by Karen Renee
I bit my lower lip as I remembered that was true.
He looked up again. “Forget this ridiculous argument. Get your important shit and let’s ride. I don’t see that holding up very long.”
STANDING OUTSIDE THE door to his room, Brute pointed his finger at me, perilously close to my face. “The first fucking thing you do in the morning is get your ass a helmet. Jesus! You’re lucky you haven’t been arrested.”
My informing him that helmets weren’t required in Florida didn’t impress him at all. He wasn’t acting brotherly at this juncture, he was acting downright fatherly, and that wasn’t something to which I was accustomed.
He ignored my silence. “You’re goin’ in my room and you’re taking the bed on the left.”
“There’s more than one bed in there?”
He glared at me and unlocked the door.
I stepped inside and he tossed my bag on the bed closing the door behind him.
“Yeah, Steph. There are two beds, but one john and I recall how much you like to primp in the mornings. I don’t care what you’re doin’, if I have to take a crap, I’m tossing your ass out.”
I rolled my eyes. “That was Susan, not me and she was fourteen at the time, so what else would you expect?”
“Whatever. I’ll be back in the morning. Stay out of the common room, if you know what’s good for ya.”
Brute had taken me to his room through a back entrance, so I didn’t see the common room, but I certainly heard the commotion coming from that vicinity. Normally I would be like Alice in Wonderland ready to find out what the fuss was about, but from the few stories I’d heard from Turk, I knew better.
Besides, I hadn’t slept in a queen-size bed in close to a month. The idea of stretching out and not having my ankle hanging off the bed sounded like heaven. So, I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and climbed into bed.
Har
SUNDAY MORNING, HAR watched Cynic, their Sergeant-at-Arms, walk into the clubhouse carrying a pink helmet with the Harley logo in white on the side. The moment he saw him, Brute burst into uncontrollable laughter.
None of it made any sense.
“Why are you carrying in your ex-wife’s helmet, man?” Har asked.
He tipped his head at Brute. “This asshole wanted me to bring it by. Why the hell it’s so funny, I don’t know. Seein’ as she’s my ex-wife and I’m not putting another snatch on the back of my bike, I had no problem giving the damn thing to him.”
Cynic eyed Brute for a long time. “Why is this so fuckin’ funny? You know Jessie loved everything pink.”
Swiping under his eyes, Brute got himself together. “Sorry, I need it for my little stepsister, and she won’t be happy about it.”
Har thought back to Friday night. Sure enough, Stephie hadn’t been wearing a helmet. And he was reminded of the many times he considered moving to Florida. One of the most appealing reasons being the fact he wouldn’t have to don a fucking brain bucket every time he straddled his bike.
The thud of the helmet hitting the bar where they sat pulled him from his thoughts. “Don’t you need to take that out to your bike?”
Brute grinned. “Nope. Stephie’s sleeping in my room. I’ll give it to her before she gets her first cup of java.”
“You are mean, brother,” Cynic said on a chuckle, before he ambled to the kitchen.
In the lowest voice he could muster, Har asked, “What the fuck is she doing in your room?”
“She’s sleeping as far as I know. In my spare bed, don’t get your knickers in a twist.”
Anybody else, Har wouldn’t put up with such bullshit, but with Brute he knew it was harmless. Though, his MC brother was right. His knickers were in a twist, and they shouldn’t be.
He exhaled slow and quiet. “Why is she here, though?”
Brute tipped his chin up. “Oh, yeah. Well, I found where she lives, and it is a hovel, man.”
“It is not a hovel,” Stephie said.
Not even looking at her, he knew she spoke from behind clenched teeth. Har spun on his barstool and fought closing his eyes. She looked even better standing in the middle of the common room than she had at a poker table. Her dark hair was disheveled like she just got out of bed, her lips almost pouty with her irritation, and her pajamas were threadbare, leaving little to his imagination.
He glanced around the room and saw the other brothers were taking note of her too.
