by V. Theia
Independence beckoned.
Zara was both scared and fucking scared.
She had conditions, though.
"Fine, okay. I will take your kind if not steamroll’ed offer, Rider. But only until I can sort out my finances and find my own place that’s just mine. And I’m damn well-paying rent, I won’t live here if you expect me not to give you a cent, that’s just crazy. I’m not being a kept woman.”
He’d bought her clothes. Gave her food and a roof over her head already, now wanted to hand her his house. Dammit, was he going for sainthood?
Saint Outlaw.
Tick. Silence. Tick. She watched his jaw grow tighter. All flex and muscle. He moved her way again, his posture to anyone else would seem casual and relaxed but Zara clocked the rigidness of his fingers as they clenched against his hips. She could swear she heard Rider curse beneath his breath but he kept himself in check. And when she rose her eyebrow at him for some reaction, a word, or to acknowledge that they had a deal his eyes had gone flat, cold, his lips drawn together in a thin line.
“Thank fuck we got that sorted. I’ll get one of the boys to come by with groceries, the pantry is pretty stocked, you just need the fresh shit.”
“You don’t have to--”
“They’ll bring the shit, Icy. It needs restocking anyway.” When his phone rang again he answered angrily. “What the fuck is it? ... Who did they send? … fucks sake, he alone? … unlikely. Keep him there, Hawk, I’m on my way. Do me a favor, tell Pretty-boy to get his ass to my house ... yeah, there now … Zara's movin' in ... just do it.” he hung up. “I gotta shoot off, baby. Out of towners come to see me, should be fun.” His sarcastic tone said the opposite. “Pretty is swinging by, he’s on-route, he’s gonna sit outside, you won’t know he’s there unless you need him, look around, see if it’s to your likin’,” Zara could hear the ‘Princess’ he wasn’t pasting on the end of that sentence.
Her nose wrinkled. She liked the house fine, just not the delivery shoved down her throat. Men. Biker men. “You like it, it’s yours.”
“Rider. It’s really not necessary to-----” he’d strode to the door not giving her hardly a chance to speak, god that man, she wanted to kick him! With his dark jeans and long sleeved shirt, the thick boots, and the thumb ring, his hair caught back in his trademark bun he looked like one of those models that had turned to the dark side. The visual alone made her scowl and her mouth water. She’d still punch him, handsome or not.
Three hard strides he redirected himself back towering over Zara, cupping her face he crushed her mouth possessively like he owned it before she could utter a word, his tongue got busy sneaking and stroking and right as she got into kissing him, moaning, he pulled back, brushed his thumb against her wet lips.
“If you like it, it’s yours, Zara. We don’t need to go head shrink about a place to flop at. I don’t want you to leave the clubhouse, but I see you’re determined to, and really, baby, I’m pleased you’re gettin’ strong again, that’s my girl. So, use the house. I’ll be back later to take you to the club to pack.”
As that, the roar of an engine’s pipes were heard outside. “That’ll be Pretty-Boy.” Zara missed his touch when his hands dropped, a blue-eyed wink later he left her still rooted to the same spot, her heart a little frantic after that kiss and still a little pissed that he’d walked all over her without a proper-fucking-talk.
“He is infuriating and bossy.” she huffed finally coming unglued. What could she say really, other than she needed a place and here was a place. It just felt wrong to lean on Rider as much as she was.
It was only as she recognized she was alone in a strange dark house that her insides roiled, anxiety rearing its ugly head.
Zara wasn't proud of her dark phobia, it pissed her off even as she sought to ignore it gnawing at the back of her head, that monster demanding her attention. Little shithead. Having spent more time than her gut wanted to relive in the dark, in small cramped stinking places because the Raging Rebels thought it was hilarious to hear her beg to be let out of whatever cubbyhole they could find, the phobia lived and breathed within her.
In. Out. In. Out. She took in air like a starving person hating every single second of fear.
