by Zahra Girard
“Yes. These are some of my better ones. I like to take my favorites every so often and hang them up. That way I can motivate myself — I can see how far I’ve come, and also how good I’m doing.”
His hand touches my shoulder.
“I stay away from this kind of stuff — I don’t know art, and I’ll be damned if I could explain to you what an Instagram filter is. Or Instagram itself, for that matter. But even a guy like me can see you’re really talented, Addie.”
Another stupid, beaming smile breaks my lips apart and forces me to hide behind a turned shoulder.
I clear my throat, take his hand, and continue the tour before I say something that’ll embarrass me. I’ve wanted Snake for so long, now that I have him in my bedroom, the last thing I want to do is chase him away by making a total fool of myself.
“Thank you. Um, moving on. Over there is my dresser, where you’ll find an endless collection of jeans and t-shirts. And that’s my bed. Where, most nights, you’ll find me. Alone.”
His hand squeezes me back. Once. Quick and hard.
“I’ll set up my things near the couch.”
And, quicker than I can react, he lets go of my hand and turns. His back and shoulders are rigid, and I get a glimpse of the soldier he used to be. He practically marches toward the door.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No, I got the gist of it. Look, it’s better for me to set up here; I’ll have a view of the door, in case anyone tries to break in,” he says.
Just like that, he’s gone cold.
Just as cold as he was back in the clubhouse.
It’s a change so sudden it’s surprising.
“What’s gotten in to you, Snake?”
“Nothing,” he says. Short, curt. His voice is frigid.
Something’s off with him, and it’s something deeper than him being upset over my clumsy invitation to join me in bed.
“You’re running away from me. Even back in the clubhouse, you were off. I’m tempted to say you’re angry, but I’ve seen you angry, I know what your anger looks like, and this isn’t it. What’s wrong?”
“Leave it, Addie. You’re not my fucking psychologist.”
Dumbfounded — he’s never snapped at me like that before — I take a moment to recover my voice. With every word out of his mouth, pain jabs at my heart. Pain and anger at my own position — always an outsider, always kept at furthest reach from club business, always sheltered from what’s going on by my father. These men view me as some shaking flower to be kept away from any pain or danger.
But I’m tougher than they give me credit for.
And, eventually, I will shatter their misperception.
Maybe I should start right now.
“Maybe I’m not a psychologist, Snake. But I’m also not blind. And, unless I’ve been wrong my whole fucking life, I thought we were friends,” I say.
His eyes widen a little; I rarely swear, it hardly ever feels necessary, especially when there are guys like Mack around who are so much better at it.
But it feels necessary right now.
Something’s troubling him. And I care about him. Not just as someone that I want to have in my bed, but as someone that I enjoy having in my life.
What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t ask him what’s wrong?
“Talk to me, Snake. Tell me what the hell it is that’s bothering you.”
For a moment, he wavers.
For a moment, I see a flash of that man that I know.
But it’s only a moment. Then that troubled look returns.
Then he says words that hit me in the heart.
“I’m not here to be your friend, Addie. I’m here to follow Stone’s orders and keep you safe. That’s it. And that’s all that will ever happen.”
And then he slams the door.
Chapter Six
Snake
What I said was out of line. From the second I see the hurt in her eyes, the way she seems to crumple in on herself before I even shut the door, I know I’m in the wrong.
But I can’t let her get too close.
And she sure as hell is tempting me.
Showing me around her place, leading me by the hand, overwhelming every bit of resistance I have with her touch and her tempting smile.
Her invitation to join her in bed nearly breaks me.
But what really does me in is her asking me what’s wrong. Asking with sincerity. With kindness. With compassion. I know from the moment she says it, from the instant I look in her eyes, that she’s someone who will listen to the pain and darkness I’ve been carrying — alone — for years. She’d listen without judgment.
It would feel so good to talk to her.
But it would open the door to betraying my sense of duty to the club. And the orders Stone has given me; let no man touch her.
No man, including me.
I don’t sleep easy that night. Haunted by two ghosts; one, a memory of a time and place in my past, of blood left in the thirsty sand and dusty rocks of Afghanistan; another, a ghost of temptation that’s only a few footsteps and a single door away.
But, somehow, I get to sleep.
And I wake up to the sound of bacon on the stove. And the heady, bready smell of fluffy pancakes in a hot skillet.
My eyes are hardly open before Adella’s shoving a mug of coffee into my eager hands.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
I don’t see her until I’m two sips in, until she’s back in her little kitchen, leaning over her stove.
Then I stare.
She’s dressed to ruin me.
Cutoff, ragged little pajama shorts that hardly cover her plump ass. A loose-fitting tank top that, when she turns just right, reveals the soft curve of the sides of her breasts. Her hair, long, beautiful, brown, hanging down past her shoulders in a sexy state of disarray.
And, when she looks back over her shoulder, sees me staring, and smiles at me, I’m graced with a grin that outshines the sun.
This woman knows what she’s doing.
These next few days tailing this angel will be pure hell.