Brute sighed. “Whatever, Steph. It’s a dump, and my guess is that ceiling probably fell in last night.”
Her eyes narrowed on Brute. “I’ll be sure to let you know right after I tell the landlord. Now, where do you keep your soap? Somehow, I forgot mine.”
“Should be some under the cabinet,” Brute pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the helmet. “That’s for you, by the way. I’m thinking you’ll look pretty in pink.”
Those lips pressed together and Har knew she was biting back a retort. She shook her head, turned on her heel, and walked away.
Before he knew what he was doing, Har grabbed the helmet and followed her.
Chapter 4
It's a Slum
Stephanie
I STORMED OUT OF THE common room, but found myself stopped short two feet from Brute’s door by a muscular arm wrapped around my waist. When I looked down, I expected to see Brute’s thick forearm with the barbed-wire tattoo snaking around his arm. Instead, I saw a forearm covered with sandy-blond hairs and the edge of a tattoo which made my breath catch.
His hand at my waist turned me around, and Har stared at me with expectant eyes. I let the silence stretch between us and his lips tipped up.
He held up the helmet. “Think you forgot something, there, Stephanie.”
My eyes locked with his. I cocked a brow. “I’ll buy my own helmet, thanks. Don’t know why you or Brute has that, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t need a cast-off helmet.”
A strange light hit his green eyes before he smiled.
Good.
Grief.
Goatees weren’t typically my thing, but something about that gleaming smile made me love the fact he had a goatee. It was like one enhanced the other, a simply magnificent combination on him.
His smooth voice interrupted my deliberations. “Is it ’cause it’s pink?”
“What?” I whispered.
“You were always determined to be one of the boys, so are you refusing a free helmet because it’s pink?”
My eyes narrowed. “Not because it’s pink, but because I don’t know who the hell wore it last. I’m not down with a case of lice anytime soon. Or ever, really. And shaving my head won’t do me any favors. Know what I mean?”
His brows furrowed while he closed his eyes as though it hurt for him to listen to me speak. He focused on me with big eyes. “No. Only half of what you just said made any sense, but I don’t care. You need to wear the fuckin’ helmet so you don’t get a goddamn ticket, Combes. My guess is that you haven’t updated your license and a Mississippi cop will love hauling your ass in for not carrying a current ID and failure to wear a helmet.”
He was right.
I took the helmet from him with a resigned smile. “Got any Lysol?”
His expression soured. “’Nic’s ex-wife didn’t have fuckin’ lice, Steph. Get over yourself.”
My apology died on my lips when the door across the hall opened and another biker stepped into the hall. He might have been Hispanic, or mixed-race based on his skin-tone. His brown eyes looked through me even as he eyed me up and down.
“Who’s she?” he asked.
I saw the name patch on his cut read ‘Roman.’ Part of me wanted to answer his question, so he’d look at me instead of through me, but Har’s reaction to his question surprised me.
He angled his head toward the man and used an excessively stern tone. “Who she is doesn’t matter to you or any other damn brother. Got it?”
Roman’s eyes widened as his head reared back. “My bad, Prez. Just curious.”
Har made a grunting noise at the man. Then he turned to me. “Get inside the room. Lock the fuckin’ door and do all of us a favor, get the fuck outta here while we’re in church.”
TURNS OUT, I SHOULD’VE insisted on the Lysol. Whoever Cynic’s ex-wife was, she used a ton of cheap hair spray because it was the only thing I could smell while wearing that helmet. Compliments of the odor, I returned to my efficiency with a mild headache forming.
For once, I didn’t have to work this afternoon or tonight. A Sunday off was so rare for me, I wanted to spend it lounging the day away, but it was not to be. I gathered my dirty clothes because my uniform from last night reeked of cigarette smoke. That was ultimately what made working the poker room better than working the floor. No smoking in the poker room meant I rarely came home smelling like an ashtray.
