“If there is . . .” I said, wanting him to know that I could be every bit the dependable Wolf my father would be if he were still alive. A woman couldn’t be a Wolf, and I had no desire to change the system. There were plenty who did, who saw all sorts of things wrong with our way of life, but at the end of the day, I was who I was. If I didn’t like it, I wouldn’t be keeping my roots here at home. If I took issue with the things my biker family did, I wouldn’t still be here. And if I didn’t like the options for me within the club, well, I wouldn’t take up with a Wolf in a serious way. Some women were like that. Aubrey was looking like she was one of them, and that was okay. Me? I would give my support where Echo wanted it as a way to pay back a little of what he’d given to us over the years. I wanted him to know that too.
I looked at him and said, “I might not wear colors, but my heart still belongs to this family.”
Echo nodded. “I know that.”
There was a not-so-small part of me that used to wish he’d court my mother. It was moments like this, when he was smiling at me the way my dad used to, that made me feel that way. He and my mother wouldn’t suit each other, and I knew that now that I was older. I also knew that I missed having a father, and as far as I was concerned, there wouldn’t be anyone else likely to be able to fill my daddy’s shoes.
“You think about what I said about singing, and give Miss Bitty my regards,” Echo said, and then he was gone.
I watched him walk back to his Harley. It wasn’t often that Echo was out without a shadow, but whether he had bikers at his side or was on his own, Echo walked around like he was invulnerable. He might even believe that he was, but I remembered uglier days. I remembered when my father died. I remembered the conversations I wasn’t to overhear—when Killer, Noah, and I hid and eavesdropped. There was a good reason that Killer dogged Echo’s steps.
Worst of all, I remember Mama drunk and sobbing, breaking every one of Daddy’s records until I called Echo and he came to the house. Big Eddie was with him. He’d stayed on our sofa for weeks that time, looking after us. Back then, I thought it was just on Echo’s orders. Now I knew better. Wolves look out for Wolves—and for a Wolf’s blood family. No one needs to order them to do it.
But that didn’t mean that I had to keep being looked after. That was what Echo was meaning, even if he didn’t come right out and say it. He was right, like always. I should reconsider singing for money. I loved it, and maybe I could do it without sacrificing my other passion. Selling a few songs might be a way to make money for Mama and me, money that the club wouldn’t need to give us. I felt suddenly guilty that I hadn’t thought about that before. It wasn’t that I wanted us to be beholden to Echo, but I hadn’t wanted to sell my voice. There were dreams that were too real, too important. If I failed at most things, it wouldn’t be devastating, but singing was something that I’d held on to as a link to my father. Surrendering that, being rejected for that, would break something inside me, and I didn’t know that I’d recover from it.
On the other hand, accepting Echo’s offer to make some calls was a lot less appealing than I’d have liked. If I succeeded, I needed it to be on my own merit, on my own terms, not because someone knocked down doors for me. There were things I could accept, had accepted, over the years from the club. I paid them back with the same loyalty I’d expect to have been given by my father. This wasn’t about the club, though. It was about me. That meant I needed to do it my way.
Before I could think twice about it, I picked up the phone and called Alamo.
“Are you okay?”
“Is that how you always answer the phone?” I asked lightly.
“You’ve never called until today.” He sounded slightly calmer, but he paused and added, “Are you?”
“I think so,” I said, feeling silly now that I had him on the phone. “I want to go over to Memphis . . . and I want you to come with me.”
Alamo was silent so long I thought he might have hung up. Softly I asked, “Are you there?”
“I am.”
“Okaaaay . . .”
“Maybe Dash should take you,” he said.
This time I was the one who went silent. I was torn between defending myself and telling him to fuck off. The one and only time we’d discussed Noah in any real detail was months ago, and that was the day Alamo had seen me tearful.
“If you don’t want to—”
“I didn’t say that.” Alamo sighed. “This is a favor for a friend you’re asking for, right?”
