by Lane Hart
Dahlia’s parents are ridiculously rich. They gifted her the business they’d built up and are currently touring Europe in a brightly-colored Volkswagen camper van. Despite their wealth, they’re so down-to-earth and retro. Their influence is all over the place—from the dreamcatchers, and Tibetan wind chimes, to the twenty-something exotic plants scattered around. The full moon etched onto the glass front door proudly displays a peace sign at its center, and their laid-back attitude to life shines through in Dahlia herself. While we don’t see eye-to-eye on everything, one thing I truly love about her is that she never judges anyone based on their appearance.
So, she doesn’t bat an eyelid when a biker strides into her diner, tattooed and wearing a leather vest. She gives me a look that clearly says, “Well? Get to work!” and I snap into action, grabbing a menu and walking back to the booth where he’s sitting. He looks up and smiles at me, and once again, I catch myself staring. This time, however, not out of intrigue, but open admiration.
He’s a hellishly handsome man, probably early to mid-thirties, and looks like he’s just walked out of a Sons of Anarchy episode. Soft, brown eyes, long reddish-blond hair, high cheekbones and a chiseled jaw that the medium-length beard does nothing to disguise. I can’t see much of his body, but what I can see promises muscles and strength.
I break my stare and smile back, doing my best not to drool.
“What can I get you?” I ask.
He doesn’t even scan the menu, but I catch him checking out my nametag. “Do you make lattes here…Jo?”
“Of course,” I reply.
“Great. Can I get a vanilla latte, please?”
I blink in disbelief and my jaw drops slightly. “Uh…sure.”
He chuckles at my facial expression. “I bet you were expecting me to order the blackest of black coffees with no milk or sugar, right?”
“Um…I kinda was, yes,” I say, feeling awkward and embarrassed. “That’s just so unusual for a biker.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. I’m an unusual everything,” he says with a wink. I feel myself getting turned on and a warmth in my pussy. I’m not sure I’m liking the way he’s making me feel since we just met, so I stand up a little straighter and tell myself to get a grip and stop acting like some horny little teenage girl.
“Anything to eat?” I ask.
“Bacon and eggs would be great, thanks,” he says.
“Scrambled?”
“Sure, sounds good.”
I finish writing the order and without thinking what I’m doing, I wink back at him and say, “You’re not that unusual, then,” as I slip my order pad back into my pocket, then turn on my heels and head toward the kitchen. I hear him laughing as I walk away. It makes me smile, and damn him if he doesn’t have the most infectious laugh. It sounds oddly familiar, too.
I walk into the kitchen and give Steve the order. He immediately sets to work but looks at me kinda funny while he whisks up the eggs.
“What’s with you?” I ask, defensively.
“You look a little flustered,” he says. “Is everything okay?”
“Oh, it’s just one of those bikers that came in, but everything’s fine,” I say.
Steve stiffens and stops his whisking. He’s a fifty-something man, and a close friend of Dahlia’s father. He’s a big, sturdy guy with kind, blue eyes, and long, wavy blond hair that’s starting to turn gray which he keeps tied in a ponytail. I know he has a past of some kind, but I don’t know the details. Still, the unusual tattoo he sports on his left forearm has always made me wonder what. It looks neither pretty nor anything spiritual.
He turns around slowly to face me, and looks a little threatening, even though he’s only holding a metal whisk in one of his huge hands.
“Is he bothering you?” he asks in a concerned voice.
“Oh, no,” I reply, hurrying to reassure him. “It’s all good.”
“Well, you don’t look like it’s all good,” he says, probing for more information.
I bite my lip in embarrassment. I’ll have to come clean, otherwise I know he’ll go out there and cause a scene. That’s the last thing I want.
“It’s just…um…well, he’s very handsome,” I say, embarrassed again.
“Oh. I see.” I thought he’d be relieved that’s all it was, but instead, he narrows his eyes at me and says, “Be careful, Jo. You really don’t wanna get into that.”