I left the laundry basket by the door and went to the bathroom to fetch my detergent and quarters. As I walked back out, I eyed the ceiling. The outline of the stain hadn’t grown, but it seemed darker. I made a mental note to call the office about it, but on a Sunday they weren’t very responsive. No sooner had the bottle of detergent hit the top of my laundry than an ominous knock sounded from my door.
My instinct said it wasn’t Brute on the other side of the door, and checking the peephole, I was right.
Har stood outside with a blank expression on his face.
Once the chain and deadbolt were undone, I opened the door but tried to block his view into my space.
I tried, but I failed.
Har took one look at me and the door, before he moved toward me while shoving the door wide open. He stood so close to me, I could smell his sandalwood cologne. Quickly, he shut the door, locked it, and scanned my place. His blank expression became disgusted within seconds.
“Jesus. Sam wasn’t yanking my chain.”
Since I always called him Sammy, it took a moment before I realized he was talking about Brute. My spine straightened. “It isn’t a hovel.”
His head turned while his lips twisted to the side, his goatee proving more fabulous since it framed his lips so well. “You’re right. Not a hovel... because it’s a slum.”
My fists went to my hips as I said, “You are wrong—”
But the weird groaning noise from overhead cut me off, just before the ceiling dropped onto the edge of my futon.
My alarm had to be written on my face, but Har’s face showed acceptance, which only added outrage to my alarm.
In a blink, I noticed his expression shifted from acceptance to something which looked like curiosity. He warred with himself before his hand shot to my neck, holding me in place, and he kissed me.
I found myself in sensory overload between his whisker-framed lips on mine, that insanely warm hand at my neck, and his insistent tongue probing into my mouth.
If I had learned anything in my life, it was to strike when opportunity knocked and something told me I wouldn’t have the chance to kiss him again, so I kissed him back.
Eagerly.
He tasted of toothpaste and something yeasty. Possibly beer, but just as easily bread. Whatever it was, I knew it was my new favorite flavor – bar none.
My fingers slid just into his hair before he reared back, halting their progress.
“Shit,” he groaned in such a way that I doubted he was as thrilled with our kiss as I was.
I dropped my hands and opened my eyes to see him focused on my futon.
His head shook, and he let me go to examine the hole in the ceiling.
He skirted the futon and the debris, all with his gaze cast upward and the occasional head shake.
When he stopped moving, his eyes met mine. “Yeah. Whatever’s worse than a ‘slum,’ that’s what this is, Steph.”
I clenched my teeth, but he wasn’t paying attention to me. He focused on my futon and the floor. He shoved the futon out of the way of the dripping water, only to find three pairs of my shoes beneath the futon. In a flash, he stooped over, grabbed the boxes with the shoes and set them aside.
My mind fixated on the futon as I wondered how soaked it was and whether it would dry out enough for me to sleep on it.
“What are you staring at, Steph?”
His question snapped me out of it. “Nothing. I just wondered how wet the futon is.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re not sleepin’ on it tonight...”
He trailed off but stalked into the kitchenette area.
Har
HAR DIDN’T KNOW WHY he went over to the area resembling a kitchen, he just knew he had to distance himself from Stephanie.
She couldn’t stay here, and it infuriated him that she wondered how wet the damn bed was. If she thought staying here was an option, she needed her head examined.
He didn’t want her at the clubhouse. Even if he put her in his room, it wouldn’t keep his brothers from wondering what the hell was going on. As it was, when they’d gathered for church, Massive and Wreck had both asked if she was Brute’s woman.
“According to Har, who she is doesn’t matter to any of us,” Roman had muttered, and Har wanted to rip his head off.
Calling church to session allowed him to cover, but that interest meant Stephie back at the clubhouse was a no-go.
That left his home. Or Brute’s apartment.
It should be easy for him to take Stephie to Brute’s. They used to live together after all. But he didn’t like that idea either.
“Um, Har,” she called.
