by Cathryn Cade
"Old ladies? That's not a very...um, respectful term."
He grinned. "It is though, really. An old lady is a brother's woman. She gets treated with respect, and takes no shit off anyone. They're the ones who run the clubhouse, and keep the brothers in line, honestly. Although you tell any of the brothers I said that, I'll deny it."
"Hmm. I like the sound of that," she mused. "I could do a good job of managing you, I think."
But instead of snorting, as she'd expected him to, he was silent. She lifted her head. "Wait. I don't mean—I wasn't asking you to...oh, shit, never mind. I'mma go brush my teeth."
But when she made to roll off the bed, he caught her, and pulled her on top of him. "Hold on," he said. "Tita, we've only known each other a few weeks, and who knows where we go from here, or how long we last. But I gotta say, you wanna stick around and try managing me, I'm not opposed."
"Oh," she breathed. "Seriously?"
"Yeah. You, uh...interested?"
She nodded. "If you think we can, you know, make it work." Her heart was pounding so hard he had to feel it. And perhaps he did, as he pulled her closer.
"I think you and me can do just about anything, tita."
"But, uh, do you think your brothers will like me too? I mean, you're so close. What if they—"
"It's gonna be fine, tita," he cut in. His deep voice was solid as hardened lava, his gaze warm. "I'll be right with you the whole time. You got nothing to worry about. These guys may be a little rough, but I'm a Flyer too, and you're with me. They'll respect that."
"I'm with you," she repeated. She stroked his chest, his skin silky smooth under her fingers. "On a kind of trial basis though."
Because honestly, they'd spent half their time together not trusting each other. And yes, the sex was molten hot, but that wasn't enough to cement a relationship. The divorce rate proved that. And the breakup rate for people who weren't married was even higher.
His eyes hooded, and his big hands slid down to cup her ass, hot through the thin jeans.
"Listen, tita. Got some things to say. First, I'm sorry I distrusted you at Nawea. I wanna make sure you understand that I know here—"he tapped his chest over his heart—"that I was wrong. I disrespected you. I hurt you, and I shouldn't have done that. Should've known better than to think you'd steal from my friends. I should've paid more attention."
"But since then," he went on, "I've been paying attention. And everything I learn about you, I like."
"Oh," she breathed. That was sweet. His words sent cracks shivering through the barrier she'd locked in place around her heart.
A smile crept into his eyes, and his thumb swept up and then down, sending a thrill of pleasure through her. "You gonna forgive me?"
She bit her lip, but really, she knew the answer. "Yes. Because I get it—I do, Moke. Kleptomania is...well, it does make me a thief. There's no getting around that. But I will keep working to battle it. Because I want a life, and not one that includes an arrest record."
"You can do it, tita."
Happiness, and gratitude for his support was like a million bubbles flooding her, as if she could float away, and run along that moonpath on the sea. "Unless you're hiding any other huge crap from me," she teased. "Like you're already married and have five kids in Airway Heights."
His face split into that gorgeous, white-toothed smile, and he chuckled. "No, tita. That I can swear to."
"Then I forgive you, Moke Ahuelo. I've been watching you too, you know. And everything I've learned, I like. I'm sorry I called you a liar."
He beamed. "Eh, I get why you said that. I did keep quiet about being a biker, but only 'cause I knew it would scare you. And there's nothing else. Well...except I live in a duplex, with loud neighbors. Is that a deal-breaker?"
Her eyes opened wide, and her heart cracked open even more. "Is that a—a real invitation to come there with you?"
He pulled her close, his gaze falling to her mouth. "Oh, yeah. Betta believe. You gonna do it?"
"Maybe...I—probably. I want to. I just—."
"Hey, I know. You got shit to figure out, with school and everything else. I don't expect a life commitment yet. Maybe you won't like it there, maybe you'll wanna hightail it back to Seattle. Maybe you'll get tired of me...or of my cock."
She giggled quietly, her hand stroking up the thick column of his throat. His hair was tied back today, leaving his square, handsome face bared to her touch. And highlighting his beautiful cheekbones, and his eyes. "I doubt that,' she told him. "You're pretty good with it, for a big kanaka from da islands."
