by Anne Malcom
Abruptly, Hansen’s mouth disengaged from mine, his eyes hardening as he seemed to catch himself. He stared at me a long moment, fury replacing the hot desire that had been there moments before. He stepped back quickly, causing me to lose my purchase on his delightful body.
I also lost the ability to speak as his angry stare silenced me. His eyes quickly ran over my body then he turned on his heel and left.
Without a word.
Man just kissed the living shit out of me and left?
What. The. Fuck.
I sat on the counter shocked, still half deafened by the music in my ears.
“Did that really happen?” I asked the empty room.
The room, of course, had no answer.
Over the next week, Hansen avoided me like I had some kind of flesh eating virus. Every time I entered the clubhouse, his eyes turned dark and his face turned tight, it seemed he did everything in his power to make sure I didn’t come within five feet of him.
That hurt.
No, that killed.
I didn’t think I was a bad kisser. Apparently so. I’d let myself hope that that kiss meant he finally saw me and recognized the attraction. That, and the fact that I’d been pining after him since the moment he arrived from the Nevada chapter. Just waiting for him to notice me, hoping that he’d see beyond the label I’d stuck myself with, and maybe consider me as something more. That hope went down in flames with the burn of cold indifference.
It didn’t help the guys had seemed to decide to treat me like some kind of leper also. They joked with me, were easily affectionate, like always, but nothing over G rated. No one got frisky, no one yanked me off into their rooms, no one even suggested it. It confused me. Hurt me. Was I getting phased out? Were they sick of me? Was my adopted family abandoning me?
“You got the clap or something?” a throaty voice asked from beside me.
I moved my eyes from the perusal of my beer bottle to Scarlett, who had seated herself behind me on the sofa. Her blonde hair was piled atop her head, her face slathered with expertly applied, yet completely over the top makeup. It wasn’t bitchy, the expression on that made up face was merely curious.
“Excuse me?” I asked, confused.
“The clap? Herpes, warts? Something to make the boys put you in quarantine for?” she clarified.
I jerked back. I was religious about protection. I knew my sexual habits weren’t what mainstream society deemed as appropriate for a woman, I didn’t give a shit. I certainly wasn’t going to feed the stereotype that club girls were somehow dirty.
“No, of course not,” I exclaimed hotly.
She shrugged her shoulders, leaning back on the sofa. “Well, something’s got them…” she nodded at a couple of the men who were sitting at the bar, “…making sure Kim and I are kept busy the past week. Not that I’m complaining, but whatever that something is, seems to have gotten you on the no screw list,” she observed with a raised brow. I expected there to be some kind of bitchy satisfaction at this, but there was only curiosity and if I wasn’t imagining it, concern.
I bit my lip. My stomach swirled at the thought of losing this. The only place where I felt I belonged. Then something struck me. A week. A week exactly since Hansen had kissed me senseless in the kitchen. A week since I’d developed a third eye or some other disfigurement only visible to bikers.
I stood, my worry turning to anger quickly.
“Thanks, I owe you one,” I told Scarlett.
She looked at me like I was slightly crazy, but most people did that around here, thanks to the fact my mouth always seemed to outrun my mind.
“Sure, no problem,” she replied as I turned my well-heeled toes toward the bar. The bar where Hansen was sitting with his back to me.
Charley watched me approach with wide eyes, his glance moving toward where my own were narrowed.
“Oh shit,” he muttered under his breath.
I ignored that and moved to stand beside Hansen getting right in his face.
“You and me need to have a chat, now,” I demanded sharply.
He didn’t look at me. “Got nothing to say to you,” his voice was cold.
I masked the pain at his tone, at his dismissal. “Isn’t that mighty convenient. You don’t have to say anything, considering I’m the one that’s gonna be speaking,” I snapped.
I didn’t wait for another no doubt biting response, I grabbed his muscled arm and yanked. I was under no illusions about my strength or lack of it. I was short, even in my wedged boots, and despite the fact I considered Cheetos, a food group, I weighed a lot less than Hansen.
Still, he let me drag him off and around the corner, out of sight of the peanut gallery. He jerked his arm out of my grasp when we’d moved into the deserted hallway.
He stepped forward, and without meaning to, I retreated so my back hit the wall.
“You don’t ever…” he spoke quietly, his body taut, “…speak to me like that in front of my brothers again.”
I shivered at that blankness that settled over his face. This wasn’t him. He might have silenced me with biting stares over the past week, but before that he was anything but cold. He didn’t sleep with any of the girls here, that didn’t mean he didn’t show them respect. He laughed easily with the men, and although he never laughed in my direction or at one of my jokes, it was still easy to see he didn’t take himself or his general badassness too seriously.
And he was a badass. Down to his hulking frame, one that towered over me with rippling muscles that had him looking like some kind of fitness model. His bald head accentuated his sharp and defined features, only enhancing his hotness. Which was weird, considering I always thought I’d liked men with shaggy hair—apparently not.
I didn’t let myself turn into a squeaking female at his tone. “How about you don’t go around kissing me, ignoring me, and then turning me into a leper. Then I won’t have to talk to you like that to get your attention, since all other attempts have been met with a badass biker ‘don’t mess with me stare,’” I snapped back.
