Giving It All: A Hellfire Riders MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs)

by Kati Wilde

  “I hope your puny little bike can keep up.” That draws another smile from him—a warmer one. Good. “And about, you know, what I told you about the lump and being terrified—”

  “I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

  “Thanks.” I bite my bottom lip, wondering if I should say more. But what is there to say?

  Nothing, I guess.

  In my car, I wait until he’s on his Harley and the engine is growling, then pull out onto the highway. This time, my tire isn’t flat and the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen rides right behind me. Seems like a good start.

  But this new road already feels pretty damn lonely.

  Two

  “You can quit staring now,” my mom says.

  “I could,” I agree. After she recruited me to peel potatoes for dinner, I set up my paring station on the kitchen counter overlooking the driveway—and overlooking Zach, who is outside checking out my brother’s motorcycle, which has been in storage since the last time he was on leave. “But why would I?”

  “Because he’s our guest,” she reminds me but trails off when she glances out the window. “And…because…”

  “Because?”

  “Oh, my.”

  “Uh-huh,” is all I say. Because my brother is crouching beside his Harley and pointing out something in the engine, and to get a look at it, our guest leans over the bike, arms braced on the seat. Zach’s T-shirt rides up just above his belt, exposing a tight oblique that could have made an anatomy instructor weep awestruck tears. His short sleeves hug sculpted triceps and can’t contain the bulge of his biceps, so the soft cotton edges have rolled up and snuggled in at the base of his deltoid.

  And then there’s his face. It belongs in a magazine. In an underwear ad. Or just put him in a three-piece suit, turn that crystalline, heavy-lidded stare toward the camera, and let him sell a billion of whatever they’re trying to sell.

  Except…that’s not right, either. I’ve never seen a fashion model capture the depth of expression in his face. That contagious grin. Those eyes, so serious and steady when he asked, “You’re all right, though?” And so blistering hot when his thumb slid over my bottom lip. “I’ll take this as my thank you.”

  I’d love to thank him again.

  That doesn’t seem likely, though. Not just because he already shot me down, but because shit got weird as soon as I realized he was my brother’s friend—and that he is our guest. He’s been painfully polite since arriving at my parents’ house. I’ve been the same with him, because I have zero interest in making anyone feel too uncomfortable to stay.

  All ogling aside. Ogling doesn’t count, anyway. He can’t see me staring.

  But I won’t tease him. That doesn’t mean I can’t tease my mom, though.

  “You know what we should do?” I say without tearing my gaze away from Zach’s profile. “We should install hidden cameras in the guest room and sell the pictures.”

  “Anna.” Tone sharp, my mom attempts a reprimand but the way her lips flatten after she says my name tells me how hard she’s trying not to laugh.

  Seriously, though. “We’d be so rich.”

  Her soft laugh breaks through and she shakes her head. “I’d rather keep my integrity.”

  “Boooo. No fun.”

  “Poor girl.” Mom’s reply doesn’t hold a lick of pity. A second later, she draws in a sharp breath as my dad emerges from the garage and joins the little motorcycle admiration society Aaron and Zach have started. “Oh, dear Lord.”

  “What?”

  “Your father.” Abruptly she pulls at the ties of her apron and stalks across the kitchen toward the garage door. “His wagon is about to die.”

  His trusty old AMC Eagle, which has been on this Earth longer than I have been. Both Aaron and I learned to drive in the wagon. I can’t imagine my dad in anything else.

  “There’s no hope for it?” I’m going to miss that car.

  She shakes her head. “He said he hopes to stumble onto a vintage roadster to replace it.”

  With a startled laugh, I glance outside. My dad, speeding along in a roadster? He’s like the racing tortoise: slow and steady. Also with a balding, shiny head—and more often than not, stuck in his cozy shell. “Really? Why?”

  “Guess.”

  “Midlife crisis?” is my first hunch. But I should have known that would be too easy.

  She shoots me a narrowed look. “Can you imagine your father suffering from insecurity?”

