Ride Dirty

by Laura Kaye

  Those. Fucking. Cookies.

  Caine didn’t have to ask why Dare was making a federal case out of them. First, because Haven made them, and the sun rose and set in her eyes for Dare. Second, because Haven had specifically asked Caine to do something for her, and no way was Dare going to allow that favor to go undone—even if it’d been a total set-up.

  Right Caine? popped up on his cell.

  “Aw, sonofabitch,” Caine bit out under his breath as he let himself into his place.

  On a sigh, he resolved to do what he had to do. Tonight, he replied. He’d take the fucking cookies and be done with the whole thing. Once and for all.

  Good man, Dare messaged.

  Caine rolled his eyes. Fuck you, he messaged back.

  LOL asshole was Dare’s only reply.

  He made straight for his bedroom and shed his clothes and the Under Armour base layers that were a necessity for winter bike-riding onto the low futon bed. It was the only piece of furniture in the room, not counting the row of milk crates that held what clothing he owned. Extreme poverty as a child had made him a saver and a minimalist as an adult. For years now, he rarely spent money on anything unless he absolutely needed it. Not to mention that he was half convinced that, somehow, the bottom would fall out of his life again just like it had when he was a kid. And when that happened, at least the money he’d socked away from what the club paid him to run security for its protective services, not to mention his cut of the Ravens’ off-the-books activities, would be there to catch him.

  In the bathroom, he set the shower to scalding and got in while it was still warming up. He made quick work of washing his hair, which was short but still much longer than usual. Normally, he kept it shaved close to better mask the fact that a section at the base of his skull no longer grew right, but he’d slacked off the past month or so and hadn’t gotten around to doing it.

  When he was done with his hair, he took longer washing his body. He stretched to reach the rough, twisted skin of his back and right shoulder. He scoured his hands, his fingernails, his feet, his armpits, his dick. And then he did it all again. Harder. Caine wanted the grease gone from working on his bike the night before. He wanted the sweat gone from helping out at the track all day. He wanted every bit of the sheer fucking worthlessness gone that had built up around him from a lifetime of cruel words and despicable acts.

  If he was going to show up at Emma Kerry’s house, he wanted all of it gone.

  That feeling was almost certainly why, once he was dried off and dressed again, he didn’t bother trying to eat, not even a shake. As a kid, he’d done everything he could to avoid giving the monsters who’d run his foster home the satisfaction of seeing him cry or beg or yearn. Including for food. By the age of twelve, he’d already worn hunger like a badge of honor. Now, his system handled stress by shutting down any appetite he might’ve still possessed. Shutting it down hard. Which was one of the reasons he didn’t often join his brothers in meals at the clubhouse. That was better than being asked questions about why he wasn’t eating.

  By the time he was knocking on Emma’s door, he was all kinds of on edge. Which was just fucking perfect.

  The heavy click of the new deadbolt sounded. The door swung open. And then there she was.

  Blue eyes going wide, a slow smile brightening her face, and so fucking pretty in a soft pink sweater and a pair of form-fitting jeans that showed off the sweet, feminine curves of her hips. Sitting in the crook of Emma’s arm, Chewy’s furry tail wagged in a steady beat. “Caine.” Her voice was full of pleasant surprise. “Hi. Uh, come in.”

  Why did he suddenly feel like a teenager? Bumbling through talking to a girl for the first time. “Oh, uh, no. I just—”

  Beeping rang out from somewhere inside. “Come in, come in. Sorry, that’s the timer on the oven.” She turned away from the door and made for the kitchen.

  For a moment Caine stared at the empty spot where she’d just stood, and then he heaved a breath and stepped inside. Where it smelled amazing. Like garlic and baked cheese. His stomach squeezed, hunger rearing its ugly head.

  Little noises reached him from the kitchen—a dish against the counter, the oven door closing, Emma talking to the dog as its nails clicked on the floor. But Caine hung in the living room, close to the door. While he waited, his gaze landed on the Christmas tree and a photo ornament shaped like a snowflake. He leaned in. It was a much-younger Emma with an older woman. The family resemblance was plain to see.