“No, I don’t,” I say, emphatically. “But I’m not blind either, you know? I’m just saying, he’s hot. A girl can look, right?”
“And I’m just saying, steer clear,” then he turns back to the stove and starts cooking the mystery man’s breakfast. I sigh. Steve has a fatherly streak that runs a mile wide. Mostly, it’s endearing, but sometimes, it’s too much and it gets on my nerves.
I wait silently in the kitchen until the biker’s order is ready, then carry it over to his booth with his coffee. I still can’t get over the fact that this badass biker is sipping a vanilla latte in a hippie diner. It’s surreal.
I set the plate in front of him, this time without making a complete fool of myself when he smiles his thanks up at me. He seems vaguely distracted and I notice him looking furtively around the diner.
“Are you looking for someone?” I ask, and he glances up at me with those beautiful brown come-to-bed eyes of his.
“Kinda. I notice there’s a Triumph outside,” he says. “She’s a real beauty, excellently kept, too. But I don’t see the guy who’d be riding it in here…unless, it belongs to that grumpy old couple over there,” he says, throwing his head back and laughing that infectious laugh again.
I admit, I am slightly annoyed at his assumption that the rider would be a man, but I’m so used to it by now. The thought of the Stevensons climbing onto that scrambler after their breakfast each day is something else and has me laughing with him in an instant. When I stop, I all but puff out my chest in pride at his comment.
“Well, I’m no guy—at least I wasn’t the last time I looked—and if you want to compliment someone, you’ll have to compliment me,” I say, cocking my head to one side and smiling at him.
He freezes with the fork halfway into his mouth, then stares at me in clear disbelief. “That’s not yours?”
“Yep.”
“Seriously?” he says.
I could let rip at him right now for thinking no woman could possibly own a bike like that, but instead I simply arch one eyebrow at him and say, “Vanilla latte? For a badass alpha biker? Seriously?”
He places the fork back on the plate and laughs out loud again. “Touché. I’m sorry for assuming.”
“Yeah, girls can ride bikes too, you know,” I say. He’s the first person to ever apologize to me about that and coupled with our friendly banter, I’m really starting to like him.
“I bet it’s a great ride,” he says.
“Yeah, it is. I love it. What kind of machine do you ride?” I ask.
“Mine’s a Triumph, too. A Thunderbird.”
I let out a soft whistle. “Nice. Though I would’ve put you down as a Harley guy.”
“Then I guess we all make assumptions. Don’t we?” he says with a grin.
“Oh, ouch! Touché back at ya,” I say with a smile, then excuse myself and leave him to his breakfast. There’s something about him I find intriguing. I can’t put my finger on it, but it makes me feel comfortable and safe. Something warm and familiar, but I shrug it all off when 7 o’clock comes around and the madness of my everyday life begins.
During the day, I find myself thinking about the easy flow of our conversation, and how he was so not like I’d imagined a biker to be. I’d felt I could tell him anything, and I’m still thinking about him in afternoon class. I know I’m only half-listening to the lectures, and I curse myself. What is it about this guy that has me morphing into a teenager with a high school crush?
I need to focus. I force myself to snap out of it and pay attention to Mr. Kane as he teaches us about Genghis Khan. I
wonder what the hell had possessed me to take Ancient History when all I want to be is a veterinarian, but I need the extra-curricular points. So, I listen to him talk about the bloodthirsty Mongols, and it takes me back…to other, less pleasant, times in my own life.
Memories of cruel nastiness I’d seen as a teenager when I was in ‘the system’, race into my mind. I shake my head and tell myself not to go to those dark places, but it’s easier said than done. I think of the friends I made while I was there, especially my best friend, John, and a tinge of sadness comes over me.
We were just two teenagers, inseparable and promised to be friends forever. We made all kinds of silly plans for when we got out of the hellhole we were in, sharing our dreams of schooling, careers, even love and who we’d marry. All that is in the deep, distant past now and, of course, life rarely follows our dreams. No matter how hard I try, I can’t quite escape my past.
