Stormy's Thunder: Satan's Devils MC Utah

by Manda Mellett

  The next day is dry, the sun shining down as we set out for the airport. Cat’s never been on a bike before but approaches it with something more akin to excitement than trepidation. If you’re over twenty-one, you don’t need to wear a helmet in this state, but being gentlemanly, I give her the one that I always carry with me anyway. Without me having to tell her, she’s wearing jeans, a denim jacket and sensible boots.

  Having given her basic instructions, she slides on behind me, her arms coming around my waist without being told. Immediately, her closeness affects me in ways it shouldn’t. Trying to ignore the scent of her shampoo and the strand of hair that’s escaped from her pony tail and which the breeze whips around my face, I kick up the stand. I allow myself a moment to get used to the extra weight—not that there’s much to notice—then I engage first gear and smoothly move off. Her delighted shriek makes an uncharacteristic grin appear on my face.

  The airport is an hour away, and I quickly get used to her being behind me. When we stop at a red light, I turn my head, but the question of whether she’s doing okay dies on my lips. Her eyes sparkling, her mouth curved, give me all the answer I need. She looks like she’s exactly where she needs to be.

  Regret is what I feel as we pull to a stop and I park in a motorcycle designated parking slot. Maybe I can convince her to come for another ride with me, or maybe I shouldn’t risk it. But for now the question is moot. She’s got to get her truck.

  She does so without any difficulty. I wait on the exit ramp until she comes into sight, and follow her on the return journey.

  Thoughts are going through my head. If I’m to return to the Devils without further punishment other than the beatdown and prospect patch already decided, I should start to make my way back. Three months was the limit. It will go easier for me if I don’t make them wait.

  But something’s been growing inside me that has me questioning whether returning is what I want. It’s not the thought of prospecting all over again, it’s the question that since losing my SEAL dream, I’ve never once asked myself… What do I want?

  I worked my ass off to become a SEAL. Except on short periods of leave, I could never relax. On tours, I had people barking orders at me. Prospecting the first time was more of the same, then I threw my all into becoming a full member.

  Then what had I done? I’d fucked up again. My carefully ordered world where I thought I made a difference had come tumbling around me. Could I ever get back to the man I was before I returned from Afghanistan for that last time, or would I get back and find the chip still firmly attached to my shoulder? The chip I’m barely aware of when I’m with her.

  Is thirty-six too late to start over? To find my way in a citizen world? Could I marry and start a family?

  Fuck. Is that what I really want?

  With Cat I’ve had a glimpse of the man I could be were I to stop running from the demons chasing me.

  I don’t have an answer for myself by the time she pulls her truck onto the driveway and continues up to the house. I park alongside her.

  That truck is a heap of trash, I think to myself. Hate to think of her driving around in it. Before I leave, I’ll check it over, make sure it’s safe at least.

  Another excuse to delay the inevitable. Because one way or another, leaving is something I’ll have to do, and sooner rather than later.

  Noticing Cat hasn’t got out of the truck, I go stand beside her door, my head tilted in question.

  “We need food. I was going to head out to the store.”

  I pull open her door. “Move over.”

  “What?” Uh-uh. There’s that sudden temper.

  “I’m coming,” I say calmly. There’s no reason to, but I’m loath to part company with her, or be alone in a house that has nothing to do with me.

  “I don’t mind that,” she says, her eyes flashing. “But it’s my truck, I’ll drive.”

  Normally I’d have no problem with that either, but I noticed the blue smoke coming from the rear and want a chance to assess how it runs. “Humour me, okay?”

  She rolls her eyes but moves over.

  I start the engine up, noticing it’s firing unevenly. Shifting into first with an audible crunch, I pull out onto the road. “How long since you had this thing serviced?”

  A sideways glance shows her looking down and fidgeting with her hands. “It’s been a while,” she admits at last. “It was my dad’s. I flew down, so I just took over using it. Mom couldn’t drive much by that time.”

