by Anne Malcom
I did. For some insane reason. The woman who’d raised me with insults and bitterness still somehow held a place in my heart.
“You know I care, Grandma, this place is much better than what you could’ve had, we’re lucky your insurance got you this,” I repeated like I did every time I was here.
She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t need to be here. You just shoved me away so you can have your loose lifestyle and hang out with drug dealers and miscreants. How I raised such a brazen hussy is beyond me.”
Half an hour. I’d had half an hour without her bringing up what a disappointment I was. A record.
I did my best for the rest of the visit to grit my teeth and smile through the barbs. I’d done it for twelve years, I could do it for fifteen more minutes.
I sucked in a huge breath of air once I got outside.
“Freedom!” I declared, holding my arms out dramatically.
I heard a chuckle from beside me and I moved my head to the source.
An attractive man wearing a dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar and casual slacks was smiling at me. His hair was cut and styled within an inch of its life, and his face was classically handsome and clean shaven. His smile was warm and reached his eyes.
“It’s a bit like that in there, isn’t it?” He nodded his head at the double doors of the assisted living facility. “Sucks all the happiness out of you as soon as you walk through those doors.”
“Yeah, it’s not somewhere I’ll ever be spending my twilight years, that’s for sure. I’d rather something more comfortable, like a POW camp,” I replied, shivering at the thought.
“Grandparents?” he guessed, moving closer.
“Grandmother… spawn of Satan… she answers to either one,” I told him seriously.
He chuckled again, it was throaty and easy. Genuine.
“Seems that this place has the ability to turn people into that,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.
I shook my head. “Oh no, she’d embraced the dark side long before that,” I told him. “I think she made a deal with the Dark Prince in the womb,” I continued.
He grinned at me. “I’d make a deal with the devil to make sure I never end up somewhere like that,” he said lightly.
I nodded. “I feel you, dude. I’d rather wax my legs with duct tape for the rest of my life than entertain the possibly of living in a place cloaked in death.”
He chuckled, again, to my shock. I didn’t expect such a straight-laced looking guy to be entertained by my word vomit.
“I’m Robert, by the way,” he introduced himself, stepping closer.
I smiled at him. Mostly because I wasn’t getting a creepy vibe, and I doubted he was about to assault or kidnap me outside an old folks’ home. That and his eyes seemed sad. He needed someone to smile at him.
“Macy,” I said. “Though they refer to me in the house of death as the world’s biggest disappointment,” I joked.
“I think I’ll stick with Macy. Want to grab a drink? Shake off the feeling of death?” he suggested lightly. Wow! He was not only entertained, but asking me out—outside a nursing home, no less. Somehow he pulled it off.
I looked at him. The promise of easy conversation and maybe even something more was implied. Thanks to the fact he was easy on the eyes and actually had a sense of humor, despite the straight-laced appearance. Maybe we’d hit it off? Go on more dates. Have decidedly polite sex where he’d make sure I was satisfied. He’d take me out of my shitty neighborhood, my nicely decorated but shabby house, to a McMansion in the suburbs. Have two point five kids and a dog. A nice life for some. Not for me.
Maybe all of that wouldn’t come from one simple date? Maybe I’d like him? But I was sure he wouldn’t like me, not after he found out who I really was.
I smiled at him. “Sorry, I’m kind of spoken for,” I said. I was, in a sense. Just by an entire motorcycle club who considered me club property and all treated me as such, albeit with respect. Not something this guy would exactly understand.
His face fell slightly but still kept his easy smile. “That ever changes, or you just need some company after an ordeal in there… I’m here every Saturday. Same time,” he told me kindly.
I smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Walking to my car I tried to shake off Grandma’s insults, attempting to entertain the idea of one day saying yes to a man who lived on the right side of the law, who held the promise of something normal. I couldn’t picture it.
Arianne: Come to The Rock now, bitch. Drinks on me.