  “Hey, sorry,” Emma said, rushing back into the room.

  Caine reared back from the tree and found Emma watching him. He held out the box. “For you,” he blurted.

  A little smile grew on her face. “What’s this?”

  “A gift. From Haven,” he rushed to add. “’Cause you said you liked them.”

  Emma lifted the lid. Her grin was like the sun shining after a storm. Bright and restoring. “I can’t believe she did this. But I’m really glad she did. And you, too.”

  “I was just the delivery guy.” He stuffed his hands in his jeans pocket. “And now that I’ve delivered them—”

  “Stay for dinner.”

  Caine blinked. “What?”

  Her cheeks turned the same soft pink as her sweater. It was stunning. Not just because she was so pretty…

  Asking him to dinner had made her blush. For a long moment, all he could do was stare. He considered himself better than average at reading people, and that little uncontrollable, physical display of emotion seemed to reveal that she felt like she was laying herself bare.

  Over him.

  The realization hit him right in the chest, and he had absolutely no idea what to make of it. He was used to people coming at him with wariness or revulsion. And he’d finally come to trust the loyalty his brothers gave him. Hell, even naked animal desire came his way from time to time.

  But this sweet vulnerability? Her apparent belief that someone like him wouldn’t want someone like her? That was new territory for him. In every regard.

  How could he not want the sweetness she was offering? But how could he open himself up to wanting it?

  She licked her lips and met his gaze head on, letting him see her sincerity in a way he found so damn brave. “We never got to have that sandwich the other night. And I made a whole pan of lasagna. Stay.”

  * * * *

  He wasn’t going to stay. Emma could see it in those pale eyes, in the way his lean body was already angled toward her foyer, in how rigidly he held himself.

  The longer he went without answering, the more an awkward tension filled the space between them. Until Emma was nearly dying of embarrassment and wishing the floor would swallow her up. She’d been so excited that he’d come back that she’d made all kinds of assumptions that apparently weren’t true. And as she thought back over the minutes since he’d arrived, she realized he’d only come in because she’d needed to get the lasagna out of the oven before the top got too brown.

  And then she’d put him on the spot. A spot he clearly didn’t know how to get out of.

  She shook her head. “Never mind. It’s okay—”

  “No,” he said, his brow cranking down over that rugged face. “I’ll…I’ll stay.”

  Emma studied the white box in her hands, her belly doing a weird twisty thing. She didn’t want him to stay because he felt cornered into it, so she gave him the out. “You don’t have to, Caine. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. But thank you for delivering the cookies.”

  “Fuck,” he bit out under his breath.

  Her gaze snapped to meet his, which roiled with emotion she couldn’t name and didn’t understand. The connection made her pulse race and her skin heat. Or maybe that was because the man was so freaking sexy. His intensity. His harsh face paired with those strange eyes and full lips. His raw masculinity with all its hard angles and rough edges.

  “It’s just… I’m not very…” He shook his head, and Emma could’ve groaned for want of knowing what he was t
rying to say. “I want to stay. If it’s still okay.”

  A tendril of hopefulness curled into her chest. “Of course it’s okay. I wouldn’t have invited you if I didn’t want you. To stay, I mean. For dinner.” Oh my God, stop talking, Em!

  He nodded, a hint of what she thought might be humor playing around his mouth. “Dinner sounds good.” He pushed the black knit cap off his head, and then smoothed his hand over the sexy mess the hat had made of his short hair.

  “Good. Great.” She smiled and took a deep breath. Clearly a week of fantasizing about this man had fried her brain, if the spectacular stream of gibberish falling out of her mouth was any indication. “Then let’s eat.”

  Emma led him into the kitchen and wondered why she was so much more nervous around him tonight. Part of it was because the dynamic between them had changed. That first night, he’d been her protector and given her a sense of safety. Now, he’d become her secret tormentor and made her feel entirely vulnerable. It made no matter that he hadn’t intended those things. It didn’t make them any less true.

