Carrick showed me around the rest of the clubhouse: the bar, the kitchen, the spare rooms where members could crash out after a hard night’s partying. Then we passed a set of double doors, the dark wood elaborately carved. “What’s through there?”
“Meeting room,” he told me. “Members only.”
I looked closer. The carvings weren’t abstract: when they caught the light just right, I could make out a huge version of the Hell’s Princes insignia.
He introduced me to the members, the prospects and the “hang arounds.” Every guy seemed to be big, though there was no one else Ox’s size. Most of them were thickly tattooed and not with the bland, meaningless patterns I’d seen in the outside world. Every bit of ink was part of their story and most of it seemed violent as hell. And everyone had a nickname. I kept wanting to ask the stories behind the names but it felt rude to do it in front of them. Next time I get the chance, I decided.
The more of them we met, the more I relaxed. Before I’d met Carrick, I would have shifted seats if any of these guys had sat down next to me. Even now, they were intimidating but what reassured me was how they treated each other: trading jokes, slapping backs. It didn’t feel like a bunch of criminals. It felt like a close-knit sports team...maybe even a family.
And yet...the more I watched Carrick, the more confused I got. Everyone was friendly with him, they obviously loved him. But there was something different about the way he interacted with them, a distance the rest of them didn’t have. Like he was keeping them all at arm’s length. At first, I thought I was imagining it. But then I saw Mac watching with concern from across the room. He saw it, too.
We passed a phone and Carrick nodded to it. “It was Ox who answered the phone last night,” he said. He slowed to a stop. “There was a party going on, but he came and got me….” His hand suddenly squeezed mine, back to that grip that was much more than friends.
My stomach lurched as I had the same thought he must be having: what if he hadn’t? What if my tearful pleas had sat there on the answer phone, unheard, and Carrick had sat here drinking the night away? I’d be in Volos’s car, now, while he did God-knows what to me behind the privacy glass, or chained up in some cellar.
I felt tears spring to my eyes and tried to blink them back. I spun, searching for somewhere safe, somewhere quiet, but there was nowhere: the room was too hot, too noisy, too dark…. I squeezed Carrick’s hand as hard as I’d ever squeezed Perkins’s paw when I was a kid.
He seemed to know instinctively what I needed. A muscled arm slipped around my waist and then he was walking me across the room, through the double doors and—
I gasped in relief as sunlight hit my face. I stood there and just panted for a moment. Safe. I’m safe now. My breathing slowed and the panic slowly started to fade. “Sorry,” I muttered. I turned from him, letting my hair hang down to hide my face.
I felt hands on my shoulders, the palms warm against my bare skin. He turned me back towards him and then tilted my chin up, making me look at him. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” he told me. “It’s the fucking Blood Spiders who should be sorry. But you’re okay now. They’re a long way from here.”
I took a shuddering breath and nodded. I was okay. But it wasn’t the distance from Teston or even the warm sun: it was the hand that cupped my chin and those blue eyes that gazed down at me. They made me okay. For just a second, they looked like they had twelve years before, clear and blue and free….
Then his hand dropped from my chin. “C’mon,” he said gruffly. “I’ll show you around.”
Every time. Every time I thought we were about to get close, he slammed the door in my face.
The first stop was the workshop. A short, well-padded man in his sixties with a snow-white beard was kneeling beside a bike, deep in concentration, his coveralls so old and stained with oil they were more black than blue. “Scooter,” said Carrick, “this is Annabelle. Scooter does all our repairs.”
The man glanced up as we entered and nodded curtly. I gave him a smile, glanced around….
And I was lost.
There was an engine on a workbench, stripped down and separated into shining, perfect pieces. And thumb-tacked to the wall was a huge diagram of a Harley, six feet across. An exploded diagram, all the tiny parts separated so I could see how they slotted together.
It was like being inside my own head.
There were sets of wrenches and screwdrivers. There were boxes of obscure parts. There were maintenance manuals I knew I could happily disappear into for days at a time. I closed my eyes and inhaled: gasoline and engine oil. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was home.
“You alright?” asked Scooter.
I spun. They were both looking at me—not unkindly, but I was suddenly self-conscious. I was being weird again. “Yes,” I said quickly. “Sorry.” And I backed out of the workshop.
At that moment, a biker roared up on a Harley. He sat perfectly erect, more like a man on a horse than a biker, his black hair blowing in the wind. His skin was the deep, rich tan of a man who spends every day outdoors.
Carrick leaned close to me. “Hunter,” he told me over the noise of the Harley. “Our Vice President.”
“Why do you call him—” Just as I said it, the engine noise dropped to an idle and my voice was suddenly very loud. I flushed.