Surprisingly it was a tall lamp parked in the far-right corner that dragged Zara's mind from the past into the now, she belatedly looked at the set-up. Rooted to the floor in the middle of Rider’s living room, the two twin lamps throwing shadows, she couldn’t see out of the windows, the dark was swallowing up any light left in the sky and the same panic crawled up her legs reaching deep inside where she was most fearful, where those memories lingered in a place inside her logic couldn't reach.
She wanted Rider.
Mentally shaking herself, she forced her feet to move, switching on the main light, moving into the hallway she flipped that switch up, on into the kitchen, the dining nook with its own breakfast bar and stools.
It was deep determined psychosis that as all lights turned on the fear lessened a little, until she was on the top floor, the house blazing with every bulb.
Only then did Zara exhale, feeling the heavy thump of her heart recede to a normal beat. She could do this. Sitting on the edge of a bed, her modus operandi were usually to find the negative aspect of something first because usually, it was shit creek with no paddle in sight, it made sense to her, so she was surprised to find once the mild panic attack at being alone had subsided she felt an itching of curiosity to look around where she’d live, she wanted to poke her nose into cabinets and closets, to check how big the bathroom was and please god let it have a large tub. She’d once been a Lush addict; she could very well see it becoming a thing again if only Rider’s house had a tub so sink chin deep into. Time to get acquainted with her new home. More than curious to see where Rider lived.
With the white walls and plain comforter and not a scatter cushion in sight. What kind of heathen was I sleeping with? she discerned she must be in Rider’s bedroom. It wasn’t much for a designer to get their underwear excited over, like his room at the club it was understated, bikers weren’t about frills and cute decor, it was all functionality.
But it was clean. The wrought iron bed was covered in white sheets and a thick comforter that reached down to the floor, it had six plump pillows, but otherwise it was a plain bed sat on top of a terracotta colored rug and a bedside table sans lamps on each side. Then there was a five-drawer old antique dresser, next to a smaller set of drawers. Next to that was a door. Curious, her nose twitched, she rose to check it out, finding a small closet with a few shirts and T-shirts hung inside on a silver rail, along with a row of the same color denim jeans. Rider wasn’t into fashion going by that pitiful display. The man needed a major much-needed shopping trip in the men’s department of Saks.
Touching his stuff, rubbing one of his shirts between her fingers, she moved on.
The double bay window with a padded blue bench seat underneath it was gorgeous. She tested it out and decided it would be nice to curl up there to sink into some sloppy romance book. She hadn’t read anything in a long time. She was so far behind her reading she wondered how many J.R. Ward books had been released in the last three years. Sigh. She put it on her mental to-do list.
Back in the living room a few minutes later. Warm butter cast the loveliest light around, it was a nice house, no feminine touches anywhere. She’d soon fix that.
The large functional chocolate brown sectional couch was too without cushions of any kind, with some TLC, she decided silently, her eyes roving over all the potential, and maybe with a roaring fire in the fireplace, it would be even cozier, her mind wound around ideas of just that envisioning a few trips to Pier One and Pottery Barn. The tv was large, she didn’t think men could buy small tv’s, it just wasn’t in their DNA, larger the better. Like dicks. She snickered. It hung midway up the center wall above a long black media center with three rows of drawers in front. She had a peek inside and saw a collection of action DVDs and three remote con
trols. Very neat. Very Rider. All his stuff was hidden out of sight. How Martha Stewart of the big bad biker man, she grinned.
Speaking of he who must be obeyed. Now Zara wasn't feeling so pissy towards him she wanted to speak to him. She had no way of contacting him she registered and felt the swell of panic. What if he stayed to his word and didn’t come back? No, he wouldn’t do that. Taking brisk steps into the hallway, Zara pulled open the door and almost tripped over Pretty Boy in her haste.
The taller guy no older than she was glanced over startled propped against the porch, arms crossed and a toothpick in his mouth, the light from inside flung a shadow around his blonde hair and height. She saw his brow roll up his forehead.