  “You have your own car?”

  “Had. Back in the city. But I sold it.”

  Her mom’s medical costs were high, we’ve already talked about that. I guess she’s avoiding the issue as she couldn’t afford repairs. “I’ll go over it when we get back, see what needs doing.” Probably an oil change for a start, and a good look at the gearbox.

  We’d had sun while riding the bike. Fortuitously, we’re now in a cage as the sky clouds over and a light drizzle mists the windshield. The wipers, unsurprisingly squeak and seem hesitant. Another thing on my list.

  Cat sighs when I swear under my breath. “Look, I know it’s a heap of shit, but I don’t drive far.”

  Heap of fucking shit is right. I wonder if she’d accept a replacement from me, but why should she? We’re little more than strangers who pass in the night. Soon I’ll be leaving and that’s the last she’ll hear of me.

  But as we drive up to the store she points out, I notice a tattoo parlour across the way. For the first time, I consider getting my Satan’s Devils’ backpatch tattoo blacked out. Once they declare me out bad, retaining it would be a death sentence.

  That I even consider it astounds me. The idea of removing the sign of my allegiance to the Satan’s Devils MC isn’t welcome. But soon, unless I make contact or go back, it might be my only option.

  It’s my fault.

  I ran. I left them. I should have taken my punishment and stayed.

  17

  Cat…

  I’ve had boyfriends before, I’m no innocent virgin. I even lived with a junior doctor for a few months before we both decided it didn’t work. So it’s not the first time I’ve been grocery shopping with someone, but this is a new experience for sure. The only times my boyfriend had come to the store, he’d moaned all the way around.

  Shopping with Jeremiah is different. He’s patient, more so than I expect, as I pick my way through the items that are discounted due to their short use by date. I ignore him adding packs of cookies into the cart, already aware he’s got a sweet tooth, but when we get to the meat counter and he picks up a pack of two prime steaks, I slap his hand lightly.

  “I can’t afford those.”

  “I can.” He grins. “I’ll pay. How about I grill these later? Save you from cooking tonight.”

  I already know he cooks a mean steak, he’d found some that first day, ones I’d bought cheap and had in the bottom of the freezer.

  The problem is, it all seems so normal, and it would be so easy to say yes. But I’ve no idea why he’s staying with me.

  I’ve no real objections, he saved my life after all and he’s been good company. At night I still have nightmares, and when I wake, am comforted to know there’s someone else in the house. On a couple of occasions I’ve woken to find him lying next to me. I pretend to be sleeping, not wanting to chase him away.

  I can’t discount all the repairs that he’s doing either. I haven’t failed to notice he cleared out the cellar so I wouldn’t need to go down there. Even the thought of it sends shivers through me.

  I was lonely before he arrived.

  But do I want a houseguest for a period of undetermined time? That’s what I can’t get my head around.

  He’s a handsome man, way out of my league. It’s not that I don’t think I can scrub up well or hold my own with other women of my age, but there’s just something about him. Just the way he moves is sexy and as for handling that bike? Hot as hell. The problem is he’s fit and muscular, a man who grabs life wit
h both hands and I’m just me. I know the kind of men I attract, and it’s not someone with a bad boy image like him. Too much for me to handle? Well, yeah. Not that I’m likely to get a chance.

  He takes over pushing the cart while I mechanically go through the things I need to get. Milk, bread, orange juice, salad and fruit while at the same time musing he’s never shown the slightest bit of interest in me. Oh, we’ve talked. I’ve told him how I came to be back in Kentucky, but he’s shared little of himself, other than he was in the Navy, but nothing about what he’s done since. He could be a criminal for all I know, but I don’t get that vibe.

  There’s been no tender touches, oh, you can’t count that one where he’s just accidently brushed my arm to pick up some beer—a touch that made my skin tingle, but had no effect on him at all.

  He holds a bottle of wine, and I nod, though really it’s a luxury I can’t afford.