“It is.” I was feeling more mortified by the minute. “You know what? I’ll drive myself. It was stupid to ask you to c—”
“I’ll be there in twenty. Thirty tops. Just let me make a call, and then I’ll be headed your way.” He hung up before I could reply, but that might’ve been the best thing because I had no idea what I would say. Calling him had been impulsive, but it had seemed like a good idea . . . up until he answered the phone. Now I wasn’t sure whether or not I even wanted to wait for him.
Okay, that was a lie. I wanted to, but it was a thoroughly ridiculous thing to want. I felt like I was throwing myself at him. He’d all but said I was bothering him, not just by his silence but by bringing up Noah. Sadly, despite those facts, I still wanted to see him. I wanted him to come with me to sing. I wanted him to carry me home afterward . . . and stay for a while.
I was pitiful.
Chapter 7
ALAMO LOOKED DOWN AT THE PHONE IN HIS HAND LIKE it was a viper. Ellen wasn’t making anything easy for him. It was hard enough watching her sit there while Dash flirted with Aubrey in front of her, but now she was calling him, asking him to go to Memphis. She hadn’t said that she and Dash were on the outs, but they obviously must be fighting if she was asking Alamo instead of Dash to carry her over to Memphis—not that having her on his bike was a hardship. She had exactly the right sort of everything to make him forget good sense: a curvaceous body, bold attitude, and smart mind. Add in that voice of hers, and it was almost too much appeal in one person.
She was also firmly off-limits. It wasn’t fair, but life wasn’t supposed to be fair and Alamo wasn’t about to start whining about it now. He hadn’t bitched about any of the bullshit that was far from fair growing up, so he wasn’t going to start whining over being denied a woman—even one as ideal as Ellen.
What it meant practically was that Alamo had to keep his distance from Ellen. He’d been working at it. He’d left the races so he didn’t slam his fist into Dash’s face. He’d managed to avoid being alone with Ellen almost entirely. He was polite, but he let himself exchange words with her only if there were others around. He wasn’t going to get into a clusterfuck with the new Wolves chapter because he couldn’t keep his hands off someone else’s property—and that was what it meant that Dash had her under his protection. Ellen was his. No questions. No exceptions. If Dash wanted to grant an exception, he could, but without his say-so, no Wolf was allowed to touch Ellen. Alamo wasn’t the sort to ask permission, and even if he were, Dash sure as hell wasn’t going to grant it. That left Alamo in a lousy spot. Every time she talked to him, it was like she was inviting him to risk everything. He couldn’t do it.
He also couldn’t tell her no—which was a ridiculous situation to be in. Getting into world of bullshit for giving her ride wasn’t appealing. He’d settled in here, and the trouble from Carolina didn’t seem to be following him. The last thing he needed was to have to go back there or have to go somewhere else because he stirred some shit here.
Alamo closed his eyes and smothered a growl.
He picked up his phone. There should be a better option. Asking anyone for permission was not his style. Ignoring the consequences wasn’t a possibility today, though, not unless he wanted headaches he really didn’t have the patience for. That left him very few choices.
He did the only thing he could do: he called Killer.
“I’m carrying Ellen over to Memphis. She wants to sing.”
“You volunteer?”
/> “No. I suggested she call Dash.” Alamo tried not to sound as surly as he felt. The last thing he wanted was to pass Ellen over to Dash, even for a second. He’d done it, though. He was playing by the rules despite the fact that Dash was acting as if he could set his own rules. “I don’t know if they’re fighting or—”
“Christ, Alamo! I’m like to grow a pussy the way you’re talking.”
“Fuck off.” Alamo wasn’t sure there was any shame in admitting to thinking about a woman’s situation rather than just her body, and truth be told, Killer was the same when it came to Red.
Killer laughed.
“Seriously, I hate that I’m doing this shit, but I’m asking if this violates the rules. I get that she’s under Dash’s protection. I get that she’s hands-off. I also gave her my word that I’d be around if she needed me. Tell me that I’m in the clear here, or call her and tell her that I’m not. Your boy Dash has put me in a situation.”
“Not my boy,” Killer muttered. “Fucker took my girl out to the races.”