Desire twists my gut as I watch her turn back to cooking.
It would be so easy to go up behind her, to put my hands on her hips as she cooks, to smell her hair, to run my hands up her tummy until I’m cupping her full breasts, to slide my hands beneath the loose waistband of her pajamas and find out just what she tastes like.
And the second I do, I might as well kill myself.
Because, however I go, it’ll be an easier out than what Stone would do to me if he found out I’ve fucked his daughter.
“How’d you sleep?” She says, raising the skillet off the stove and, with a deft flick of her wrist, flipping a pancake with perfect precision.
“You were right about your couch,” I say. “It puts my bed to shame.”
She smiles.
“Sometimes I prefer it to my bed. It’s cozier. The perfect size for two people.”
I don’t answer, don’t take the bait, turn my attention back to my coffee cup instead. With each sip, the more awake I get, the more my dark thoughts return; yesterday — the image of Goldie laid out in blood, the sound of the bomb going off — floods my senses and takes me back to the gut-wrenching moment that ended my deployment and my career in the service. A moment that, in some fashion, is present in my life every single day.
Needing some kind of distraction, my eyes land on one of her photo albums sitting on the coffee table in front of the couch.
I pick it up and start flipping.
It starts simple enough.
The first pages are her earliest work. And include everything that seems to be required for a budding photographer’s first pieces: a fruit basket, a bird, a close up of a flower, the sunset.
But then it progresses.
To portraits.
Candid portraits, taken in times where the subjects aren’t paying attention. Hidden moments, depicting the life of the club. I see Stone on his
back under a car, covered in grease, with a determined look on his face. I see Tricia at work behind the bar, a whirlwind of motion as she so often is as she runs the clubhouse like a well-oiled machine. There’s Kendra and Josie, relaxing in a booth at the clubhouse, Kendra likely doing her best to dissuade Josie from some mischief.
And then I see me.
Lots and lots of me.
Me on my bike, me cleaning my guns, me sitting in a booth with a beer in front of me and my eyes out the window.
How the hell did she take all these without being noticed?
It’s not like she’s invisible, especially not a beautiful young woman like her.
How did I never see her before?
If I was in denial before about how she felt about me, these photos make it clear.
I look over to the kitchen. She’s still at the stove, still wearing those pajamas that do nothing except highlight how luscious her body is and make my insides twist with lust.
How can I fight it?
And, even if I take her right now, no one will ever find out unless we tell someone.
It’s so tempting; she’s so tempting; I’m just a man. How long can I keep this up before I give in to what we both want?
Not long.
I set the photo album down on the coffee table, stand, and walk to the kitchen.
She spies me over her shoulder. Smiles that same smile that shines like sunbeams. The smile that warms my cold heart.
“What’s up? You need more coffee?”
I shake my head.
“How do you decide what to take pictures of?”
Her smile changes, like she’s holding on to a secret she can’t wait to tell me.
“What do you mean?”
“I was looking at some of your photos. How do you choose?”
Casually, she turns back to the stove, deftly flips a pancake, and then turns it out onto a waiting plate.
I take another step closer.
I’m right behind her, our bodies almost touching, and my fingertips feel electric with desire, my eyes sweep over her young body with hunger — so much of her is visible, so much of her could be mine by simply moving the tiniest piece of cotton — and my heart pounds with need.
Every second that I am around her, it’s poison to my resistance.
The closer I get, the more I want her. Need her.
And I can’t stop.
“Things that interest me, I guess,” she says, her back still to me. “Objects that catch my eye. People that I find attractive, that I like to look at.”
I reach out, my hand hovers just an inch from her waist.
I’ve been through combat, through hell, and survived, but what’s finally going to do me in is a curvy little twenty-something with eyes that shine like diamonds and hips built for sin.
She takes one slight step backward, just enough to put her body against mine and my hand on her hip.
It’s deliberate.
And it’s all it takes to ruin me.
I grab her hips, turn her around, kiss her with a hunger that makes my heart race.
Moaning, she melts against me. Tits pressed against my chest, hands that roam my back.
I shouldn’t do this.
I shouldn’t be kissing the president’s daughter; the young woman that I’ve known ever since she was a girl, who I’ve watched grow up into a woman who makes my blood burn hot with desire.
But I can not help myself.
Her lips are so sweet. They meet mine with equal hunger and she shivers as I reach down to squeeze her plump ass.
Her hair smells like flowers fresh with rain.
Her nipples harden, I can feel them brush against my chest through the thin cotton of her shirt.
I’m drunk off of her, and though there’s a tiny voice inside my head screaming about how wrong this is, the rest of me is roaring and ready to condemn myself to damnation just to have the pleasure of taking this woman into bed.
“My apartment’s small,” she whispers. “My bed is literally right over there. Why don’t we?”
Something vibrates in the pocket of my jeans.
A vibration followed by the chirp of reality.
My phone.
I shake my head clear.
Duty calls. Literally.
“We can’t,” I say, feeling my senses return and already chastising myself for giving in to temptation.