I didn’t know where this anger was coming from. I wasn’t an angry person. Actively, I shied away from confrontation, didn’t need it in my life. Right now it seemed I was ready to spit tacks.
Hansen’s entire body stilled.
“You want to tell me what was so bad about my kissing skills for you to give me the cold shoulder for the past week? And then have every guy in here treat me like their little sister, instead of what I am?” I continued.
Shit. Did I just say kissing skills?
Hansen stared at me, searching my face. “What you are?” he repeated.
I observed the fact his features hardened exponentially as he uttered this.
“Yes. What I am. What I’ve been for the past two years,” I snapped.
He didn’t reply, his jaw tightening.
I made a decision. Whatever was going on here was not one sided. Even now, I felt the heat sizzle between us. If I wanted happiness, wanted him, I had to take it. Or at least, try. I stepped forward, clutching the sides of his cut lightly.
“I’m not the only one feeling this,” I murmured, my voice shaking. “I know you feel it too.”
Hansen seemed to consider my words for a moment, appearing like he was inspecting the attraction between us. Then he clutched my wrists and shoved them away roughly.
“I don’t,” he clipped coldly. “Kissing you was a mistake. One I won’t make again,” he promised, then didn’t waste any time in turning his back on me.
I sagged against the wall, trying not to admit my heart was in little pieces at that moment. That I hadn’t been humiliated and rejected by the man who I’d been crushing on for the better part of a year. I’d failed on that score.
I didn’t get much time to wallow in self-pity at Hansen’s cold rejection. Not when the boys from the Cali chapter thundered in with a wave of testosterone and proved that it was possible for a sexy glare to melt panties. They caused the club to go into full badass mo
de as the set about rescuing Brock’s—sexy surfer biker hybrid who changed my stance on thinking man buns were stupid—Old Lady from some guy who had kidnapped her. Yes, kidnapped her. I’d been with the club for a while, and we may have had some dramas, but we’d never had a kidnapping.
It was all hands on deck, and I was so busy helping out with shit I didn’t notice the fact the boys were yet to touch me, despite Hansen’s rejection. I was further distracted when a beautiful redhead with some seriously gnarly wounds was brought in. It was my task to hang out with her while she was bedridden and her old man did whatever club shit us females were not allowed to know about. Not that it was a chore. She was awesome, even battling blood loss and recovering from a kidnapping she was a freaking knockout.
It hurt my heart just a little to see how dedicated, how in love, Brock was with her. His eyes touched her when she wasn’t looking, and he looked at her like she was the only thing tethering him to this earth. His reason for breathing. Even Bull’s—a seriously scary biker who looked like he had the ability to kill someone with a biting glance—eyes seemed to soften when she smiled at him. She had the love of not only a man who adored her, but his brothers who respected and cared for her.
Her life, minus the life-threatening wounds and traumatic kidnapping, was what I wanted. That kind of dedication. That kind of love. I ignored the voice that told me I might not ever get it. The one that lectured me that my life choices, my place in the club, might rob me of that kind of respect. I pretended that voice didn’t exist. Instead, I did what I always did, I had hope. Positivity that something great was around the corner.
And, at that moment in the middle of the night, when I was creeping out after falling asleep watching movies with Jagger—no funny business, much to my chagrin—I didn’t expect to hit something that didn’t mean happiness only heartbreak.
“Fuck a duck!” I yelled in fright as I half collided with a hard body while I was turning the corner to head out of the clubhouse.
I scuttled back about five feet when I realized who the hard body belonged to. Felt the heat of attraction that came with the contact.
Hansen and I stared at each other in the dim light, me trying to get my breathing under control.
We stayed like that for a moment, before I found my legs and a shaky smile. I walked my way toward him, trying to act like I hadn’t almost climbed a wall to escape his heat. I had no choice, he was standing in front of the only exit. I’d only encountered him a couple of times since his harsh words, and I had vowed to put on a brave face and a smile next time I saw him.
“Where you going?” he barked.
He didn’t seem to make any motion that he was going to move out of my way. I didn’t want to get too close to him either. I felt like my body would betray just how much he affected me.
“Home,” I whispered, on reflex.
His brows furrowed. “At fuckin’ four am?” he clipped, anger in his tone.
“I wasn’t planning on falling asleep, but Jagger insisted on watching a movie with subtitles, I need some magic and elves or interdimensional travel to keep me awake,” I said slowly, trying to keep my tone light. “I’ve got projects I need to do. So I’m going home to brew a bucket of coffee and finish them,” I continued, praying he’d let me past so I didn’t have to struggle with his stare.
He didn’t stop staring at me. I didn’t miss the way his entire body hardened when I mentioned Jagger.
