It was a valid question. I had been with The Henchmen for a while. We made good money, way more than I had ever made at the coffeehouse, even when I worked there most nights of the week. I wasn't sure exactly what the drive was to keep it up. Maybe it was as simple as enjoying playing the guitar, which I did. Or, possibly, it had something to do with liking having an identity outside of a biker. Possibly, it was just a fun hobby.
Whatever it was, I liked doing it. And as long as the girls who owned the joint wanted me, I was happy to be there. Singing John Mayer if need be.
"Just like it," I said with a shrug, it being as close to the truth as possible.
"Who is going to hold down the fort if we all head out?" Virgin asked, always being almost a crazy level of vigilant about the club. One could imagine that would stem from the fact that he had been inside a club since he was still in his teens, had had the rules literally beaten into him from that age.
It was obvious that he was still adjusting to the somewhat more laid-back rules that Reign set forth. In general, if you kept drugs out of the club - and your body - and respected women, he was a happy fucking prez. That being said, the club wasn't so far past the shit that went down when numbers got decimated, and they had needed to rebuild from the ground up, that Reign was breathing easy yet. Hell, Repo's shop had just finished being rebuilt six months before. The memories were still fresh for the older members. As such, there was an unspoken rule that there had to be a few guys around at all times to keep an eye on the clubhouse.
"Go on," Cash said, walking in from the kitchen. "Lo is out of town, so I got nowhere to be tonight. Reeve and Edison are on their way back from the drop. Oh, and Roan is up in the glass room like he does, so we're all set here."
"What the fuck is with him and that fucking room?" Virgin asked something we all silently wondered on more than a few occasions.
He was a hard dude to get a read on, which was likely thanks to a life in intelligence. Yes, like a spy. The dude was a real-life fucking James Bond or Jason Bourne or some shit. He didn't talk about his work days, and everyone kinda got the vibe that they shouldn't ask. So no one did. He was, as far as any could tell, a good brother and a huge asset given his varied skill set.
But, well, the man was a bit odd.
For example, him and that glass room.
If ever you were looking for Roan, especially at night, he could be found in that glass room. Why? No one knew. That was just where he was. With no music, no TV, no books, not even his fucking cell phone. In fact, he didn't actually have a cell of his own except the burner Reign insisted he carried for emergencies. He just sat up there, staring off at the darkness. For hours on end.
Fucking weird.
But, hey, if he wanted to be a loner, it meant the rest of us could party it up.
"You about ready?" Roderick asked, clearly antsy to get out of the clubhouse.
"Yeah, just gotta get the keys to the SUV," I said, going behind the bar. They would take their bikes. But I knew from experience that a guitar on your back while you rode your bike was, well, awkward.
She's Bean Around wasn't a huge spot. There were a bunch of little tables set up that sat maybe two or three people each, a large coffee bar where one of the owners, this night - Jazzy - stood to make drinks, and a very small stage that really couldn't fit more than one person. Hell, even one person was kinda pushing it.
"Jazzy!" I declared when I walked in, my guitar slung around my back, my hand at my heart. "My love, when are you going to dump your detective, and get with me?"
Her detective in question was standing up by the counter, giving me a bemused look, because, well, he knew everyone hit on Jazz, and that Jazz was a flirt by nature too. But he also knew that she was as loyal a woman as there was, so he wasn't bothered by it.
Besides, when you got a woman like Jazzy, you knew you were going to have to keep a rein on your jealousy.
She was just too fucking hot to not draw attention. She was tall and stacked with curves any man would want to sink his fingers into, even if he somehow claimed to be into 'more fit' chicks or some shit. There was no passing on her. It was a biological, primal pull. And, well, she also had the exotic thing going for her with her tan skin, and sultry eyes. Her hair, which she experimented with constantly, was a grayish hue tonight.
"When are you going to hand in your manwhore card, and get yourself a good woman?" she shot back, handing me my coffee.
"As soon as you're single," I said immediately. "Or, you know, seventy. Seventy sounds like the right time for that."
She smiled, shaking her head. "You brought the puppies," she observed, jerking her chin to where three hulking bikers were walking in through the doors, drawing attention from every female inside from eighteen to eighty.
"What? They like the soulful sound of acoustic Backstreet Boys as much as the next person."
"You play Backstreet Boys in my coffeehouse, and you will be paying for that coffee with your balls."
I smiled at that, expecting that response. This was a woman, after all, who put up a sign on the counter proclaiming that no, they would not change or turn down the music, that it was the only thing that kept them from slapping rude customers. And some days, that music was Five Finger Death Punch cranked up to ear-bleeding level, so, yeah, Jazz wasn't a boy band fan.
"Threatening the customers with neutering, Jazz?" Gala, the other owner, asked as she walked in from the back room.
Gala was the opposite of Jazz in most ways. She was thin and pale with a heavy mass of deep red hair that was a mix of waves and curls, and generally just looked like she rolled out of bed without brushing it. Bed-sexy. Her eyes were an almost see-through light blue, and she had a smattering of light freckles over the bridge of her nose that almost gave her an innocent look that was completely deceptive.