“I was there. Left because he was sitting there with Ellen, too.”
“You couldn’t chase his ass off my girl?”
“Red know she’s your girl?”
“We’re working on that,” Killer grumbled. “I’ve got your back with this trip, but don’t make it a habit and just . . . keep your hands to yourself.” He paused, and then he shocked Alamo by saying, “And tell Ellie I’m glad she’s singing again. I missed it.”
Alamo considered remarking on the fact that Killer was just as soft as he’d accused Alamo of being, but they both knew it already.
After they disconnected, Alamo grabbed his jacket and helmet and headed off to his torture. Having Ellen on his bike again, knowing the whole time that she was off-limits, sounded like a fresh ring of hell.
He pulled up outside her house.
It wasn’t Ellen who walked out the door, though. An older woman, presumably Ellen’s mother, stepped out. She was beautiful in that way that only strong women can be. Attitude radiated out from every hard-edged muscle, and she wasn’t the least bit subtle about her sexuality: jeans that were all but painted on, a halter-type top, and bright-red toenails all screamed “Look at me!” Unlike Ellen, she was rail thin. She had curves, but not the way Ellen did. Her mother looked like life had carved away anything that might be mistaken for softness.
She paused on the porch, lifted a cigarette to her lips, and looked at him.
Alamo tensed a little, realizing that his assessment had been noted and filed. She wasn’t smiling, but she didn’t look angry, either. In the custom of so many women, she was weighing and measuring him, deciding if he had worth or was useless.
She didn’t light her cigarette. Instead, she descended the stairs and walked out to the street where he was.
“You’re the new Wolf,” she said by way of greeting. Her entire attitude was one of confidence, as if she were the old lady of one of the oldest club members. If he’d heard right, she very well might’ve been, except that he’d died years ago. She wasn’t wearing a vest like most of the old ladies, but she had the attitude that made quite clear that she deserved—and expected—respect.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Alejandro Díaz. Most folks call me Alamo.”
“Miss Bitty,” she said as she peered up at him. “You’re not all white. Most of the Wolves here are. I got no issue with you, but some folks will.”
He grinned. “Ellen gets her subtlety from you, then.”
Miss Bitty looked him up and down. “I got no problem with your skin—the color or the muscles it’s covering up. You’re easy on the eyes, Alejandro. You’re okay in a scuffle?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“If you’re spending time with Ellen, you keep her safe. I find that she gets hurt on your watch, and I’ll be making a call to Echo. Understand?”
He met Miss Bitty’s fierce gaze and said, “I have a sister. I raised her most of our life. I understand completely.”
Miss Bitty stared back at him, studying him as if she was a juror holding his fate in her hands. He wanted to tell her this wasn’t a date, but for a moment he wanted her to give her approval more. Logic won over impulse, and he said, “I’m just here as a friend. Ellen wanted a lift.”
“Dash know you’re here?”
Alamo shook his head. Miss Bitty didn’t mince words at all. “Killer does. I have his permission to be here as Ellen’s friend.”
“He’s a good boy.” Miss Bitty glanced back at the house. Then as abruptly as all the rest of her remarks, she said, “Ellen’s singing is all from her daddy. Hell of a voice my Roger had. Ellie’s better, though she won’t do squat with it.”
“I got my never-fading tan from some guy my mother slept with, and my hatred of drugs from the way she couldn’t keep quit of them.” Alamo met Miss Bitty’s gaze. “Anything else I can tell you?”
She looked down, taking him in from boot to jacket before meeting his eyes again. “Already asked Echo about you, pup. You might be a friend; you might be something else. Right now, I have no trouble with you. You’re following club rules, and Echo speaks well of you. Killer does, too. Fact is that you took my Ellie to sing. Not just anyone could get her to do that.”
He debated telling her that he was there to do the same again, but volunteering much of anything to this woman seemed unwise. All he did was nod—and hope Ellen showed up soon. Searching for a way to buy a little time, he reached into his pocket and found a lighter. Silently he held it up.
