by Zahra Girard
And it’s all come crashing down.
I’m grateful to Riot for saving my life, even if my current circumstances carry scary shades of my past life.
This is my attempt to show him how thankful I am. To connect him with his past.
In some ways, it seems so strange to me. All I’ve wanted to do is run from my past. To escape the fear behind me and start fresh.
In other ways, I envy him. He has a past to be proud of. He’s surrounded by family and friends, his days have the kind of solidity and love that inspire jealousy in me.
I hope that, someday, I have the same.
And, while I spend my day working with those photos, doing my damnedest and wracking my brain to figure out just how to restore them, I hope he realizes just how grateful I am.
Before I know it, it’s dark out and my stomach is growling at me like a rabid dog.
I take a look at the clock on my laptop.
It’s late. Real late.
But at least I’m done.
I find a photo printing site online and I send them the pictures and I order several prints and nice frames and pick the speediest delivery I can, even though the delivery fee makes me cringe and feel poor. With as late as it is, it’s still going to be a couple days before the pictures get here, but I want them as fast as possible, because I know this war between the Rebel Riders MC and the 45th Street Kings is just around the corner and, hopefully, I’ll be back at my old life soon.
My old life.
And I don’t know how I feel about that. At turns, I’m eager and excited — I want to sit at my desk at my boring job that I spent so long hunting for, I want the satisfaction of knowing that I’m earning my own pay and I’m going home to my own apartment and I don’t have to feel afraid anymore — and, at other times, I feel regret. Riot is a rare kind of man, and I wish I had the strength to fight my fears and give him a chance, but there is so much about his MC life that resurrects the ghosts of my own past. Being with him and his club makes me feel at times loved and accepted, at others, mortally afraid.
“You look exhausted. What the hell have you been up to this whole time?” Riot’s voice snaps my focus away from my laptop.
He’s standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the door frame. Dressed in his cut, some jeans, and a t-shirt that clings to his muscular chest, he looks so good heat grows between my legs.
“Nothing,” I say, closing my laptop so he can’t see the surprise I’ve ordered him. “Just work.”
“Why don’t you come with me? Take a break,” he says, smiling that cocky grin of his, the one that makes the light in his eyes shine and brings out the dimples in his cheeks.
“Where to?”
“It’s a surprise,” he says, then, seeing the doubt that must be in my eyes, he adds, “It doesn’t have anything to do with the MC.”
“Can we get something to eat first?”
“We’ll grab a bite on the way,” he says. His smile grows wider as he senses me waver and those dimples in his cheeks melt my resistance.
“Do I need to bring anything?” I say.
“Just yourself. Come on. I think you’re really going to like this.”
I follow him downstairs and hop on his bike behind him, donning the helmet he hands me and holding on tight, my arms wrapped around his sculpted waist, my breasts resting against his rock-hard back. He’s like one gentle, powerful slab of muscle. And all he wants is to make me comfortable and happy.
I wish with all my heart that things were different between us.
I wish that Riot was the one I had met all those years ago, that my first experience with the MC life was with him and the Rebel Riders.
Those regrets race through my heart as I hold on behind him.
We ride for hours, north along the coast. It’s a beautiful night, there are no other lights around except for the stars and the moon in the sky and the entire firmament is illuminated with a million pinpoints of delicate starlight. It’s one of those sights that stirs you to consider your place in the world, how small and infinitesimal your life is in the grand scheme of the world, and yet, how lucky you are to have it.
We make only one stop a short way outside of Crescent Falls to grab a burger at a roadside diner called ‘Al’s’. I eat quicker than I normally do because the further we drive, the more excited Riot gets and the more eager I feel to see what it is he has in store for me.
And we keep going north, winding our way through the night alongside the ocean. For the longest time it feels like it’s just him and me, everything else falls away — all of my worries, my fears — and I’m left with this feeling of peace and contentment.
God, I want to hold on to that.
If I could leave it all behind — the fear, my past, the violence in Redwood City, all of it — and spend the rest of my life with just him, I would. This moment of hanging on to him, cruising through black night beneath a starry sky is my definition of heaven.
Then the roads become familiar, and buildings start to pop up around us that I recognize. There’s my regular coffee shop, my grocery store, the one gas station I go to all the time because it’s like five cents cheaper than anywhere else even though it’s way out of my normal way.
And then we get to my duplex apartment.
He stops in my driveway and gets off the bike, offering me a burly arm to lean on as I dismount the bike.
“What are we doing here?” I say, looking up at him.
“We’re going inside,” he says. “Come on.”
I hesitate.
“What’s wrong?” He says.
There’s so much emotion wrapped up in this spot. I used to feel safe here, this was my home, the first place I could truly call my own and the first place where I could wake up and not feel afraid. But that feeling was shattered days ago when someone broke my door down and tried to murder me.
“You’re safe with me, Red,” Riot says, coming close, his voice low and husky. “No matter what happens, I’m never going to let anyone hurt you.”
He is so solid, so real. I lean into him, losing myself for the moment in how he feels, how he smells — whiskey and smoke and a subtle, spicy cologne — and in the memory of how he tastes, how he sounds when our bodies are entwined in bed.