  He’d saved her. He’d intrigued her. He’d left her wanting more.

  “Smells fucking amazing,” he said as they stepped into her kitchen. The compliment relaxed her and made her grin, but before she could respond, he blurted, “Shit, sorry for the language. Force of habit.”

  She smirked. “I’m a teacher, Caine. Not a nun. My ears aren’t sensitive.” She gathered plates, silverware, and napkins. It was maybe silly how much pleasure she got out of preparing to set a table for two, but since her grandmother had died, she hadn’t entertained here much. Instead, friends tended to invite her to hang out with them. Just like Alison had for Christmas dinner. “Someone willing to risk themselves to protect another person, rather than just being a bystander, can say whatever they want as far as I’m concerned.”

  “You’re a kindergarten teacher,” he said, his eyes tracking her every movement.

  Hands full, she moved toward the table and then laid out the place settings. “And?” she said with a little laugh. “What does that mean?”

  His gaze narrowed. “Kindergarten teachers are like…paragons of innocence and sweetness.”

  Emma waited for the punch line, humor bubbling up inside her. And then she started chuckling. “Oh, man, would my friend Catalin get a kick out of that.” She shook her head, laughter still bubbling up inside her. “When she gets worked up over something, she swears like a sailor. That’s just a reputation because our job entails being cheerful and patient, and having a willingness to not take yourself too seriously, and playing with glitter and fuzzy pom-poms alongside teaching letters and numbers and social skills. Grab us some orange soda?”

  He nodded, then waved a hand at what covered her fridge door. “This is what I mean. You influence the minds of the littlest kids and they adore you for it. Look.” He bent down to read one of the pictures. “Case in point. This one says ‘Miss Kerry, best teacher ever’.”

  Actually, it said best teesher ever, which was even cuter. “But none of that means I’m Mary Freaking Poppins,” she said, amused, even as she wondered why it was important to him that she might be innocent and sweet. Which, given how many times she’d masturbated to imagining being with him, she didn’t really think she was… He turned with two bottles in hand, his expression entirely confused. “Mary Poppins. The magical, always cheery and perfect British nanny?”

  “That’s not really…my speed,” he managed.

  “Well, you get the point.” Grinning, Emma brought the Italian bread to the table, then scooped big squares of lasagna onto their plates. “I’m just a normal girl trying to feed a boy some homemade lasagna.”

  Plates in hand, she turned—and nearly walked right into Caine.

  “Oh, geez, sorry. I almost dumped this all over you. See? Definitely not perfect.”

  He stepped to her right to let her past, but she went to that side, too. Then they repeated the little dance on the left. She chuckled. He smirked. And then, suddenly, that smirk smoldered and flashed hot. His gaze dropped to her mouth and lingered there a while.

  Time slowed as her heart tripped into a sprint. A shiver raced down her spine. Her nipples hardened. It was entirely possible that she was misreading what her body seemed to be feeling, except his eyes were now blazing. She licked her lips, hungry for just…one…taste…

  All at once, he shook his head, his brow furrowing. He took one of the plates from her hand. “I got it.”

  “Sure. Thanks,” she managed, wondering if he heard the breathy desire in her voice. Because for a moment there she’d been sure he was going to kiss her. And, damnit, she was disappointed he hadn’t.

  They settled at her little kitchen table, and Chewy danced around for a moment until Emma signaled for him to lay down. On a resigned grunt, he curled into a ball under the table near her feet.

  Emma was just about to dig into the mound of sauce and cheese and noodles on her plate when his words stopped her short.

  “I’m not a normal boy, though.” Focusing on his plate, he sliced the fork into his food and took a big bite.

  “What?”

  That icy gaze latched onto hers. “You said you were a normal girl. I’m not… That’s not me. Normal. I’m not the guy you invite to dinner. Or take home to meet family.”

  His words rattled around in her thoughts while she dug into her food, and they ate in silence for a long moment. Why didn’t he think he was normal or worthy of being invited in and acknowledged? A little ache set off in her chest, just left of center, because she’d had students who expressed similar sentiments, and a troubled home life was, without exception, behind whatever had given them such negative thoughts about themselves.