I have a mission, a duty to my club; I can’t let myself slip like this.
I answer the phone.
It’s Stone.
He says two words.
“Clubhouse. Now.”
Chapter Seven
Adella
Again, I get close.
Again, he pulls away.
Is there something wrong with me?
Am I doing something wrong?
Why doesn’t he want me?
It makes me feel inadequate in so many ways.
If I had more experience, had the opportunity to date without every man I’m interested in having to worry that my father will take his head off, maybe I’d understand.
But, as it is, I’m left only with a head dizzy from kissing him and doubt swirling with all the force of a hurricane in my chest.
He hangs up the phone, looks at me with a look that’s so cold it’s almost shocking.
“We need to get to the clubhouse. Now,” he growls.
I look back toward the counter, toward the breakfast that I’d spent way-too-long cooking. I did this all for him; I’d hoped that taking care of him would help me break through his shell.
“Do we have time to eat, at least?”
“We can eat there. We need to go. Now.”
He waits in the living room while I run to get changed, and I have to struggle to keep up with him as he hurries down the corridors of my apartment building and out to the parking lot. He’s already fired his bike up by the time I get on mine.
I suppose I’m grateful for the rush. If I had to spend much more time with my thoughts — wondering why the heck it is that he doesn’t want me — I’d fall into even more serious self-doubt.
As it is, I’ve got no time to think.
Because the second I start my bike, I have to gun it to catch up to him.
It’s a race all the way to the clubhouse.
He doesn’t even spare a look for me as I park beside him. Instead, he hops off his bike and charges inside like he’s on some kind of warpath.
Inside, I lose him in the crowd — the comings and goings of everyone in the club, even all the old ladies, who are swirling around with agitated and concerned looks on their faces. Even Ruby’s here — she’s at the bar, cigarette in one hand and martini glass in the other, doing her best to look like she’d rather be anywhere else.
At the far end of the clubhouse, my father is making an announcement. Something about a club meeting, a decision coming for a vote, but I pay little attention, I’m too preoccupied.
“Good morning, Addie. Such a lovely way to start the day, isn’t it?” Ruby says, in the indelible mix of sarcasm and genuine affection that only she can pull off.
“Morning, Ruby,” I say, turning on my barstool and looking through the crowd of patch members and prospects, hoping to glimpse Snake. Hoping that the moment I spy him will be one where he’s unguarded, so I can get some kind of idea what’s going on in his head. “Do you know what this is about?”
She shrugs. “What is it always about with these boys? It’s the same as it’s been since the dawn of time — a man meets another man he doesn’t know, and the first thing they have to do is measure themselves to see who has the upper hand.”
“There’s got to be more to it than that. My dad doesn’t care much for those kinds of contests.”
“Well, I’d assume he’s agitated because whoever came into town caught him at a flaccid moment. Which is impressive. But I don’t expect their advantage to last much longer; I’ve seen how he wears his jeans — Stone can be a very hard man when he puts his mind t
o it.”
“Ruby,” I exclaim. “That’s my dad. Please, don’t talk about him like that. At least where I can hear it.”
“It’s the way of the world, Adella: war, money, status — they’re all different measuring rods men use to publicly declare how their dicks compare.”
My mom approaches from the other side of the bar while Ruby prattles away at me and she puts a plate of eggs, toast, and sausage on the counter in front of me.
“Morning, Addie,” she says.
“Morning, mom,” I answer, then I turn to Ruby. “Listen, Ruby, I love you, but I will need you to stop talking about penises while I eat my breakfast.”
“Penises? Ruby, what the hell are you talking about?” My mom says.
Ruby takes a long drag from her cigarette, puts it out in the ashtray, and sips her martini. “Just the indisputable truth that the source of so much of the world’s conflict comes from man’s incessant need to measure himself from root to tip against his fellow man.”
“Oh, that,” my mom says, then she looks to me. “She’s right, you know. It really is all about their dicks.”
I drop my knife — which was halfway through cutting into the sausage — and glare at my mom.
“Not you, too. I’m trying to eat here, and I don’t want to be thinking about wars, or conflict, or all the other horrible things that spring from penis inadequacy, while I’m eating this sausage.”
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, dear. Besides, it’s not like you’ve never had a sausage in your mouth, is it? There are many less pleasant ways to take one than being in good company with a martini and a cigarette handy.”
My cheeks color. And I hide it by bending over my plate and vigorously wolfing down everything except the sausage. She doesn’t need to know that I’ve never been with a man in that way before.
Or any way, for that matter.
“Well, fine,” Ruby says. “Sorry for spoiling your breakfast, dear Addie. I’m in a sore mood this morning, which happens whenever Eli bangs on my door at an ungodly hour and drags me down here while grumbling about potential lockdowns. And to think, I had just been chatting with a lovely man on Tinder earlier and was about to make plans to go visit him. He’s a former colleague, and I never expected to see a man like him out here. Lone Mesa is definitely not his scene. Last I’d heard, he was living out near Aspen.”