“Why did you bring me here, Riot?”
“I know there are a lot of things in your past that you’re afraid of. And I know you were proud of having this place of your own. Hell, you were proud enough of it to threaten to kick my ass out when I first met you. No one deserves to have that taken from them. So, we’re here to fix that. We’re going to take it back.”
He takes me by the hand and leads me forward, around the corner to the side-alley entrance to my bottom-floor duplex. My eyes widen as I catch sight of my absentee landlord, Mr. Lee. He’s standing in the doorway, toolbox in hand, intently at work on fixing my door.
“Did you call my landlord?” I say to Riot in surprise. Then, I lean in, and add quieter: “How the hell did you manage to even get ahold of him? It took me a week to get him around to fix the broken water heater.”
“Your boyfriend did more than just call me,” Mr. Lee says. “He had the police call me, too. And both your boyfriend and the cop that called me threatened some unpleasant stuff unless I got out here right away to fix this door.”
“Honestly, you should’ve been on that shit right away,” Riot says. “What kind of a landlord are you?”
“I put up some plywood and nailed it shut,” Mr. Lee says, whining. “That should’ve been good enough. You didn’t have to threaten me. And you didn’t have to have the cops threaten me, either.”
“It shouldn’t take fucking death threats to get you to fix a fucking door.”
I’m feeling buoyant just seeing my landlord doing some actual work for once that I decide to seize the moment. “Hey, Mr. Lee, since you’re here, how about a rent reduction? You know, considering I almost died in your property and you left my place secured by only a sheet of plywood f
or a few days and that it took multiple threats to get you to do your job? Oh, and, you know, for just dealing with you being a generally negligent landlord?”
He glares at me.
“Granted,” Riot says.
“I didn’t agree to that,” Mr. Lee snaps.
“You will if you value your kneecaps,” Riot retorts.
Mr. Lee shuts his eyes for a second and his voice comes out like he’s in excruciating pain. “Fine. I’ll take fifty dollars off.”
I smile. That’s just under ten percent of my rent. On my pay, that’s not insignificant.
“Agreed.”
Mr. Lee grimaces and then hands me a set of keys. “Just like I was instructed to do, I fixed your door. I also reinforced the door frame and installed a deadbolt. It will take a battering ram to get into your home, now,” then he looks to Riot, “Can I go?”
Riot looks to me. “Satisfied?”
Honestly, I feel like I should ask for a further rent reduction because, with Riot here, I’d probably get it. But I decide not to push my luck too far. “Yes. Thank you.”
Mr. Lee leaves in a Rush and Riot looks at me expectantly. “Go on, go inside.”
The way he says it has me suspicious, but I’m still thrilled at getting my rent reduced and actually seeing my landlord do some work, that I head inside. I unlock the door using my new set of keys and step inside to my home.
It feels fantastic just being back, like a weight that I didn’t even know was there has lifted off my shoulders.
Inside, it’s clean. Spotlessly clean. The room smells like lemon-scented freshness, and every metal surface that isn’t so corroded that it’s unable to sparkle, actually sparkles. Even the wood of the cabinets looks like it’s been polished. And the dirty dishes that were in my sink when I left have been washed and put away.
I do a slow circle through my living room and kitchen.
Am I even in the same apartment?
When I come back to the front, Riot’s standing there, burly arms crossed, dimpled grin on his face.
I stare at him for a moment. In awe, mostly. And appreciating how fucking handsome he looks right now.
What a man.
“How in the name of fucking everything did you do this?”
I feel my cheeks hurt and, after a second, realize it’s because I’m smiling like a doofus.
He laughs. A heavy, belly-shaking laugh.
“Do you really want to know?”
“Yes. Because my place has never looked like this and I want to know what to do in case I need to clean it up again.”
“Well,” he starts, looking incredibly satisfied with himself. “First I had Micro — he’s our tech guy — look up who your landlord was. Then I called him. He told me he’d fix up your place, but I didn’t like his attitude or trust him to do this urgently. So I may have said a few things. Then I called our guy on Redwood City PD and had him give your landlord a call, too. Between the two of us, he got the message. Then I called a cleaning service. They were easier to convince to get over here.”
I look over it all again. It’s perfect. Everything in its place and, aside from the extra lock on the door and the reinforced door frame, it’s like the attack in my home never happened. Hell, my home looks nicer now than it did before.
“Why did you do all this?”
“Because I give a damn about you,” he says, his voice ripped through with sincerity. “And I don’t want anyone I care about to ever feel unsafe. You matter, Red. No matter what happens, you mean something to me.”
“What do we do now?”
“Tonight we’re going to do whatever you want. If that’s just getting drunk and watching movies, I can give you that. If you’d rather just talk, I think I can manage that, too. If you want to go for a walk, I’m open. All you need to know is that tonight you are perfectly safe. No one’s going to bother you, no one’s coming after you.”
“We can do anything I want?”
“We can. I only have one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“I want to see your sexy smile at least once more tonight.”
I gape, and then I grin. “Deal.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Riot
The first thing we do is leave her apartment. It’s a bit of a surprise, considering all the damn work that I put into getting her place fixed up, but I made her a promise and that smile on her face makes it worth it.