  No, he’s made no move on me at all, except for the early days when he carried me around because I was so weak. If I think hard, I can remember the feeling of his arms around me. I’d like to feel them again.

  He’s seen me naked.

  He’s shown no wish to repeat the experience.

  So what does he want from me?

  It’s past time I asked. Suddenly I stop. “Why are you here, Jeremiah? How long are you staying?” Even his name seems wrong. He’s not a Jerry, and Jeremiah doesn’t roll off the tongue. Who is he?

  One look at his face shows my direct question has taken him by surprise. He moves the cart to one side of the aisle, allowing people to pass. “You want me to leave?”

  Do I? “I’m kind of getting used to you being around, but I don’t know what you want. I’m not saying I’m not grateful you found and rescued me, but I don’t know why you stayed.” There. I’ve pushed it now. He’ll go.

  He stares at me, then shrugs. “I needed answers from you. It was a dead end. You weren’t involved with Tiny’s plan.”

  I’m suspicious he might think I’m withholding information that he still needs, but that doesn’t make sense. Once I gave him answers about Weston, he’d backed off. He can’t be stupid enough to think I was working with my cousin when he had left me for dead.

  Or am I just feeling unsettled as I’ve a sexy-as-hell man living in my house, and to be honest, he’s playing havoc with my libido, while not coming close enough to touch.

  Is he gay?

  I snort quietly. No, it’s definitely not that. Unless my gaydar is very far out. “Why are you staying?” I ask again, then gesture at myself. “You clearly don’t want anything from me. You’ve made it plain you only want to be a friend, so why are you so intent on playing house?”

  A myriad of expressions cross his face. First his eyes narrow, then his brow creases. His lips press together as he looks down into the cart, his gaze landing on the steaks he’d just picked up. That’s not all—there are his cookies, and the food I’ve selected is clearly for meals for the two of us.

  Now his eyes widen, as if he hadn’t noticed before.

  “Fuck,” he says softly. His hand hovers over the steaks as though he’s going to put them back on the shelf.

  No, I cry internally. Why did I have to open my mouth? I like him, perhaps a little too much. The last thing I wanted was to chase him away. I’d be lonely if he went, scared in case Weston returned—unlikely as I suspect he’s dead—but it could be one of his friends. But it’s not just a body I want living with me for protection. It’s him. That ride on his bike today with my arms wrapped around him had made me feel things, need things I have no business wanting.

  It’s been growing on me for days—me fighting an attraction that it would be useless and embarrassing if I were to show it. But I’ve shown my cards. I harden myself, preparing to hear him dismiss me.

  Suddenly his empty hand rises from the cart and wraps into my hair. He pushes me back against the shelves. Cans rattle as I scrabble for balance.

  “You want my cock?” he hisses, getting right up into my face. “You want me to take you home, thrust into you and show you what a real man feels like? You want some biker loving, babe?”

  He rides a bike. Is he a biker? He’s not wearing one of those vest type things they wear on the television program I sometimes watch. But perhaps it just needs that engine throbbing between your thighs to be a performance enhancer of some sort. Biker or not, an inner sense tells me he wouldn’t disappoint.

  My mouth falls open, and I don’t know how to respond. One way makes me sound needy, or worse, a slut. If I say no, I’m lying to myself.

  “Do you want my cock, Cat?”

  “Damn woman. If you don’t, I do.” A woman winks as she walks past, pretending to fan herself.

  The reminder this conversation is happening in a totally inappropriate place has my cheeks flaring red, especially when another shopper rushes her two small children past, with a muttered, “You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

  Using his momentary distraction, I push him away, take the handle of the cart and start pushing my way down the aisle. No longer focused on shopping—if I’ve forgotten anything it will remain forgotten—I make my way toward the checkout, not bothering to see whether he’s behind me. I’m a mess. Half of my brain is on the sudden change in him. Does he want a place to stay so badly that he’ll sacrifice himself and do the country girl? Or, have I awoken a beast that was already mine for the taking? Last, but not least, have I got enough money in my account to pay for everything in the cart. I should have left the steaks.