The man on the bike gave me a long, appraising look and then looked at Carrick and motioned for him to continue.
“He tracked down a cougar that was bothering the town,” Carrick told me. “And he’s pretty good at tracking people, too. Even helped out the sheriff, a few times.”
I blinked at that. I thought outlaws and the police didn’t mix.
I was about to say hi when I heard something - a wrongness. I stared intently at Hunter’s bike.
“What?” asked Carrick.
“The timing’s off,” I thought. And then realized I’d said it out loud, and flushed again.
Scooter wiped his hands on a filthy rag and stood up. “I don’t hear nothin’.”
I shook my head. “I’m probably wrong.”
“You know something about engines?” asked Scooter suspicio
usly.
“No! Not really.”
Scooter muttered something under his breath and Carrick led me quickly away. “Don’t mind Scooter,” he told me. “He’s good with bikes but he’s a grumpy fucker. You like machines?”
I shrugged. “They just make sense to me,” I said. “When you fix them, the parts fall into place and everything’s just...where it’s supposed to be.” I felt myself turning red again. I knew I wasn’t explaining it well. But, when I looked up into his eyes, he wasn’t looking at me like I was a freak. Not at all.
He led me over to the double wide trailer. Someone had painted it eggshell blue and there were flowers in window boxes and more on the roof. It must have been sitting in the compound for years. “This is where Mom lives,” Carrick told me.
I turned to him, astonished.
“Not mine. We just all call her that. She sorta...looks after us.”
I slowly turned in a circle, gazing around. When we’d first roared up to the metal gate and the razor-wire fence, I’d thought this place looked like a prison. Now, thinking about the men I’d met inside and the ones I knew were in the world outside, it felt more like a protective fortress. And the clubhouse: those red walls and the dim interior still freaked me out a little, but I could see how the tiny windows and lack of daylight made it seem like a sanctuary, sealed off from the outside world. The one place these men would always be welcome.
I looked at Mom’s trailer. Thought about the way the other members had welcomed Carrick home, even if he seemed to keep his distance a little. It really is like a family.
And something swelled up inside me: a need. I’d had so many years of living with my step-dad, soaking up his resentment. Before that, all the years of living with him and my mom, terrified of the violence he’d unleash. I hadn’t had a real family, a place I could feel safe, since I was a little kid.
I was suddenly, irrationally, jealous. I wanted to belong to something too. I wanted somewhere I could return to where I knew people would hug me and ask me how I was doing. I hadn’t realized until that moment how much I needed it.
Carrick looked down at me and frowned. “You okay?”
I nodded quickly and looked away.
He stepped in front of me, six-feet plus of unyielding muscle and black leather, blocking out the sun. “Annabelle?” He used that voice, pure iron dipped in Irish silver. It didn’t permit any argument.
“Nothing! Just...it’s nice.” I made myself smile. “It’s like a whole second family.”
And then I saw something in his eyes. It was only there for a second, then he looked away to hide it, but I knew what I’d seen: a flicker of pain so strong it made me want to throw up. My jealousy evaporated. This wasn’t his second family; this was his only family.
Maybe we weren’t so different. I put a hand on his arm and he snapped his gaze to me again. “What happened?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
“You lost them?” I asked quietly, thinking of my mom.
“Let it go!” He sounded more Irish the more angry he got. He shook off my arm and stalked away.
I chased after him, catching him next to the clubhouse. “I just want to help.”
“Don’t,” he snapped. “Just stop it.”
“What?”
“Fuck!” He spun and slammed his fist down as if whacking a table. “Being fucking nice to me!”
We stood there staring at each other for a moment. Then he took a deep breath, closed his eyes and said, “I’m not someone you’re nice to. I’m not someone you’re friends with. I’m not someone you like.”
And there it was. That last sentence hung in the air between us. His eyes finally opened and stared into mine, begging me to leave it alone. I almost gave in. I could feel the mood shifting: pushing more could be dangerous.
But then I thought of the night we’d first met, how he’d ordered me to go back into the house...and how I’d stubbornly ignored him.
“Don’t I get to make up my own mind about liking you?” I asked.
“No!”
That threw me, but only for a moment. “Well...too bad, because I already did.” And I lifted my chin in defiance.
He stared at me, furious, shaking his head.
My voice quavered. “‘I’m not very good at this stuff,” I said, “But traditionally, I think this is where you say you like me, too.”
He gave a growl, grabbed me by the waist and slammed me up against the wall of the clubhouse, my feet only just brushing the ground. “Of course I fucking like you!” he snapped. “That’s why—” He sighed and shook his head. “That’s why you need to get a long way from me.”