"Without me? Why should you get all the fun?" she asked, moving to drop her ass onto the counter, giving me a saucy look, as she often did.
"Admit it, Gala, you just want to see me naked," I said, giving her a smirk right back.
"Sorry, Cy," she said, shaking her head. "You know I don't do the beard thing. My inner thighs get beard burn like a bitch," she added, making my mind flash to seeing those pale, soft inner thighs of hers as I made my way up to her pussy. That was exactly what she wanted me to think when she said it. "But Mr. Tall Dark and Mysterious over there might get a chance to get a tour of my bedsheets," she added, jerking her chin at Virgin.
I turned back to her with a small smile. "I will let him know you're, ah, open to the opportunity," I added, saluting her with my coffee as I made my way to the side of the stage where the first act of the night - a shy seventeen-year-old girl who could barely be heard even with the mic because she was so nervous - was wrapping things up to the chorus of snaps around the room.
"You did good, angel," I said as she moved to walk past me, her entire body visibly shaking.
I wasn't expecting a response, and didn't get one as she blushed, ducked her head, and almost ran to her waiting mother. But, hell, maybe it would give her a small boost to help her push through and do a second show. Being that there wasn't one goddamn shy or insecure bone in my body, I figured it was only right that I pay some of that shit forward.
It happened about forty-five minutes later, as I was crooning my way through a request of some shitty top-twenty radio hit.
The door opened.
And in she walked.
Though, I wasn't sure walked was even the right word. She kind of just opened the door and slid in. Like she was trying to stay unseen. Like maybe she didn't want anyone to notice her.
Why?
Yeah, that was the fucking question.
Because she was the kind of woman who deserved to be noticed.
She was on the tall side with mixed-race skin, long somewhat curly hair, a delicate face, and light green eyes. Her body was slim-to-average from the waist up, but widened at the hips. I imagined she had a fucking phenomenal ass hidden beneath so
me giant, hideously cute burgundy grandma sweater, and why she would obviously work so hard to cover it was completely beyond me.
But she was gorgeous in a way that I was finding it hard to explain as she walked up to the counter, getting greeted warmly by both Jazzy and Gala like she was a regular. Actually, this was proven when not a couple seconds after she walked up, Jazzy produced a drink faster than she could have possibly ordered it.
See, I had seen, flirted with, fucked, and even casually dated a lot of good looking women in my day. So I knew the different kinds. There was your girl-next-door kind of pretty. There was your exotic pretty, your model pretty, your trying-too-hard pretty, your I-don't-care-if-I'm-pretty pretty... the list went on and on. And I had known them all.
But this girl was something different, something unique, something I couldn't put a finger on.
As I watched, she half-turned from the counter, looking over her shoulder discreetly so as not to be seen checking out the space, likely looking for someplace to sit.
And there were open chairs.
Beside my Henchmen brothers.
Literally.
Each one had chosen a table with an open chair so that when the women came in - and they sure did - they would have to ask to sit with them... or leave.
So Roderick and Virgin had women at their tables.
Sugar had one until one of her other friends showed up, and the two seemed to have plans to head out.
But I had a strong feeling that this woman, this sweet-looking, seemingly standoffish woman, wasn't going to walk up to an intimidating biker, and ask if she could share his table.
No fucking way.
I watched as she took a stir stick - the plastic kind with the hollow insides - and stuck it in the hole of her to-go coffee cup, moving along the counter, and behind the tables to stand against the wall where she stayed, oddly sipping through the stir stick, and as a whole not seeming to let her eyes settle in any one place for more than a few seconds, and not on any of the men in the room at all.
Hell, I was on the stage where most other people had their focus, and she barely glanced my way. When she did, her eyes went to my guitar, my hands, and even my feet, but I didn't catch her once looking at my face.
And, damn, I got a face worth glancing at, man.
But regardless of whether she noticed more than my hands or not, I fucking noticed her. I noticed her way more than I should have. I noticed her so much that the girl who had requested the song, who I would normally be singing directly to, kept checking where my eyes were drifting, huffed, jumped up, and stormed out.
I noticed her so much that I missed out on surefire pussy.
That was saying something.
I didn't know what it was about her, what the pull was. So what if she was pretty? Pretty was a dime a dozen thing.
Maybe there was something more. Maybe I was picking up on something about her that had more to do with than looks.
Honestly, it was so fucking new to me that I didn't have the slightest clue what to call it, what to think of it.
All I really knew was that I had to catch her before she walked out, which she had seemed about ready to do since the moment she had stepped inside, to be perfectly honest. It was clear she wasn't comfortable, that this kind of thing wasn't her forte.
So as soon as my set finished, I stood up, thanked the crowd as well as Jazzy and Gala for having me there, then dropped my guitar next to Sugar.
"Hey, I'm not saving that seat for your guitar," he said, reaching to move it.
But I wasn't paying attention.
Fuck the guitar.
I had one thing and one thing only on my mind.
It wasn't an unusual drive for me - to get the girl. In fact, that was generally what was on my mind. But this felt different. This felt oddly urgent. And not in a 'I haven't gotten laid in two weeks' kind of urgent. It was something else, something deep in my gut, a strange pulling sensation.