Fuck, I’m such a sucker for this redhead.
And it ain’t so bad. She looks happy and this could be one of our last nights together, so there isn’t any harm in indulging her tonight.
We hop back on my bike and ride to her favorite bar, The Bluestone Room. It’s not a bad joint, it’s got a nice atmosphere, looks like it’s the right kind of run-down, and there’s a band on the stage that’s playing some seriously rowdy punk music. Even this late at night, the place is jumping and I can barely hear myself speak as I order Red and I a round of beers from the bartender.
“You know, this isn’t what I really had in mind,” I say when she and I sit down at a table together. “I thought we’d be at your place.”
“I don’t want to be here long. Just long enough to have a drink and enjoy the fact that I don’t have to look over my shoulder.”
“Fair enough.”
The waitress brings over our beers and Emma takes a long, enthusiastic drink from hers. Her eyes light up and her smile grows as she gulps it down.
When she sets her glass down, she gives me a long, considering look.
“In case I get drunk and forget, or just get caught up in everything, I’m going to tell you this now: I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me. When I first met you, I didn’t show you anything close to the kindness and decency you’ve shown me,” she says. ” Thank you.”
“It’s nothing, Emma,” I say, using her real name instead of the nickname I’ve given her. I want her to know I’m serious. “I don’t know who or what’s in your past, but I can tell you that as far as I’m concerned, and the rest of my family goes — both real and MC — we are treating you the way we’d treat anyone else who’s a good person.” I pause for a second and, noticing the amused twist to her lips, I add, “Okay, you might be getting a little something extra on account of you being fucking gorgeous.”
“Little is hardly the word I’d use to describe it,” she says, winking at me over the rim of her glass. Then she finishes the rest of her beer in a long drink. “How about another?”
“Tonight’s your night, Red,” I answer. “If you just want to spend it drinking, you know I’m down for that.”
“I just want one more beer. Maybe two. It just feels so good to come back to this place and to be able to enjoy it, you know? Without having to worry about keeping my eyes open for someone wanting to kill me.”
We order another round and sit together, just chatting about life. We don’t talk about club business, we don’t talk about what’s going to happen tomorrow, we hardly talk about the future at all. We talk about ordinary stuff, about her job, about why she likes this bar even though we both admit that the band playing here tonight — and every night, she tells me — is so untalented it’s almost impressive; It takes skill to get that much uncoordinated noise out of instruments.
To her, this is just a regular night out.
It’s just what she needed.
And I get the pleasure of being there, of seeing the worry melt away, of seeing a delighted grin light up her pretty face, and watching as her emerald eyes sparkle with delight.
Fucking hell, she’s beyond beautiful.
It makes my chest puff up with pride knowing I’m able to give her this night that’s by all descriptions ordinary, but, to her, is extraordinary.
We end up having more than just a couple beers and staying for more than just a little while.
The bartender shouts out for last call and we close the place down. We’re the last two to leave, and we do it arm in arm. She is smili
ng the whole fucking time, face lit up from ear to ear, and it is the most beautiful sight I have seen in my life; her eyes are two delighted emeralds shining out from the wild curls of her fiery-red hair.
Together, we get up on my bike and I take her home.
Together, we walk into her place.
I no longer see any of the fear that’s haunted her eyes for as long as I’ve known her. She’s light, she’s beautiful, she’s free.
As the door shuts behind us, she turns and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
“Sit with me, Riot,” she says softly.
Together, we take our places on her worn sofa.
She takes one of my hands in hers and looks into my eyes.
I’m frozen by how earnest and beautiful she looks.
“Thank you for everything you’ve done for me tonight. I needed this more than you know,” she says. “And I think I’m ready.”
“Ready?” I say.
“To tell you the truth. To tell you what I’m running from.”
“Red, I have no expectations. If you’d be more comfortable —”
“Riot, I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this comfortable. And it’s because of you,” she says. “Let me tell you my truth.”
I nod.
“I used to be someone’s old lady,” she begins, and it’s a struggle to keep the surprise off my face, but I hold steady and give her my full, undivided attention even though those words alone hit me like a punch to the gut. “He was good to me at first, and I was young and naive and stupid and I didn’t see any of the warning signs that slowly started to show themselves the closer that we got. Day by day, little by little, the mask he wore peeled away. I excused too much and, by the time he started doing things that were inexcusable, I already felt like I was too deep. Like I was trapped. I let him isolate me from anyone outside the club,” she pauses and takes a slow breath. “There’s a lot he did to me that makes me feel ashamed to even think about. He hurt me, he violated me, and I will carry the scars on the inside of me for the rest of my life.”
“Emma, if it hurts too much…” I start to say, and I make a conscious effort to keep my voice calm even though I’m boiling inside at the thought of someone hurting her. There are rules in this life, people have their place and their roles, but in the end, it’s a family. And what she is describing to me is a perversion of everything I believe in. You can claim a woman, make her your old lady, but you’ve got to honor her in return. If she’s good enough that you want to claim her forever, make her yours, you damn well have to show it to her.