Miss Bitty nodded, and he flicked the lighter while she leaned forward and lit her cigarette. After she inhaled, she said, “Since you’re minding your tongue so careful, I’m going to guess she’s going singing again.”
As casually as he could, he told her, “Ellen didn’t say where we were going, just asked for a ride.” It wasn’t a lie, not precisely.
The older woman let out a cigarette-and whiskey-edged laugh and turned away. He wasn’t sure whether he was to follow her or not. She was as unsettling as the guys had said she was. He couldn’t fault her for the way she was. He was protective of Zoe, and when he dropped a warning on whatever boy she brought around, he wasn’t nearly as subtle as Miss Bitty was being.
Chapter 8
I GLARED AT MY CLOSET AGAIN. I WANTED TO DRESS UP, BUT Alamo should’ve already been here. I didn’t have much time to primp—and it wasn’t like this was a date anyhow. I pulled on a prettier blouse all the same. I wasn’t lacking in the bust, but this shirt emphasized what I had to best advantage. Then I grabbed my leather jacket. It was weathered, sturdy, and unadorned.
Unlike my mother, I had no right to wear club colors. The only way a woman could wear a Southern Wolves patch was if she was someone’s “old lady.” Then she’d get a “property of” patch too. Being a Wolf’s daughter or niece or ex wasn’t enough. I was all three of those, but I wasn’t anyone’s old lady. Aubrey had been willing to give up on Killer in order not to wear those patches. I didn’t understand it, but like Killer and Dash, I had grown up within the heart of the club.
The difference was that Dash could easily be a Wolf. I, however, was a woman, and woman weren’t allowed to be Wolves. Wolves also couldn’t ride anything other than Harleys or Triumphs. Like most 1% clubs, there were rules that were pretty set in stone.
The Southern Wolves were unusual in that they also allowed bikers who weren’t Caucasian. It seemed odd sometimes that the Southern Wolves were progressive on this, but I figured it was because they were a newer club. A lot of the other clubs had histories that stretched back to the eras when racism was far more tolerated. Then again, the other reason could be simply that the founder of the Southern Wolves had done a lot of time, and his cellie was a ranked member of a gang out of Chicago. When the guys who had your back were Latino, it wasn’t likely you were going to get out of prison and forget that. Maybe a lot of people didn’t believe it, but there was definitely a code. Honor among thieves was a throwaway phrase for how it worked, but
it was truth, too. When someone had your back, you remembered it. When someone did you a solid, you repaid it. When they did you wrong, you repaid that, too. It was pretty straightforward, and even though I wasn’t ever going to be a Wolf, I lived by that same credo.
I wasn’t shopping for a Wolf of my own, but I sure as hell wasn’t dismayed if one worth noticing happened to look my way. I’d been riding with Killer years ago, and until a few months ago, I’d ridden with Noah in secret. Somehow, though, neither of them made me half as excited—or nervous—as Alamo did. There was something about him that made me feel nigh on crazy. It made me want to fuss with my clothes and try to be whatever it was that made him look back at me with that same sort of want in his eyes . . . even just a little of it.
I glanced out the window, only to see him standing there with my mother. He looked even better than usual, sporting his club vest that bared most of his arms. He was bigger than Killer and Noah, but just as fit. For a moment, I stared in awe—and disappointment. It was a cruel twist to have a man built like that waiting for me and know I wasn’t going to be able to enjoy him.
Then reality hit: regardless of how fine he was, my mother was there with him. I wouldn’t wish her undivided interrogation on most people.
“Shit!”
I grabbed my helmet and scurried downstairs as fast as I could. Unlike most of the Wolves, Alamo hadn’t had the dubious pleasure of my mother’s undivided attention before. God love her, but that woman was terrifying even if you did know her.
With as calm a smile as I could manage, I jerked open the front door—just as she was reaching for it.
Her grin was knowing. “Worried, Ellie?”
“You’re a bit much sometimes, Mama.” I leaned in and kissed her cheek. “But you know I wouldn’t trade you in for all the gold lost at sea.”
“So you say,” she teased. “What about all the lost blues songs?”
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