I thought of how scared everyone was of him. Even the Blood Spiders president had known him by reputation. “Carrick...what is it you do for the club?”
He shook his head, as if he’d rather lose me than have me know. “I’m not who you think I am,” he said at last.
Stop pushing, screamed a warning voice in my head. Let it go. But I was so determined to help him. “You saved me,” I reminded him.
“Yeah, so now we’re even.”
“Or maybe that means it’s my turn.”
He stared into my eyes and I could see the battle going on there, the hard, cold gray fighting with the blue. I was sure he was going to relent but then he shook his head. The anger seemed to drain from him, to be replaced with tiredness. “You’re way too late for that, darlin’.” He put me down and grabbed my wrist. “Come on.”
I followed, frowning. “Where are we going?”
“Bus station.”
I stopped dead in my tracks, my heart plummeting down to my feet. “What?”
“There’s a bus to Sacramento at noon.” He took out his money clip and pulled out the entire wad of bills. “There’s about four hundred there. Take it.”
I took it. I was too stunned not to. “You’re sending me away?” I croaked.
“This isn’t the place for you. The town, the club....me.”
I stared at him, speechless. I’d pushed too hard. I’d forced his hand. Shit! I’ve never wanted to take back a conversation more in my life. But it was too late.
He swung his leg onto the bike and, numb with shock, I climbed on behind him.
15
Carrick
She wrapped her arms around my waist for the very last time. It wasn’t like before. She was as stiff as a mannequin and I wondered if she was crying. Shit. But it’d be much, much worse if I let her get in any deeper.
The frustration was boiling up inside me. I was mad at myself for hurting her feelings. I was mad at the world for being fucking unfair.
Yeah, well, life isn’t fair. Guys like me don’t get a happy ever fucking after. We wind up dead in a ditch by the side of the road. Hell, I’d already be there, if it hadn’t been for her helping me, all those years ago. I was fucking lucky that someone like her had crossed my path twice in one lifetime, once so she could save me and once so I could repay the debt.
She was like a butterfly: when one of those lands on you, you don’t try to grab it or you’ll just crush it with your big, clumsy hands. You just drink in how pretty it is and then let it fly off to be with its own kind.
I knew all that. So why was it making me so mad, all of a sudden? Because she liked me as well? Because she had some delusion that I was a hero...and I wanted it to be true?
I was an idiot. I’d always known that I’d have to say goodbye to her. I’d meant to just drop her somewhere safe, as soon as we’d got out of the auction. But then there’d been the motel and that night together and breakfast and then the ride to Haywood Falls and buying her clothes and introducing her to the guys….
I’d gotten lost in the fantasy. I’d forgotten, for a morning, how much blood I had on my hands.
I told myself I was putting her on the bus for her own good, because she deserved way better than a life with someone like me. But I knew the real reason: her questions had made me realize that, if she stayed around
, it’d only be a matter of hours before someone told her what I did for the club. And I couldn’t take seeing her eyes when she found out. She’d never look at me the same way again. Or worse, she’d want to help.
I didn’t share that load even with my brothers in the MC. No way was I going to taint her with it. It was my path to walk and mine alone.
I twisted the throttle and we roared out of the compound and along Main Street. In the mirror, I could only see Annabelle’s red hair streaming out in the wind, her face hidden as she sheltered against my back. I could guess her expression, though, and it made me screw my own face up in disgust. I knew this was the right thing to do. So why did it feel so wrong?
The bus station was a low brick building, not much more than a ticket office and some restrooms. It was ten to noon when we got there. Ten minutes until she was gone from my life forever.
She bought her ticket and then we stood there facing each other silently. There was so much I wanted to say. I wanted to tell her how fucking beautiful she was. I wanted to explain to her that she deserved a good life with some guy who wore a suit and came home every night at six. I wanted to explain that sleeping next to her had given me the first peaceful rest I’d had in years.
But I’ve never been much of a talker.
“Take care of yourself,” I said.
She nodded. And started to do those fast little blinks women do when they’re about to cry. “Yeah, you too.”
There was something I had to get out. “I meant what I said,” I muttered. “You’re fuckin’ priceless, girl. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
She bit her lip and nodded. Both of us turned to go—
Her body hit me with a wumf, right in the chest, and then she was hugging me even harder than Ox had.
I felt it all rise up inside me: the pain at seeing her go, the frustration at what I had to do, the anger at myself for the path I’d chosen. When I’d first met her, I’d been almost as innocent as she was. Why couldn’t I have stayed that way? I could have met her again now and we could have built something….
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