I loved this man. There wasn’t anything for it. Ever since I first laid eyes on him, something in me stirred. It was him. The man for me. It wasn’t just because he was hot. He was. His bald head showed off the fact he had a great shaped skull. A weird thing to notice, I know. It was smooth and accentuated his sharp bone structure and strong features. He wasn’t handsome. No, someone that masculine wasn’t described as handsome. Something radiated off him that screamed man. Something in addition to his tall frame and hulking muscles. Something about the way he held himself and the way he walked. In the end, it was his eyes that trapped me. They were piercing blue, so piercing I felt them penetrate my soul. All I could ever think about was those hard, beautiful, eyes softening for me. For me and me only. That rigid form relaxing in my arms.
Only recently, with his painful dismissal, had I realized that would never happen.
“You’re going home, in your neighborhood, at this fuckin’ time?” he half growled, shaking me out of my fantasy.
“You know where I live?” I said by answer.
He was right. My neighborhood wasn’t exactly Beverly Hills. Far from it. But, thanks to its less than stellar reputation, rent was cheap and I managed to get a decent sized house for less than a matchbox apartments in the ‘better’ parts of town. I wasn’t rolling in cash, but I wanted to make myself a home. Somewhere warm and welcoming. I’d grown up in an even rougher neighborhood and, in the two years I’d lived where I was, I’d been fine. That may have been because of my connection to the club. Even the stupidest criminals knew not to mess with the Sons of Templar. Even though I was only a club whore, I was their property, and no one damaged what belonged to the Sons unless they wanted their jaw wired shut.
I was surprised that Hansen knew where I lived. Even though I was secretly in love with him, he did not betray any interest in me or any of the girls. Well, until the kitchen episode.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, shaking his head.
My back reared up slightly. Maybe it was at the way he acted like the act of me going to the place where I lived made me an idiot. I was a lot of things—I knew that—but an idiot was not one of them.
“I’m fine,” I snapped. “I’ve rolled into my place hundreds of times, yet to be peppered with bullet holes or assaulted.” My sarcasm and irritation shocked even me. I wasn’t a grumpy person. Regardless of what shit was swirling in my life, I was happy. I didn’t take shit from people, but I also didn’t feed into shit. The girls around here said something nasty, I usually let it roll off my back. Life’s too short to hold onto venom and let it settle. He seemed to bring it out in me.
Hansen’s face turned to granite. “Do not…” he ground out, “…joke about shit like that.” His voice was so full of ice I tried not to flinch.
“You gonna let me past?” I said finally, breaking our stare off.
He stepped forward, his hand going to gently touch my hair. I froze, barely being able to breathe at the gentle touch that contrasted the hard words he had uttered moments before.
“Your hair suits you,” he murmured, staring at the spiky strands.
I didn’t say anything, just in case I’d strayed into a parallel universe where the Hansen I knew was replaced with someone who actually liked me. Wanted me. I didn’t want to upset the fragile balance.
The spell shattered when he sighed and stepped aside. I walked by him, trying not to inhale his musky scent, trying to ignore the tingles of having his body so close.
He surprised me by following me out to the parking lot, silently. I couldn’t see him but I could feel him. I moved to face him when he mounted his bike, just as I made it to my car. Incidentally, it was parked right next to it.
“What are you doing?” I asked as he sat himself down.
He stared at me. “Making sure you get home all right,” he replied tightly.
My eyes popped out. “You don’t have to—”
“Get in the car, Mace,” he interrupted.
“But seriously,” I tried again.
“In the fuckin’ car, babe,” he ordered.
I stared at him for a moment. My eyes softened of their own accord. I let myself buy into the fantasy, just for a moment. The fantasy in which the reason for these confusing actions was because he cared for me felt an iota of what I felt for him. That I was his, not just some club property that he was ensuring didn’t get tainted. I let the warmness of that fantasy fill me up.
“Okay, honey,” I said almost without realizing it. My tone had betrayed something, I knew because his framed jolted slightly
and something moved in his features.
My face reddened and I quickly hopped in my car, not needing rejection or indifference to freeze the warmth in my belly.
The headlights followed me all the way home. And then, when I got out of my shitty Corolla and walked into my reasonably nice house in my shitty neighborhood, he sat on his bike and I didn’t hear him leave until I was safely inside.
I tried to hold onto the warmth, but it seemed to ride away with him.
“What have you done to your hair? You look like a lesbian.” My grandmother’s body may have been succumbing to old age, but her mouth would be sharp as ever until the day she died.
I sighed and let the comment roll over me. I liked my pixie cut. My hairdresser had cut my chocolate hair into the spiky-doo a couple of weeks ago. I’d been dubious at first, but it suited my small face, made my brown eyes seem bigger and it didn’t need any fuss in the morning, a total plus.
“How are you liking this new place?” I asked, ignoring her. It was the best policy.
She screwed up her perfectly made up face. Despite being in a shoebox room, she’d placed a mirror on each wall and put a vanity cabinet in the room, complete with her brush and makeup set. You almost had to walk sideways to get in, and we were squished sitting on the bed. She didn’t seem to mind, so I didn’t comment.
“They’re imbeciles, every one of them,” she declared loudly, despite the open door.
I sighed. Here we go.
“Why I had to be shoved in this tiny place full of drooling morons, I have no clue. Don’t you care about your grandmother at all?” she shot at me, venom in her tone.