  Making that connection, she finally began to understand what all his comments tonight were adding up to—an argument about why they wouldn’t and couldn’t work. Which both tied her belly up in knots, because he didn’t think they could work, but also unleashed a strange sensation of tingling lightness in her chest, because he was thinking about the idea of a them at all. “Well, I don’t have any family for you to meet, so you’re safe there.”

  He swallowed another bite of lasagna and nailed her with a stare. “How do you mean?”

  She gave a little shrug. “Never knew my father. My mother died when I was nine. And my grandmother who raised me died three years ago. It’s just me. Well, me and Chewy.” It made her a little sad to lay it out that way, but she wasn’t sad or unhappy. She was generally satisfied with her life. She had a good job she loved. Friends who cared about her. An awesome dog. Plenty of the things she needed.

  Caine’s brow cranked down. Not like he was displeased, but almost like he was confused. He took another big bite, which was when Emma realized that he’d nearly finished his piece of lasagna while she hadn’t eaten quite half of hers.

  “How about you?” she asked, wondering what was going on in that mind of his. Caine was definitely not someone she’d ever describe as talkative, but she got the impression that there was a thoughtful, complicated mind behind the scowls and silences.

  “Ravens are my only family.”

  Maybe it was the tension suddenly in his shoulders or the way he’d slowed down from eating, but he strongly radiated that this topic wasn’t open for discussion. Which no doubt meant there was plenty to discuss, and that it wasn’t particularly good. “I met Dare and Jagger.”

  “I heard,” he said.

  She chuckled, even though she wasn’t sure his tone was approving. “And Haven, too. They seemed nice.”

  He smirked. “Nice, huh?”

  “Are they not nice?” She arched an eyebrow, happy to pull the conversation from whatever had made him so serious to banter around something lighter.

  He chuffed out a little laugh. “Haven is nice. Obviously. Jagger…” Caine nodded. “He’s one of the best of all of us. And Dare, he’s a total hard ass, but when the chips are down, I’d absolutely want him at my side.” He cleaned his plate, even goi
ng so far as to scoop every little drop of sauce off.

  She held out her hand. “Let me get you seconds.”

  His gaze lifted to hers, and then he shook his head. “It’s okay.”

  “I enjoy seeing you enjoy what I made,” she said. She hadn’t intended there to be innuendo in what she said, but she heard it nonetheless. And so, it seemed, did he.

  He tilted his head and licked his lips, and it made her belly go on a loop-the-loop. Emma was endlessly fascinated with this man’s mouth. The softness of those full lips. The way they could press into a harsh line that communicated so much. The words that fell from it—sometimes too blunt, sometimes mysterious, sometimes sarcastic and even a little funny. And then, sometimes, so sweet it stole her breath. She wouldn’t mind becoming a lot more acquainted with his mouth. There was no doubt about it.

  “Maybe I could have a little more,” he said. His voice was low, rough.

  She took his plate and rose, and she felt the weight of his gaze on her almost like it was a physical caress. At the stove, she cut a piece as big as the first. As fast as he’d demolished his first helping, it was clear he was hungry. And she remembered how loud his stomach had growled that first night before they’d been interrupted. She was only too happy to feed him.

  Ten minutes later, satisfaction rolled through her when he’d cleaned his plate for the second time. “Dessert?” she asked with a grin.

  He rubbed a hand over his stomach. “I shouldn’t.”

  “That’s not a no. Before you decide, maybe you should know that I don’t just have cookies.” Grinning, she went to the freezer and pulled out two boxes, then turned and held them up for him. “I also have the mac daddy of ice cream treats—classic Nutty Buddy Sundae Cones and Chocolate Overload Nutty Buddy Super Scoops Sundae Cones.”

  “The mac daddy, huh?” It was the closest thing she’d ever seen to a full, real smile on Caine’s face, and it made him freaking gorgeous. His eyes crinkled, and he had the hint of a dimple just on one side.