"So you gonna give it a try?"
"Okay," she said. "I'm game, if you are. I'll have to, uh, apply at Eastern Washington U, and see if I can switch programs and stuff."
"We'll figure it out." He kissed her. "Manda's gonna love you. And pretty sure the rest of the old ladies will too. 'Specially Lesa and Billie."
"You think?" she asked, uncertainty bubbling up. A big, tight group like his brothers and their women...what if they didn't like her? And if his Flyer brothers looked anything like him, their women were likely pretty hot too—way out of her league.
"Oh, yeah. Listen, they're just...regular women. Manda's a sweetheart. She has a disability, can't do math for shit, so she kept getting fired. Ask her about twenty-odd gallons of hot pink paint sometime. Now she works for us as our receptionist, and as a barista. Lesa's a waitress like you, helps Pete run his brewpub, The Hangar. And Billie's her little sister. Oh, and Jack's woman runs a cafe too."
"Oh," she said. "I thought maybe they were all gorgeous strippers or something."
He laughed. "Not hardly. And some of 'em are hot, but tita...so are you. You walk in the clubhouse, you're gonna put them all to shame."
"You are full of it," she told him. "But you know what? I can't wait to meet them."
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Saying goodbye to Vicky was hard on Shelle, Moke could see.
When he rolled into the parking lot of the condo in Kona, Shelle and Vicky stood waiting outside the condo, arms around each other.
Both had tear-stained faces, and determined smiles. Vicky wore one of her usual caftans, but Shelle wore tight jeans, a little white tee layered over a green tank, and flip-flops. Her hair was loose, inviting him to run his hands through the tumbled curls and then pull her in close for a kiss.
Moke climbed out and came over to grab Shelle's backpack for her.
"You'll be okay," her foster mom was saying, her voice thick with incipient tears. "You will. Now you go and do what you need to. And call me—we'll be waiting to hear."
"Okay," Shelle promised. She let go of her foster mom, and Moke moved to hug Vicky. "I'll take care of her for you," he said.
She smiled up at him. "I know you will. And let her take care of you too. She needs that."
This news landed in Moke's chest with a warm glow. That was one he hadn't thought of. Maybe his tita did feel the same urge he did, to watch over his well-being, make sure he had what he needed.
They climbed in the truck, waved goodbye a last time, and rolled away, along the street, through Kona town, and up to the highway leading west to the airport.
Moke laid his hand on Shelle's and gave it a squeeze. "Hard to say goodbye," he commented quietly.
She drew a shaky breath and nodded. "Yeah. Who knows when I'll get back here. And you too."
"We'll make it happen. Maybe in February, yeah? The airlines do fare deals every couple of months." And he wasn't about to let another ten years go by before he got back here. It might not be his future home, but it was where he came from. Where his roots had grown strong in the volcanic soil.
She nodded, forcing a smile. "Did your friends make it back yet?"
"Yeah, got back this afternoon." He shook his head wryly. "Place got noisy real fast. Tired babies crying, cranky parents...I said my mahalos and got out of there. And hard to leave the island? Eh...not really. Me and T-Bear got a whole lot going on with JJ's, so I'm looking forward to g
etting to it."
"I'll bet. Did you ever get hold of that Realtor?"
"Yeah." And he really didn't want to talk about that right now, not even with her. "Hey, good news. You ever fly first class?"
"Uh, this is the second time I've been on a jet, so no. Why?"
"You'll see." He smiled to himself. First class was another treat he was looking forward to sharing with her, like snorkeling, paddle boarding, and watching the moon rise over the Hawaiian seas.
The Seattle Flyers' clubhouse was more of a compound. In the industrial section of Seattle, not too far from the docks, it looked like an old warehouse. Built of brick, with a metal roof and lots of build-ons, it was surrounded by a heavy-duty wire fence. A Devil's Flyer insignia hung on the right side, inside the fence where it couldn't be ripped down.