He turned around. The skin around her lips was rosy from their kiss. He liked that. Shit.
“Yeah, Steph. Listen, you—”
“Why did you kiss me?”
Damn.
That was refreshing, even as it was annoying. Other women didn’t come right out and ask shit. They’d wheedle and beat around the bush. Not Stephanie, though.
The worst thing was that he didn’t know the answer to that question either. He wished that he did.
“Felt like it,” he muttered.
It wasn’t a lie. He’d wanted to do it since he sat across from her Friday night. However, his answer wasn’t the whole truth, either. His curiosity had gotten the better of him, and his dick wanted him to assuage his curiosity about other things, too.
“You felt like it.” she repeated, with a questioning tone.
“Pack a bag,” he ordered.
“Yeah, no.”
Her face held no hint of what she was thinking.
“Are you crazy? You’re not staying here. There are probably black mold spores in that debris.”
She arched a brow. “Yeah. So, I’m not packing a bag. I’m calling a moving company and packing up all my crap.”
“And where are you going?”
She blinked, and her eyes slid to the side.
He didn’t want her at his place, but he had four bedrooms and three bathrooms. She could live there and he wouldn’t know the difference. As much time as he spent at his shop, and her schedule at a casino, he’d never run into her. Probably.
“You’re comin’ to my place.”
“What?” she asked, her tone sounded like he’d said she was moving to Mars.
“You heard me. Start gettin’ your shit together. Don’t think Brute’s up to much; he’ll help get you moved.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to stay with you. I’m not some charity case.”
“Didn’t say you were. I got more than enough space. You won’t even know I’m around.”
Her lips twisted as she mulled it over.
He continued. “Hell, with our schedules we won’t see each other much any damn way.”
Her brows arched, and she started slowly nodding. “Fine. But it’s temporary.”
“Whatever. Let’s get it done.”
Chapter 5
Pink's Your Color
Stephanie
WITH A STACK OF MY clothes draped over his arm, Brute gave me a stern look. “You gotta get your head on straight, girl.”
That would be true, if he were talki
ng about Har kissing me, but he wasn’t. He didn’t know about that and he never would. Since he wasn’t talking about my tongue tangling with his best friend’s, he must have been referring to my living arrangements.
“Whatever, Brute. It’s not like I can inspect the roof when selecting the roof over my head, you know?”
He leaned toward me. “Yeah. You can. You should’ve noticed that stain mark the day you toured the place.”
I pressed my lips together. “When I settled here, I didn’t tour the place. The price was right, crime didn’t seem that prevalent, so I took it.”
Brute closed his eyes and shook his head. “You didn’t tour the place. Typical. Let’s go. Staying with Har’ll be like moving into the fuckin’ Taj Majal compared to this.”
“Can we stop beating a dead horse already?” I followed him down the stairs.
“This’ll be the last time we’re ever here. Sure.”
I shoved my jewelry box and other valuable items into one of the saddlebags on my Harley.
As I straightened, Har walked to me. “My place is across the Back Bay. It’s about twenty minutes from here. You can ride beside me or follow Brute.”
I didn’t ride with other people very often, but turning him down would be rude. “I’ll ride next to you.”
His expression stayed stoic as he lifted his chin, then he turned around but four steps away he looked over his shoulder at me. “Don’t forget to wear your helmet. I bet pink’s your color.”
With the offending helmet in place, I got on my bike and started her up.
As he drove by in his truck, Brute honked his horn as the window slid down. “Love the helmet, Stephie!”
I shot a fake smile at him. Even over the rumble of my bike, I heard him howl with laughter.
Har rode right behind him, and I motored around to come up on his right side.
My bike was loud normally, but riding alongside Har, things were really loud. I found myself grateful for that since it kept me from thinking any further about that damn kiss. He ‘felt like’ kissing me. I supposed that was typical of him. He had never let anything hold him back from what he wanted to do, so why would kissing me be any different?