  Which is usually the underlying reason for a midlife crisis. And, no—I really can’t imagine it. My dad is on the quiet side and leans toward geeky, but he’s like a rock. Unshakeable. And it would take more than bald spot and a few wrinkles to chip away at his optimistic nature.

  No, he wouldn’t want a roadster to recapture his youth or virility. Instead he’s probably imagining taking my mom out on weekend adventures—just like he used to do with our entire family when Aaron and I were growing up. He was always loading us up into the wagon and heading out to some new location.

  A roadster would just be a zippier way of getting there. “It’s just for fun, isn’t it?”

  My dad is simple that way.

  Mom clicks her tongue, which means I hit the nail on the head. “I told him he’d be forced to buy a more sensible vehicle for the winters, anyway, but that didn’t change his mind. He says he wants to feel the wind in his hair while he has some left.” While I’m laughing, she gives a significant look toward the driveway, where my dad is lovingly running his hand over the Harley’s black leather seat. “Now I believe he’s about to stumble onto a motorcycle. But if I’m going to be riding with him…I’d rather have the sexy little roadster.”

  With a wink, she heads out. Potato and knife in hand, I watch through the window as she emerges from the garage. My dad pretends to be absorbed by the motorcycle, not even glancing around when she appears, but I see the cheeky little smile he hides from her. He’s going to play stubborn about the bike to rile her up. Of course my mom won’t get riled—she never gets riled—but she’ll poke him right back.

  They’re so cute together that it’s sick. They’re just perfect for each other, though they’re complete opposites. My dad, short and awkward and always a bit disheveled; my mom, tall and reserved and effortlessly elegant.

  And here I am getting all weepy, watching them.

  Shit. It’s so stupid. I’m not even cutting onions. It’s just…I’m so lucky to have them. She didn’t give birth to me. I was just fortunate enough to be adopted. So now I’m the only girl that tears up over potatoes, watching my dad tease my mom and seeing the moment Aaron realizes what’s going on, seeing his quick grin, and the way he jumps in, too—probably telling my dad that he should definitely go buy a bike and take Mom for a ride on it.

  My mom narrows her eyes at my brother. God, he’s going to get it.

  I’d love to hear it, but this window doesn’t open, so I settle for watching. I can read their faces well enough to guess who’s scoring the most points.

  Zach’s watching them, too, and his posture wipes away my grin.

  He’s standing apart from them, on the opposite side of Aaron’s bike. His thumbs are hooked in his jeans pockets, his boots planted at shoulder width. A casual stance, at first glance, but there’s something in the way he watches their byplay that looks…wary.

  Not afraid. But as if, instead of watching a family toss a little shit at each other, he’s watching a time bomb and is preparing himself for the moment the clock hits zero.

  It won’t. There’s no bomb, because we don’t like to hurt each other. Because we always know where we stand and try to not to pull each other’s triggers. So if something does hurt, we know it wasn’t on purpose.

  An outsider wouldn’t know that dynamic is in play here. But an outsider who is close to his own family might guess.

  Looking at Zach, I doubt that’s the case, and his wariness opens an aching little hole in my chest.

  I’ve grown up with an amazing fa
mily. I don’t think Zachary Cooper has.

  When his posture suddenly seems to ease, I glance at my parents. My mom is laughing, and my dad’s hands are lifted in surrender.

  I knew she’d win. Now I can go back to ogling our guest.

  I grab another potato and almost cut off the tip of my thumb instead of the peel, because at that moment Zach turns to look at the house, at me, as if aware of exactly where I’ve been standing all this time, and when his pale gaze locks with mine, I forget what my hands are doing until a slice of pain penetrates the heat racing through my skin.

  Sweet Jesus, those eyes. He really needs to start warning people.

  ***

  When I return to the kitchen, my mom is finishing up the potatoes. She’s already thrown away the one I bled over and cleaned the gore off the counter.

  She gives my bandaged thumb a significant glance. “You did that just to get out of peeling these, didn’t you?”

  “No,” I tell her. “I did it to get out of washing dishes later.”

  “Clever girl,” she says, and we both look outside at the sound of a motorcycle pulling into the driveway.