I think about the biker I met this morning and wonder what kind of violence he sees, or inflicts, on others every day. I’m not naïve enough to think he’s as sweet as that vanilla latte he ordered. It’s only normal to be wary of someone who walks around with a skull on his back, right?
By the time late afternoon comes along, I’m feeling restless. I don’t want to go home and collapse in front of the TV like I normally do. I know it’s not open yet, but the diner doubles as a bar in the evening and it would be nice to help Dahlia open up then have a beer and a woman-to-woman chat with her. I’ve known her since school and she’s always been an amazing friend to me, as well a great employer. I’m sure I’ll feel better by the time I go home.
But my blood curdles when I hear screams, even above the dying roar of my bike as I slow down to park in the street. I jump off, hastily turning off the engine and rush inside.
Chapter Three
Flynn
I can’t claim to be a wise man. There aren’t many things in life I know for sure, but I recognize the scream of a terrified woman when I hear it. I run toward the Full Moon Diner without knowing what to expect. Visions of that lovely waitress I’d met today being assaulted fill my mind, and it immediately comes up with a rich series of worst-case scenarios. I know I should probably stop and think things through calmly, but I’ve never been much good at that, so I tell my mind to just shut the fuck up as I walk through the door of the diner.
What I see immediately gets me mad. A burly guy has the woman I assume to be the owner, pinned to the counter. Her shirt is ripped open, exposing her breasts, and her blonde dreadlocks have escaped the tightly-wound bun they were in, and now cascade over her bare shoulders. She’s obviously frightened. Her screams for help, and her pleads to the man to let her go, echo around the room as he unbuckles his belt.
I’ve barely had a few seconds to assess the situation, but before I can snap into action, out of the corner of my eye—and to my amazement—I see Jo launch herself at the attacker. Fuck, I didn’t know what to expect when I walked in, but I sure as hell didn’t expect this raven-haired beauty to unleash her fury on the man.
In a flash, she locks one arm around the man’s neck from behind and spins him on his heels to face her. The look of disbelief on his face is one for the album. As he rotates, she yanks him down toward her and slams her knee hard into his chest and he lets out a grunt. That’s quickly followed by a sickening crack as her forceful upper cut catches him squarely in the face. I’m standing, dumbfounded, at what I’m seeing.
She stands between him and her friend as he falls groaning to the floor. Her body is taut with anger. I hadn’t really noticed how toned she was this morning in her waitress get-up, but now I see the sexy curves and the figure of an agile fighter. It’s the most arousing thing ever, but although I want to, there’s no time to stare and think about fucking her. I snap myself out of my fleeting daydream when the man gets back on his feet, cradling his bleeding face.
“You fucking bitch!” he shouts, his voice muffled by the thick fingers he holds in front of his mouth. “You broke my nose!” Suddenly, he reaches inside his vest and now there’s a gun in his hand, and it’s aimed at the two women by the counter. “Don’t you fucking move!”
“It’s okay, Dahlia. Just do as he says,” Jo says, and they both freeze. The woman I now know to be Dahlia lets out a small whimper. She looks terrified, even from where I’m standing. I pull out my own gun and walk further into the room. Everything’s gone down so fast that no one even noticed me standing by the door.
“Put it down,” I snarl, my weapon aimed at him as I step closer. If he’s surprised to hear my voice, he certainly doesn’t show it, and he turns calmly to face me.
“I don’t know who the fuck you are, or where the fuck you came from, but you crawl back there right now. This ain’t your business, man,” he says, the blood still streaming from his nose.
I clench my jaw in barely suppressed rage. I know I should keep my cool, but I always see red when anyone threatens or hurts a woman. It’s so cowardly, so…unmanly. I hate it.
“I said put it down, you stinkin’ piece of shit,” I repeat, and out of the corner of my eye through the large windows, I see the cavalry arrive. A second later, they’re inside, standing around me with weapons drawn.
“What the fuck’s going on here?” Jake demands, his gun aimed at the attacker.