As he had since they left the SeaTac airport, Moke kept his eyes moving constantly, scanning the rear-view mirrors of his rental truck—this one silver—along with the side-streets and the road that led past the compound.
Until he drove her in through that gate, he wouldn't relax. If Albany had anyone watching the incoming flights, or worse, hacking into the airlines' websites, he'd have people waiting, and the devil alone knew where they might lurk.
He knew Sound had given his word to have men on them the minute they drove out of the airport car rental area. If he did, they were good—Moke hadn't spotted them.
Shelle leaned forward now, peering out the windshield. "Is that razor wire on top of that fence?"
"Looks like it," Moke said. "Lot of crime down here. Just keeping the riff-raff out." And any contraband well-guarded that the chapter might happen to be passing on.
He slowed to a stop in front of the wide gates, which were manned by two young guys who looked like prospects. They were both packing.
One strode to the truck and looked in at Moke and then Shelle.
"You Moke?"
"Moke Ahuelo, Eastern Washington chapter. Here to meet with Sound." He didn't introduce Shelle, and after that first look the kid ignored her, as was polite. A prospect did not eyeball a brother's woman.
"All right." The kid stepped back. "Park on the left side of the building. Open the gate," he called, and the other prospect pulled a lever.
The gates slid open, and they drove through. Moke drove around the corner of the main building and parked the truck beside a red Charger and a line of bikes.
Then he looked to Shelle. "You ready, tita?"
She looked at him, tried to smile, and then her eyes widened in horror as she stared past his shoulder. She clutched his arm so tightly her nails dug through his shirt. "No. And do not open your door!"
Every part of him alert for a threat to her, fury firing a half-instant behind, and ready to take down whatever bastard dared to threaten his woman, Moke jerked around.
He blew out a hard breath of relief. "Just a dog," he muttered.
"Just a dog!" she said in a thin voice. "It's—it's the hound of the Baskervilles! Look at those teeth."
True, it was a very big dog. A Doberman, standing with its forepaws on the edge of his window. It's gaze was fastened on him, and yeah, he could see its sharp, shiny teeth, because the fucker was growling at him through the glass.
"Thank God you rolled your window up," Shelle breathed.
"Yeah," he agreed. "Good thing. These Seattle brothers got the whole intimidation thing down pat.”
He'd have to suggest Stick give his black German Shepherd the run of the Airway Heights compound. Except the dog liked Stick's woman Sara better than anyone else, so he'd probably just run across the field to her side anyway.
"I'll say they do," Shelle agreed. She hadn't taken her wide eyes off the dog.
Moke reached over to pat her thigh. "Relax, tita. We just have to sit tight, wait for our escort. And hope the damn dog doesn't scratch the paint on this truck." That would fuck with the insurance, for certain.
A deep bark sounded, as another dog followed the first. At least the second one stayed on the ground.
A door opened in the side of the brick building. "Metal! Heavy!" called a voice. A stocky African-American Flyer with a fro stood in the doorway. The dogs ran to him, and he beckoned to Moke.
"They're names are Heavy and Metal?" Shelle whispered, wrinkling her nose.
"Sounds like it. Sit tight," Moke said. He got out and walked around to open Shelle's door. He put his arm around her shoulders, and stayed between her and the dogs as they walked to the door.
The Flyer nodded to them. "Come on in," he said. "I'm Wheels. Sound's waitin' for you."
Inside, the clubhouse was a whole lot like every other clubhouse Moke had been in—a big, rowdy bar that smelled of beer, liquor, cigarettes and weed, and stale perfume.
Being a weekend, it was fairly full of Flyers and women. The brothers all wore their cuts, and some of the women wore a feminine version, with "Property of ' and their man's name on the back.
Moke instantly pictured Shelle in one of those, and nothing else, his name on her back while she gave him that sexy look of hers.
A big screen TV was playing a baseball game in one corner and over the bar. Loud music pumped from speakers somewhere. A drunk chick in her undies was dancing by herself on a little stage in another corner.
A lot of the brothers and their women watched as Moke and Shelle followed Wheels across the room to a table occupied by only three men.