Arianne wasn’t a full-time club girl, just hung around when she felt like it. She didn’t belong to any of the guys and was happy with that arrangement. She went through some shit as a kid, shit that made her run as fast as her platforms would take her from any form of commitment. That’s why being a casual club girl appealed to her. We’d known each other since we were strippers at the same bar together and just clicked. We’ve been basically inseparable ever since. If I wasn’t at the club, or working, I was with her.
I looked down at my attire—white cut-offs, a white lace cami and a black and white floaty kimono over the top. My slouchy black ankle boots had a high heel, I’d picked them up at a vintage shop and they were my favorite pair. I never dressed down when I was visiting my grandmother, it was a silent form of rebellion. She had informed me I looked like a streetwalker today. Streetwalker chic was perfect for The Rock. It was what most people would call rough, on the outskirts of town and there was an unspoken rule that it was the Son’s bar. People from town came every now and then, mostly those who wanted in with the club, or girls wanting to take a walk on the wild side. That was fine. Most got scared away, but some stayed. But no other club was welcome, apart from those that got an invitation. Or those who wanted to start a war.
I pulled up to the bar beside the bikes I recognized, and breathed a sigh of relief when I walked through the door.
“Macey Moo!” I heard a feminine voice shout at me.
Arianne bounded over to me, two shots in her hands. She gave me one. “Knew you’d need about five of these after an hour with Satan’s Mistress,” she said knowingly.
I clinked my glass to hers and downed the bitter liquid welcoming the burn.
She knew me too well.
We linked arms and made it over to a table that was crowded with a few men from the club. I got a chorus of male hellos and some chin lifts. Scarlett gave me a look and I rolled my eyes and blew her a kiss. Despite herself, she smiled slightly. She wasn’t a complete bitch, I knew that fact. Life hadn’t exactly been easy on any of the women who found themselves connected to the club. Scarlett was no exception. She was beautiful, her blonde hair tumbled down her back, her full curves were in all the right places. And were currently on display in a leather miniskirt and white tee that barely brushed the top of her ribcage. All that, plus her makeup was there to make sure you didn’t miss her, but also to hide something else. It was her eyes, though, they betrayed the demons of her past. Demons I knew haunted her, but to which she wouldn’t admit. She liked people to think she was hard and nothing bothered her. Only someone who was trying to do the same would notice.
The men seemed keyed up, so they drank more than usual. I thought it might have been because of the drama of the past few days. Amy and the Cali boys had left yesterday, things seemed wired around the club. I didn’t mind they had decided to turn to alcohol to treat whatever had them so tightly wound. Arianne was right. I needed alcohol to wash off the bitterness that came with my visit to my grandmother.
“Get me a beer, Macy,” Hammer barked at me after I had downed a couple more shots.
I stood, not giving him any shit like I might have the others. That was because Hammer was one of the few in the MC that treated me like I was a second-class citizen because I had a vagina. He was cold, and I never really liked him. But, he was a Son and therefore, part of the family. So I complied, walking to the bar.
I nodded to the bartender, who knew who I was
and what I wanted. He gave me a chin lift from the other end where he was serving a customer. I leaned against the bar to wait, and that was when everything seemed to turn quiet. Quiet, with these guys, usually meant bad. I’d been with the club long enough to know that. This quiet was because of the three men who had walked into the bar, standing not too far away from me. I didn’t recognize them, but their shaved heads and a disgusting tattoo publicized the fact they were hateful supremacists communicated they were not in the right place. At all.
Hammer and Levi pushed out of their seats along with Gary, the Prospect, yet to earn his road name.
“Think you’ve taken a wrong turn on the way to Nazitown, fucker,” Hammer spat, hatefully.
One of the men, with a tattoo marring half his face, scowled at Hammer. Then his eyes moved to Gary. Gary was a new Prospect but well liked, despite the constant hazing he endured. Gary was handsome, in a way that made me think he could have been a male model, in case outlaw didn’t work out for him. Gary was also African American.