“I was just trying to convince this scumbag to put his gun down,” I say, calmly. “He tried to rape this lady here.”
“You’d better do as he says, man,” Adrian says from behind me, and I grin. Our Sergeant at Arms’ shooting skills are even sharper than mine. This asshole has no idea of the world of trouble he’s in.
“Fine, take it easy,” the attacker says, smiling. He takes a step back, slowly turns around and makes to lower his weapon. Suddenly, he flicks his wrist and in a split-second, I see the barrel of his gun swinging my way. I expected it—I’m always expecting it. I shoot, and he reels backward on his heels when the force of the bullet hits him. He crashes to the floor with a loud thump, gasping and clutching his chest. But within seconds, he’s quiet and still.
Dahlia and Jo scream, holding their hands to her mouths. Jo tries to comfort her friend, wrapping her arms around her shoulders then she looks at me with wide eyes, an unreadable expression on her face. I don’t know whether I should be proud or ashamed of myself for what just happened.
“Jesus Christ, Flynn!” Jake hollers as he walks over to where the man lay on the tiled floor and Adrian follows.
If Jo’s face is hard to read, by contrast, there’s no doubt about my president’s thoughts on what I’d just done. He glares at me as he crouches down to check on the body.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he shouts.
“You saw the dude had a gun, right?” I answer.
“You didn’t have to fucking kill him!” Jake roars. I’ve rarely seen him so worked up.
“Yes, I did,” I say as I gaze across to the two women. “He was going to kill one of us, and he tried to rape her.” Dahlia shudders, presumably re-living the moment, and my rage stirs again.
“You, and your goddamned vigilante complex,” Jake growls. “We’re supposed to be keeping a low profile. Or have you forgotten?”
My body tenses in anger. For one, I don’t like being torn a new one in front of strangers, and I sure as hell like it even less when one of them is the most alluring woman I’ve met in a long time, maybe ever. I can feel her eyes burning into me, and the intensity of her silent stare is making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I make a conscious effort not to look at her and keep my attention on our furious leader.
“I haven’t forgotten,” I say, doing my best to keep my voice calm. “But what was I supposed to do? Let her get molested? Or let one of us get shot? Let that bastard walk away with just a slap on the wrist?”
But Jake wasn’t pacified in any way by my words. “For fuck’s sake, Flynn—”
“Enough!” Adrian barks. “Arguing isn’t gonna help any of us.”
We both snap
our mouths shut and turn around to look at him. He’s standing over the corpse, looking down, and deep in thought.
“What do we do with the body, guys?” he asks. That is so Adrian—logical and practical to the core.
“What do you mean, ‘what do we do with the body’?” Dahlia replies as she wriggles free of Jo’s embrace. She’s still sobbing and shaking after seeing someone killed in her diner, but I can see she’s trying to pull herself together. She fastens her flannel shirt with the few buttons she has left after the attack, then steps toward us, her eyes shooting flames. I admire her courage, but I’m not crazy about her looking at us as if we were the problem here.
“We call the fucking police and let them handle it,” she announces. “That’s what we do with dead bodies around here.”
“See, Adrian here is right. I’m afraid we can’t do that, darlin’,” Jake says, and follows up by giving her his most dazzling smile. It’s the kind women tend to fall for, but I can tell Dahlia is in no mood for charm. She draws herself up to the full height of her petite stature and stands up to Jake, oblivious to the fact that he’s a six-foot tall guy who’s very bad and dangerous to know.
“And why is that?” she demands, defiantly placing her hands on her hips.
“Thing is, we’re just kinda lying low here for a while. We don’t want any trouble, and we can’t get involved with the cops, you understand?” he says in a low voice.
“Excuse me?” she says, staring incredulously at each of us in turn.
Adrian approaches slowly, like he’s almost afraid she’ll bite him, and stands beside Jake. He’s shorter than Jake, but still intimidating in his own way. Despite his appearance, his intelligence and wit are razor-sharp. He could probably kill someone with his smarts alone, but he’s also the best marksman we have.