So I walked between the tables, half-tripping over some chick's purse handle, in my mission to get across the room before she bolted.
And then I was right there.
Right beside her.
THREE
Reese
"How do I look?" I asked, turning in a circle for Knightley who just blew a couple bubbles in response. "Well, too bad. This is as good as it is going to get," I declared before I grabbed my bag, stuffing a book inside even though I promised myself I wouldn't take it out. Okay. So maybe I grabbed my e-reader too. What can I say, I like being prepared. In grabbing those two things though, I nearly locked myself out because I forgot to grab my keys. And my phone, well, I was pretty sure that was buried in my bed still like it had been all day.
Such was my life.
Books, in case of a social emergency were somehow more important than a way to call the police in an actual emergency. Heck, the most likely reason I would find myself in an actual emergency situation would likely be because I stepped into traffic without looking because I was too absorbed in some fictional argument or sex scene to remember to do such a thing.
But, yeah, I did what I promised myself I would do; I went to She's Bean Around. Even though every bit of me was saying a book, a cup of tea and super fuzzy pajamas sounded way better.
I was trying.
Why, I wasn't sure.
Maybe it just so I could tell my family when they asked me with those worried eyes of theirs, that I had, in fact, been out in the real world with the overrated real people that week. Or month. Or, let's face it, year.
The inside was packed, but not in the way that it was at seven-thirty in the morning when I usually dropped by before heading off to the library. This wasn't a line-out-the-door situation, people just getting their fix on their way to work. This was people just hanging out. Regulars constantly pestered Jazzy and Gala - and, yes, those are their real names, in case you were wondering, even though they totally sounded like they came out of some epic YA dystopia - to take over the empty place next door, to expand so there was more seating room. But they just didn't seem too inclined to do so. Maybe they liked the kinda hipster, indie vibe the place had with being so small, or maybe the idea of taking on more rent was intimidating. Who knew.
But anyway, yeah, it was busy.
When I walked in, there wasn't a single open space at a table as I made my way to the counter to the sounds of a song that seemed vaguely familiar, like maybe I had heard it on the radio at the grocery store or something at some point.
I got my large black coffee with a shot of blueberry and, just to experiment and step out of my humdrum comfort zone, a shot of white chocolate as well, and turned back around to see one open spot.
Next to a giant, really good looking dark-haired, gray-eyed, tattoo-covered biker. And, well, in my town, that meant one thing. A Henchmen.
So, alright, maybe I read some MC books. Maybe I drooled over monosyllabic, Neanderthalish, leather clad, ink-covered, curse-riddled bikers. It was all fun and non-threatening when it was pressed between the pages of a book. It was not quite the same thing to be face-to-face with bikers.
True, I knew Cash. He lived next to my mom, and had been nothing but sweet to her as well as me when I crossed his path. But this guy did not have that same laid-back, flirtatious, brotherly kinda charm that Cash did.
No. This guy was, well, intimidating. Granted, I was maybe a bit easy to intimidate, but still. He had a darkness that hung around him like a cloud. Most girls dug that. They were drawn in by the dangerous guys. Bad boys would never go out of style.
But, I really just preferred standing than sitting next to him.
Call it a personal preference.
I spent the next half hour or forty minutes mentally pep-talking myself into staying and not taking out my book. Even if I had no one to talk to, and I didn't want to stare at the guy on stage because that was creepy. Instead, I shot casual glances at his hands which seemed to strum the guitar almost absent-mindedly. Then at the guitar itself which was a n
eat cherry wood, somewhat dinged up in a loving way. And I listened too. His voice was actually kind of soothing, smooth and mellow, something you could listen to before bed to calm you down for sleep.
It was nice.
It might have been the only reason I was able to hang as long as I did.
So when the music stopped, and he thanked everyone for having him, I was about ready to dig through the giant purse I had to carry to accommodate the aforementioned books I brought along with me to find my car keys.
I had gone out.
That was the plan, right?
I didn't say that I had to talk to anyone.
I just needed to show my face, let the chips fall where they may.
They fell.
And I was done for the night.
And week.
And month.
And, heck, maybe even the whole year.
"Thank God you're here," a deep, smooth, very serious-sounding voice said at my side, making me jump, and almost spill my half-full coffee down my hand. The blueberry and white chocolate were alright, if a bit too sweet, which was making it take extra long to get through it.
My head whipped to the side to find none other than the guy who had been on stage standing beside me.
And now that I got a good look at him, yeah, I maybe should have let myself discreetly stare at him while he was otherwise engaged.
He was worth staring at.
Total eye-candy with his longish blond hair, his full blond beard, his light blue eyes that one might actually call the color of ocean glass seeing as they had the slightest hints of turquoise and seafoam green in them as well. He was tall. And I was tall, so that meant he was definitely around six-two, towering over me. I would say what his clothes looked like, except that my eyes couldn't seem to move any lower than his face.
Yes, he was that good-looking.
The kind of good-looking where you didn't want to look away in case you missed a second of it.
"What?" I heard myself kind of whisper hiss at him, my brows drawn together, wondering if maybe he was confusing me for someone else.
Cyrus (The Henchmen MC Book 9) Page 2