“Hi. I need your cell phone, Pretty---I can’t keep calling you Pretty boy, I feel silly, what’s your real name?”
“Uhm. It’s Mace, ma’am.”
“Mace. Good. Gimme your phone real quick, please. Actually, you’d find it faster, pull up Rider’s number for me. Quickly, Mace.” She rushed him when he only stared at her before shoving his hand into his leather jacket with the Souls emblem on the back to retrieve the phone, a few swipes and a button press he passed her his Samsung.
Yes! it was ringing. And ringing. And ringing. And then.
“There better not be a problem, PB, I told you to fuckin’ watch Zara as close as you do your own dick."
"It's me. And ew. Thanks for that imagine, Rider." She couldn't help laughing.
He chuckled on the other end. "What's up, baby? my house not to your likin' after all, not enough chandeliers and butlers?" caution laced his tone.
"I love it, actually. We'll talk about rent, though." A snicker from Pretty-boy had her angled to ask with her eyes what was so funny.
"Zara." He warned. "I'm about to have a meet with the fuckin' Russians, now isn't the time to press me about money, not takin' rent from you now or ever, got it."
Zara wanted to ask what Russians and was he going to be safe and what Russians? She bit her tongue. The MC president would know what he was doing and from what she knew of the outlaws who skirted a fine line to the law it was not going to be a peace treaty.
"Rider."
"Icy. I mean it. Now what you callin' for?" Zara could feel her eyebrows inching into her hair. Oh, that man … she'd keep talk of money until the caveman was stood in front of her.
All the better to punch him.
"I was going to invite you back for dinner, but with that attitude, I don't think I want to."
Pretty-boy openly snickered showing her his teeth.
"I like that, baby. I'll bring pizza, then we'll come back for your clothes."
His voice always warmed her from the inside and she found herself smiling when she handed Pretty-boy his phone back.
She had a pizza date with her boyfriend/landlord.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“It’s lucky you don’t want me for my garlic bread baking skills, Rider. It looks like coal.” - Zara.
It began to snow that night and didn't stop for three days. On any other given point in time Zara would have revelled in the beauty of those fat flakes. But it so happened she was kept very busy under a lusty bad biker man for most the time so missed most of the seasonal weather that passed through Armado Springs.
She didn't mind a bit, not even when her inner thighs protested from overuse. That same bad biker man had appetites she was working to sate. She didn't mind that, either.
It was Thursday again. Zara felt raw inside. Seriously emotionally drained.
She wanted to sleep and forget everything for a few days.
Thursdays and Mondays were now her therapy days when she was driven into town to sit on a couch and pour her heart out to a middle-aged woman who was very nice but gave Zara the heebies with the informed way she looked at her, as if she could see all her dirt before she'd even tipped it out onto her professional floor.
It was too early to tell if it was helping you're taking productive steps, baby. Rider had told her and he was right, one step at a time, one therapy sessions at a time she was slowly getting better, oh, please god she hoped she was.
She didn’t want to be perfect, who was. But functional, not afraid of her own shadow, and if she could cope with her memories…
She inhaled the cold air climbing down from Capone’s Jeep, waved her thanks as he drove off. He’d been her chaperone today; Rider had gone on a ride with his brothers. A ride meant he was up to something illegal he didn’t give her details to, just told her he’d see her tonight. As long as he came back safe she didn’t need or want to know what he was up to. Furthermore, he had a maniac like Hawk coasting at his back, who better to protect the president. In that respect, she trusted Hawk more than ever.
To be entangled with an outlaw you accept all of them, not just the good and the right. It had only taken a few weeks for Zara to know she'd take those MC boys over the majority of the populace.
And the Renegade Souls did do a lot of beneficial work for the community, some of the stories had her brows rising with surprise. When she’d asked Rider about it, he’d shrugged and said: You take care of your own first, baby. It was hopeless to stop herself from falling for him when his capacity for caring went deep.
That bad outlaw had a great heart.