The bigot’s face turned into a sneer and he spat at his feet. That gesture, and just being who they were, was enough provocation for Gary to push his fist into the tattooed face. Of course, then everyone got involved in a tangle of arms and punches.
I wasn’t the hugest fan of violence, but being connected to the club, I’d seen my fair share. I’m pretty sure the Sons probably had a special account to pay for the repairs which would be needed after this brawl, evidenced by the fact Hammer slammed someone into a table. I did have some kind of satisfaction watching those animals get pummeled.
My eyes flicked from the growing brawl to the door, even amongst the chaos, I could feel him. Hansen. His blank eyes flipped over the fight with disinterest, then they found mine. They did what they always did, froze me in place. This time, though, they widened in something akin to concern. His frame moved slightly and he yelled something I couldn’t hear over the music and carnage.
Then, a hard body slammed into me, sending me flying. I wasn’t curvy or tall like the other girls. I didn’t just wear heels to complete my outfits, it was also to give me the illusion of height. That’s why the force of such a large and hard body slamming into mine sent me hurtling into a table, which overturned and pain exploded in my head as it hit the dirty floor. I vaguely worried about the fate of my white outfit before I drifted off.
“You guys fuckin’ think to consider your goddamn surroundings when throwing a punch?” an angry voice yelled.
My head throbbed so I didn’t try to move too much at this point, nor open my eyes.
“She’s fuckin’ tiny, bro. How the fuck were we meant to even realize she was there?” a voice argued, sounding slightly apologetic.
“Bitch should’ve gotten out of the way,” another, non-apologetic voice added.
Arms around me tightened, and even with my eyes closed and my mind rather foggy, I could feel the air turn electric.
“You better back the fuck off and shut that mouth, Hammer,” a beautiful voice, laden with fury said.
I fluttered my eyes and saw I was up in the air, and a familiar stubbled jaw was tight with what I recognized as anger. Then, it moved and eyes settled in on me. Eyes that immediately softened.
I lost my breath slightly.
“Babe,” he said quietly, “you okay?”
I rubbed my head slightly and flinched at the pain. “Yeah, think so, despite having said goodbye to some brain cells,” I told him. I looked around to see a huddle of hard but concerned faces. Well, apart from Hammer, who was scowling. “Why do you boys punch each other when this is what it feels like? Stupid if you ask me,” I muttered, and there were a few chuckles.
“She’s fine. She can still use that smart mouth, means no lasting brain damage,” Levi joked.
Hansen, interestingly, didn’t find anything funny. He stepped forward and the men seemed to disperse, Levi giving Hansen a knowing grin. Jagger gave me a long look before he turned back to the table. The skinheads were nowhere to be found.
“You can put me down now,” I told him, confused as to why we were heading toward the exit. I also didn’t actually want him to put me down, like ever, but I knew it was necessary. I didn’t want to get used to his arms around me. False hope and all that.
Hansen ignored me, continuing toward the door.
“Seriously, a beer and a subsequent shot will fix me right up,” I lied, ignoring the pain.
Hansen glanced down at me. “Jesus,” he shook his head. “Even a blow to the head can’t shake the nut outta you.” His face hardened. “You’re not staying here, and you sure as shit aren’t having anymore to drink.”
His boots crunched on the gravel as he directed us toward a bike. His bike.
He gently, more gently than I ever thought possible, set me on my feet.
I swayed slightly and his large hands spanned my waist to settle me.
He frowned down at me for a moment.
“You drive here?” he asked after a second.
I blinked away the stars in front of my vision. “Yeah, my bag,” I said slowly, realizing it was most likely still sling over the back of a chair.
To my utter astonishment, Hansen dangled my bag in front of me.
“You carried my bag?” I said in wonder. “The big, bad, macho biker carried my fringed and decidedly fabulous bag while carrying me?” I clarified. “Wow,” I said when his face stayed blank. “I’m surprised that it didn’t like… burst into flames on account of it not being able to be held by such a testosterone-infused creature.”