  Not Aaron’s or Zach’s. Their bikes are still sitting in front of the garage. This is someone else, a big dude with dark hair and wearing a Hellfire Riders kutte.

  My breath catches a little when I recognize Saxon Gray. Holy shit. With wide eyes, I watch Aaron head over to greet the man, doing one of those fist bumps that guys do when shaking hands threatens their masculinity or something, so they say hello with a baby punch.

  I didn’t realize Aaron knew Saxon. Well, I kind of knew, because they’re about the same age so they must have run into each other through junior high and high school. But I didn’t realize they knew each other well enough to grin at each other and bump fists.

  There’s surprise on Aaron’s face along with his grin. Although I can’t hear him, I know exactly what he’s asking Saxon.

  “When did you get out?”

  Of prison. Where Saxon was supposed to be serving ten years. But it’s only been five.

  God. Does Jenny know? She hasn’t said anything about it. Maybe she wouldn’t, though. She’s my best friend, but she’s always been a little tight-mouthed about Saxon Gray. Or maybe she hasn’t heard the news yet. Like me, she was away at college until a few days ago—and now she’s out at her dad’s ranch, where she wouldn’t hear all the gossip from town.

  I don’t even know what to think. But I know I need to call her. Though I’m not sure what to say. Her dad is prez of the Steel Titans MC and they aren’t friends with the Hellfire Riders. So I’m not sure if telling her that Saxon’s back in town would just complicate things.

  Teasing my mom is a little easier. “It looks like Aaron’s falling in with a bad crowd.”

  Her chuckle is just a soft breath of air. She probably knows Saxon a lot better than I do—she was counselor when he went through high school. Not that she’d ever share anything she learned about him then. Confidentiality and all that.

  Maybe she would consider him—and the Hellfire Riders—a bad crowd. I don’t know. It’s all fucked up, because Saxon killed the president of another rival MC, the Eighty-Eight Henchmen…but he killed that man to save Jenny from being raped.

  So instead of being afraid, I kind of want to hug him, instead.

  Zach obviously wouldn’t. He looked wary before but now he appears openly hostile. His jaw is set, his expression remote. When Aaron turns to introduce him, Zach responds with an abrupt nod.

  But he doesn’t know Saxon. That look can’t be about the other man specifically.

  Maybe the kutte, then? Or maybe he just doesn’t like motorcycle clubs in general. I don’t know.

  God, I want to know. Zach’s outside is incredible to look at but I want to see deeper. I want to see past his beauty. I want to know why his lips have flattened into a thin line and why the corded muscles in his arms have tensed. I want to know why those blue eyes seem icy instead of warm—and when Saxon continues talking and Aaron turns, as if to ask Zach’s opinion, why he blinks so quickly, as if taken aback.

  This time Zach’s nod is slow instead of abrupt. His forehead creases as he gives Saxon another look over, as if he’d made up his mind about the other man but is suddenly rethinking that conclusion.

  I want to know what the conclusion was. But not just that. I want to know everything about Zachary Cooper.

  And I can’t remember ever wanting to know so much about a man before. Probably because, in my experience, the more I know the more disappointing they are.

  I don’t think Zach will be. Or I just really hope he won’t be.

  Not that it matters. I mean, he didn’t want to know anything about me. Not even my name.

  I need to keep reminding myself of that. It’s not my nature to give up easily. But this guy is a guest. And he’s only going to be here a week, then he’ll be gone forever. This isn’t his hometown and few people ever move to Pine Valley. Usually they’re trying to get out. Especially if they’re young.

  So, really. For my heart’s sake, I should stop wanting to know so damn much.

  “How’s Jenny?” my mom asks—a question that seems out of the blue, but with Saxon here, not really. When I saw him, my first thought was of Jenny, too.

  “Good.” And much more certain of her path than I am. “Heading to Oregon State in the fall. She’s going for her masters in business.”

  My mom frowns. “Business?”

  “She decided against medical school. She plans to open a brewery, instead. She’s all gung-ho about it.”