Moke recognized one—Sound Whitaker, Seattle-area chapter president. Lean and silver haired, he had eyes as cold as the waters of the Seattle Sound he was nick-named after. He sat back in his chair, smoking a cigar, a bottle and glass of whiskey before him. He wore his cut over a crisp, white dress shirt, and one heavy silver ring on each hand. One bore a big chunk of diamond in the center.
"They're here," announced Wheels. "Moke Ahoolya, meet Sound Whitaker, our pres. This is Spark Neely, club veep and Coug Carson, sgt-at-arms."
Moke nodded to the three men, and turned his gaze to Sound, waiting.
The man raised a brow, the suspicion of a twinkle in his eyes. "Wheels just murderize your last name?"
"Yeah," Moke said. "It's Ahuelo. Hawaiian."
Wheels shrugged. Sound nodded. "Thanks for coming, Moke. And for bringing the woman."
He turned his gaze to Shelle, and a slow smirk grew on his lips.
Moke breathed out, working to keep himself from tensing with anger at that look. Only because he did not want to scare Shelle, more than she already was. But this man, club pres or not, better not disrespect her, or he'd learn the limits of his power with a pissed off Hawaiian in the house.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
The scary, scarred biker king—or whatever he was—looked Shelle over and smirked. "So," he drawled. "You the one who likes to shoot pepper spray around like other bitches use hair spray?"
Shelle's stomach clenched, and she felt her coffee attempt to surge back up her throat. He was not the kind of man whose attention she wanted. And was that laughter around them at her?
Well, too late now to do anything but brazen it out. She stared right back at the club leader. He, and all the other men in the room, wore black leather vests like Moke's. None of them looked as hot as her big Hawaiian did in his, though.
"Yep," she said, cocking her hip and setting a fist on it. "That's me. I love that shit. Way easier to operate than those taser thingies. Plus, it's multi-purpose. It makes my hair feel so good, and it works even better on bikers who want to cut me and drag me out of my apartment."
The room was dead silent.
So silent, Shelle could hear her heart thumping, and the whisper of cloth on leather as Moke moved closer behind her. He put a hand on her hip and gave her his body as a support. Which she needed, 'cause her legs were shaking nearly too hard to hold her up. Although he seemed to be quivering too.
Had she really just smarted off to the leader of a dangerous biker gang—oops, club? Although, the atmosphere in this room at the moment felt pretty gang-like to her.
Fine, she didn't like them either.
"'Those taser thingies?'" one of the club officers repeated, his brows up. Several people snickered.
As their president merely took another draw on his cigar, Shelle pressed back against Moke, wishing she could morph right through him and end up at his back, where she could hide from all of them.
His grip on her waist tightened, and his deep voice broke the silence. "Okay. Shelle's here to do the cops a favor. You gonna let her get to it?"
Sound's eyes narrowed, and Shelle tensed even further. Shit, was Moke going to get in trouble for sticking up for her?
But then, to her amazement, the leader's face crinkled in a slow smile—a crooked, scary one, because of the knife scar, but a smile—and then he laughed. "Hell, yeah. Although I gotta say, woman—you ever move back to Seattle, give us some warning, yeah? We'll see to it no one leaves any pepper spray layin' around the clubhouse."
Someone snickered, and then the rough, scary men in the room, and their women all cracked up, laughing raucously. Her ears rang with the decibel level, and her face went fiery hot. Moke gave her a squeeze, and she leaned into him.
No reply required, obvs. That was good. She wasn't sure she could talk anymore. Her throat was dry as dust.
"She's good to go," Sound said to Moke, ignoring her again. "How 'bout we give her an escort to the cop shop, and you take your turn at what you came here to do."
It was not, Shelle noted, a question. Or not one that could be refused. And Moke had business to take care of, that meant it was her turn to step up for him. Let him get on with that.
She looked up at him, and nodded, managing a tiny smile to show him she was okay with the plan.
He gave her a searching look, and then lifted his chin. His arm tightened on her waist. "Okay. I want four brothers on her, all armed, two in the vehicle, two on bikes."
Sound nodded. "Done. Wheels? You're up. Choose your backup."