Of all people to walk back into her life, it had been Rider. Fate delivering her savior in the body of a six-foot badass who didn’t tolerate shit from anyone. Kind of perfect, she thought. Even if he was the juxtaposition of a white Knight. Zara preferred him in leather anyway.
Zara was smiling when she let herself into the little house. And today she didn’t instinctively turn on every light. That was progress, or so Cathy, her therapist, would say.
Little steps.
It had been session three today, the moment Zara had wished to avoid. Not because of shame, or disgust, but because Cathy wanted to delve into the only good and clean part of her life, it felt too private, something Zara wanted wholly for herself. She’d spewed everything about her capture, keeping it simple so Cathy wouldn’t inform the law, she thought Zara had been in an abusive relationship with Hades. Vomit.
But all that was marginally tolerable to share than what Cathy wanted from her.
She'd spoken candidly, as though she was recounting events from a script, distance from her own horrors, after all, she’d lived it for years, every bruise and mental torture she could report, a play in act III… and then the sweet middle-aged lady had smiled and taken a swerve in the conversation asking about her situation now, her new relationship and Zara felt her fingers tingle, her breath went shallow.
She hadn’t wanted to discuss Rider. What has you hesitant about that? Cathy had asked.
Zara had blown ten minutes of her session thinking on that question. Why after everything was Rider her hard limit? It seemed stupid. He was her one good thing.
Realization didn’t always have an invite when it came to the party, it didn’t even bring a bottle of wine, but boy, did it make itself known at the buffet table. In a short time, too short, some would undoubtedly accuse if asked for their opinion, Rider had become the eye of her storm, that anchor to grab hold of and bring her back to life.
Sue her if she was protective of that, not willing to share intimate details with anyone else the genuine moments she had with him, even with sweet Cathy who smelled like soothing lavender and wore glasses on a chain around her neck.
If she was lucky and she desperately needed a piece of that back in her life he was the man she wanted to walk beside for a very long time, if she began to talk about their relationship, to define it, to label it for what it was she was going to jinx it, she knew it.
And with that awareness knocking on her psyche Zara had left her counseling session in somewhat of a daze, barely giving Capone two words.
She was all about Rider and building something real, something true with him. Getting beyond the point of danger and high intensity, she wanted normal and forgiving, to build days and weeks with tha
t man that didn't involve anything to do with the past three years.
Don't jinx it.
Zara was anxious of most everything these days, but losing what she had with Rider sent cold shivers down her spine.
He’d given her the confidence tools, one day at a time, without her grasping that was what he was doing, almost as if putting a relationship in place for the day she knew what she desired.
God. that man. Really. No wonder she was walking around with a smile while she dumped her coat on a hallway stool and began pulling out the fixings for dinner.
She’d make him spaghetti and meatballs for when he got home, they’d talk about their days just like a regular normal couple would and when they went to bed and he’d inevitably pull Zara across the mattress to smash her body into his as close as he could get her, she’d take the initiative this time, and make love to him.
Maybe she had been pulled and stretched like misshapen steel for such a long time that the Zara of old no longer existed. Stood at her biker man’s side she was the all new and improved Zara, a Zara she herself was still getting to know. However, she was now, Rider accepted her, wanted her, so it was wrong of her to try to deny them this if they could have a slice of happiness together.
People keep trying until they get it right. The rinse and repeat of life. She was no exception, not if she wanted to be happy. She needed sooooo badly for this with Rider to be her right.
It was an ache. A secret desire deep in the pit of her belly.
The down and dirty right. Okay, she wanted that, too.
Scary? Very. Uncharted waters and with a formidable guy. Zara sensed it was always going to be Rider, no matter what, no matter when, they’d simply lost their way to each other for a time, now their paths had merged again and scared or not, and she was plenty scared, she was damn well holding onto this.
While her mind was busy, chopping onions, mixing a sauce in the large pan, she thought about it some more, maybe her next session with Cathy she’d open up and tell her how she met Rider.