  Mom blinks a few times, digesting this info. Finally she says, “Well. Good for her.”

  “Yeah,” I agree with all the things she left unsaid, because she didn’t need to say them. We both know Jenny is smart and ambitious and she’ll probably do a brilliant job.

  “And you?” she asks, and although her tone is light the weight of the world seems to rest on the question.

  My heart squeezes tight—as tight as she held me earlier when I quietly told her the tumor was benign. She didn’t say anything, just hugged me so hard and so close. Now my chest feels compressed again and suddenly I’m short of breath. I don’t need to be. I know she’ll support any decision I make.

  But, God. This is a huge one.

  “I don’t know,” I say, which is kind of true and kind of not. I don’t know exactly what I’ll be doing. But I know what I won’t be doing. “I think…I think I’m going to withdraw from the medical program.”

  I feel her gaze on my face but I keep staring outside. Everything I want is out there. Somewhere. I just need to find it.

  “Mmm-hmm,” is all she says. Waiting for the rest.

  But she probably already knows it. Sometimes I think she knows me better than I know myself. And maybe hearing her say it first would make this all easier.

  So I tell her, “Guess.”

  She doesn’t hesitate. “You intend to grab life by the balls.”

  Yes. Relief rushes through me in a tension-dissolving wave. I don’t know how she does it. I haven’t even put my intentions in words yet. But that’s exactly what I want to do.

  And I’m sure she knows why. “I just…when I first felt that lump—”

  “I know, honey.”

  Throat thick, I nod. Of course she does. And I don’t want to pursue that now. I don’t want to start bawling.

  I want to look ahead to this new road. “I’ll get a job this summer. Something that’s easy to leave. I’ll work as a waitress or a cashier or flipping burgers. I don’t care. I’ll stay here at home so I can save up, and when I have enough, I’ll go somewhere.”

  “Travelling?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm.” Her expression is thoughtful as she opens a cabinet and reaches for a stack of plates. Time to set the table. I head for the silverware drawer. “I wonder what your father and I will do with all of the money we’ve put aside to help you through med school. You could probably take seve
ral long trips with it.”

  I suck in a breath. I hadn’t been angling for that. Not even a bit. “Mom—”

  “It’s still an education,” she interrupts my protest. “And will probably end up being a much cheaper one.”

  A response won’t come. My throat is tied in a fat, burning knot.

  She pats my shoulder and says mildly, “And your father and I have become used to an empty house. It will be well worth the money to get rid of you again.”

  My laugh bursts through the knot in my throat. I tackle her with a hug and blubber into her shoulder—and that’s really not the way I want Zach to see me, but of course that’s what happens.

  I hear heavy boots coming in from the garage and my brother says, “See? This is what I warned Zed about. One minute you’re minding your own business, and the next minute my mom’s got you in a therapy session. She’ll have you crying before you leave, Zed. Just wait.”

  “Oh, Aaron, that’s so cute,” Mom says as she passes him, carrying plates to the dining room. “But making my children cry isn’t therapy. It’s my pleasure.”

  “I’m glad you had your fun with Anna instead of me, then.”

  Despite the teasing, I feel Aaron’s gaze on my face, making sure I’m all right. And I am.

  I wipe my cheeks and start grabbing silverware. “They were tears of happiness. Mom just told me I’ve always been her favorite kid.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Casually, he opens the fridge and pulls out a beer, then tosses a second bottle to Zach. Popping the cap, Aaron leans back against the counter. “Does Mom know her favorite kid flashed her tits at Zed?”

  “Anna!” Mom’s shocked response comes from the dining room.

  Aaron grins and tips his beer at me. “Not the favorite now, are you?”

  “I was thanking him for changing my tire!” I call to my mom and glance at Zach, praying he’s not embarrassed by this.

  If he is, I can’t tell. Instead he’s taking a swig of his beer, his gaze straight and steady down the length of the bottle…and if I follow the direction of that gaze, it’s aimed at my lips. As if he’s recalling how I really thanked him—with a kiss that melted my skin.