  My turn comes. Jeremiah pushes past me and starts bagging everything up. I can’t, won’t, meet his eyes. When it’s time to pay, he pushes my hand holding my wallet away.

  “I got this.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t argue, Cat. Half of that stuff I’ll eat anyway.”

  If you stay.

  Having already been embarrassed today, I don’t want a fight at the till. I bite my tongue and wait until we’re outside. My temper grows until I can’t hold it back. As he’s loading the bags into the back of the truck, I grab hold of his arm.

  “I’m no whore,” I hiss.

  “Whoa!” He holds up his hands. “Where did that come from?”

  I’m not even sure, but my finger pokes his chest anyway. “You said you’d fuck, but you bought that stuff. It was as if I was getting paid.”

  His eyes shutter. “Fuck.” He brushes his hands through his hair. “We need to talk, Cat.”

  He doesn’t want me. I suppose I’ve ended up with a mountain of food that will keep me going for a while. Not to mention the repaired fence and the hundreds of other little jobs he’s done. Damn it. Feeling tears prick in my eyes, I start to turn away, realising how much I’ve gotten used to him just being there.

  Why did I push? Why couldn’t I have left things alone?

  He opens the passenger door for me, and gestures inside. “Get in the truck. We’ll talk at home.”

  My home, not his. Without argument, I climb up, fasten my seatbelt, and stare out of the window as he drives. Surreptitiously, I wipe a tear away, knowing it’s just one more person who’s going to leave. I’m feeling sorry for myself, and I don’t like it. Instead, I try to make plans. I can’t afford to stay in the house, it’s time to move on. The reason I stay is for the ghosts, and now there will be one more. While I don’t want to be disrespectful to my parents, I think it’s him I might miss the most.

  He might only have been here a couple of weeks, but I’ve gotten used to him being around. What did I expect? A man like him is hardly likely to fall for my limited charms.

  He offered to give me a pity fuck. That’s all it was. He didn’t seem particularly enthused about it. If that’s the price I’d have to pay to keep him around, then he can go. I’ve more respect for myself than that.

  I force myself to analyse my life, accepting I’m a pitiful mess. I don’t have a job. I don’t have a man. For the past year I’ve had no life of my own. I’ve been existing when I should
have moved on. I’ll sell the house and go back to the city. It shouldn’t take me long to get a new position, good nurses are always in demand. Perhaps, I’ll try internet dating, I’ve been on my own far too long.

  Positive thoughts, but ones with no joy. It will destroy me to leave my childhood home, the house that’s been in my family for almost a century now.

  Intellectually I know, bricks and mortar don’t mean anything, it’s the memories that are important to me. But it’s still hard. It feels as though I’m turning my back on my family’s legacy. If I was looking forward to a new start it would be easier, but I know I’m leaving behind everything I’ve ever known.

  The truck stopping brings me out of my head. We’re home. I sit awkwardly for a moment before clambering out.

  He waves me off when I try to help with the bags, so I open the door, leave my purse on the side, and go into the kitchen. When he comes in and drops off the bags, I methodically start putting the groceries away.

  “Leave those out. I’ll cook them later.” He points to the steaks.

  They might be prime meat, but if he’s preparing a goodbye meal, he could give me dry bread for all I’ll be able to taste. I don’t want him to go.

  “Cat,” he starts, leaning on the counter as I busy my hands opening cupboards and shifting stuff around. “Fuck, this is hard. You know nothing about me, and I don’t want to lead you on.”

  I reach up to the top shelf to slide in the cans of tomatoes. His pronouncement gives me pause. I don’t know anything about him. He’s right. “Who are you? Are you even called Jeremiah?”

  His eyes widen a little, but he gives me an honest answer, “No.”

  I can’t berate him for lying to me, he’s said almost nothing about himself at all. “I get why you came here, but not why you stayed.”