Hansen looked at me a moment and smiled slightly. “Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered to himself. “Keys, get them,” he continued, thrusting the bag at me.
I took it and got my keys, out of reflex. That was because Hansen’s face had an easy, almost amused look painted on it. His eyes were warm and concern danced underneath it. It was all for me.
I didn’t care if a head injury was responsible for these hallucinations, I was rolling with it.
He took them and directed me by the waist to my car. I looked longingly over my shoulder at his sleek Harley. My desire to ride pressed up against him almost trumped my thumping headache. Almost.
He unlocked the car and gently pushed me into the passenger seat. Still dumbstruck by his demeanor, I did this silently. He got into my car and I restrained a snort at how weird the big biker looked in my shitty car. How out of place.
“What are you doing?” I asked, finally finding my voice.
He looked over at me. “Seatbelt,” he commanded.
I ignored him. “Seriously, I’m feeling much better now. I can drive myself home, and you don’t have to subject yourself to the horror of driving something that isn’t your beautiful Harley.”
Crap. Did I just say beautiful Harley? I was a dork.
Hansen raised an eyebrow, and his eyes danced slightly. “Seatbelt,” he repeated, this time, his voice was lighter.
I complied, more out of embarrassment from my stupid mouth than anything else. Once I had done so, we reversed out of the lot.
“Macy,” he murmured, finally gaining my attention from the window. I’d really wanted to imprint every inch of him driving my car on my memory, but I refrained. It would only serve as torture when he went back to indifference.
“Next time I’m on my bike, only thing that’ll be making it beautiful, is the fact you’re on the back of it,” he informed me, his voice rough.
I succeeded in keeping my mouth shut at his words, but I didn’t succeed in masking my expression. Did that mean what I thought it meant? ‘Back of my bike’ was kind of a declaration in this world. One that I had dreamed Hansen coming out with. Maybe a head injury made me imagine things. He couldn’t seriously be saying this. Not after the actions that had bruised my soul. The ones that had communicated he wanted me as far away from the back of his bike as possible. Those words contradicted all of that and made my stomach jump.
He didn’t seem to require my answer because his attention
went back to the road. We were silent for a while. Me, because I was trying to control my emotions and not let that feeling of warmth spread at that simple sentence. Too good to be true meant it probably was. I was an optimist but also a realist.
I finally noted our surroundings. Instead of taking the turn back into town, Hansen had followed the road that led out into the desert where houses were randomly dotted amongst the dry landscape.
“Um, this isn’t the way to my house,” I muttered.
Hansen’s eyes stayed on the road. “I know. We’re going to my place,” he declared.
I stared at his jaw. “Your place?” I almost squeaked.
He nodded.
Holy shit.
I fought the heaviness that seemed to be dragging down my eyelids. It hadn’t been long since Hansen had declared our destination, only about fifteen minutes, but the journey of the car and the desolate landscape seemed to serve as a sort of lullaby.
“Macy,” Hansen’s voice cut through the silence.
I jolted upright, my eyes blinking away the fuzziness.
His hand went to my jaw and turned it to face him. “Don’t fall asleep,” he commanded with concern.
I stared at him. “How much longer to your place?” I finally asked, when his hand dropped from my jaw and the moment was lost.
He nodded to a dirt road to our left and the car slowed down. “’Bout a minute.”
We traveled down the road, and a small but well-kept house was illuminated by his headlights, the sun just starting to disappear. It had a flat roof and was light brown, the clay-like outside similar to many houses around here. It surprised me.
“This is your place?” I asked as we parked in front of a garage.
“Yep,” he replied.
“Doesn’t your bike get dirty, traveling down that road?” I nodded my head in the direction we had just come.
He looked at me a moment, a strange expression on his face. Then he shook his head and got out of the car. I took that as my cue to follow suit. Being vertical so abruptly made the ground seem to sway, so I steadied myself on the car. Before I knew it, Hansen’s hands were around me, lifting me into his arms.
