by Meli Raine
You could hear a pin drop.
The doors burst open and a small, muscle-bound man wearing leather pants and packing a gun on his hip barges into the middle of the bar and screams, “Wakefield!” That’s Jeff’s last name, and this doesn’t look good.
The bikers all pause.
“Wakefield!” the guy says again. He has a “1 percent” tattoo on his shoulder. I don’t understand what it means, but that doesn’t matter. He looks like he’s Italian or Greek, dark and swarthy, short but bouncing with energy. He isn’t much older than Chase, I guess. Under thirty. He’s a loose cannon, even with these hard-core bikers.
People get careful suddenly. Quiet.
Watchful.
Ready.
“Where’s your dad?” Chase asks under his breath. I’m trying to move away from him, to get closer to the bar, but my slow slide isn’t good enough. He grabs my arm, but it’s a gentle clasp. He touches me like I’ve given him permission already.
I shake my head and tell the truth, the press of his bare fingers on my forearm like silk. My pulse races. My skin wants him to touch more. It’s like my body has a will of its own.
“He’s my stepdad,” I say, correcting him. “And I don’t know. He was back—”
I’m cut off from my own answer by the crack of a gunshot splitting the air.
It’s Jeff, holding his double-barrel shotgun that he keeps in back.
And his five best friends are right behind him, all armed.
Chapter Two
I see guns everywhere, the clack of metal on leather like a roar. Every person in the room, except me, has one. Chase is holding a gun suddenly, too, in the hand that isn’t touching me. It’s big and long, glistening in the shaft of light that comes through the partly-open main door.
I can’t think. The gun brushes against my arm and I stifle a scream.
The whole room goes cold. Quiet. Tense. You could hear a pin drop. My heart stops and races at the same time. Everything seems unreal.
“Get out,” Jeff says to the group, his words flat and clear. I have never seen his eyes so dead. He looks at me but doesn’t see me. It’s like I don’t exist.
Chase’s hold on my arm tightens and he leans down. His breath tickles my ear, making my belly clench. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
I can’t look at him. I’m too afraid to move. If I did look at him, I think I’d see a lot more concern for me than I’ve ever seen in Jeff’s eyes. His hand is hot and tense on my skin. It feels like a lifeline.
“What? Can’t a guy have a drink with a few of his closest friends?” That voice comes from the older biker who reminds me of Chase. Chase looks at him. All of the bikers look at him. He’s commanding and loud, his voice boisterous. I think he’s the leader.
The darker-haired man is twitching, his fingers dancing on the trigger of the double-barreled gun he holds tight in a sweaty fist.
“Is that your dad?” I whisper. I wish I hadn’t, because a woman in the group turns her head sharply toward me. She narrows her eyes. I look away.
“Yeah, it is. You’re not the only one with dad problems,” Chase says. He lets out a little puff of air. “We’ll get to know each other later,” he murmurs, so quiet I can barely hear him. There’s something in his voice, a deep heat that makes me feel a connection.
I swallow, my throat dry from fear. I’m less afraid when he touches me, though.
“You can have a drink all you want,” Jeff shouts back. His gun is still pointed in the air. No one actually points a gun at anyone. I look at each person in the room, avoiding eye contact. If I can just get back behind the bar, I’ll be safer. But I don’t dare move. I’m stuck. At least Chase is here to help me.
“Alrighty then, Girlie. Serve up!” Chase’s dad shouts, looking straight at me. Chase takes a half-step closer and his hip and shoulder touch mine. He is solid and feels so safe.
Jeff scowls. “Have your drinks somewhere else, Galt Halloway. Plenty of bars down the road in Harlow.” Harlow’s the next town over, but it’s practically owned by the Mephists, a different motorcycle gang. They’d never come to Jeff’s place like this. Why bother?
Chase must be part of this motorcycle gang. Yet another one.
Oh, God.
A ripple of chuckles passes through all the bikers. “All the bars in Harlow are shit. So’s this one, but it smells less than the ones there,” says the dark-haired man with the one percent tattoo. He looks like a boxer dog that drank too much coffee. His index finger caresses the trigger on his gun.
I’m more afraid of him than anyone else in this room. Including Jeff.
Chase pushes me a few feet closer to the bar. His touch is kind of rough. It startles me, and I shuffle my feet, stumbling slightly. His father grins. He dips his head and nudges it forward, like he’s encouraging Chase. A wall of muscle presses into my backside. A rush of heat pushes through my body like a wave.
I’ve never been touched by a man like this. He acts like he has the right to walk me closer to the bar and make me do whatever he wants.
He smells like mint and sweat, like danger and impulse. The grip he has on me is fierce. I can feel his thigh press into my hip and it makes me want to lean into it. I want to feel more of him.
All of him.
How can I be so attracted to a complete stranger, one who’s with a motorcycle gang threatening my stepdad with guns? I don’t even know who I am, suddenly.
This is not the normal Allie.
Then why do I feel so alive as Chase moves my body?
“Pretend you’re making drinks,” he whispers. His voice is dark and low, but his eyes watch the room. He lets go of me and my skin burns where we were touching.
My hands shake as I pull one of the glasses from the dishwasher rack. Jeff looks at me and barks, “Stop right there, Allie!” I know two of the five men standing behind him. One of them is old Zeke, who is at least eighty years old.
Zeke’s hands are shaking, too.
Chase’s aren’t. He puts one firmly on my shoulder and towers over me from behind. My heart slams against my ribs, my pulse riding faster than a biker on an open, straight stretch of highway. The room is an oven. I can’t breathe. Each time I try, I feel panic.
“Allie?” says Chase’s dad. His eyes take me in, looking up and down, settling on my face. The grin he flashed me a minute ago fades. “She looks an awful lot like her mama.” Then he stares Jeff down until I think I will cry.
How does Chase’s father know my mother? My skin tingles and my head begins to pound.
Something bad is about to happen, but no one wants to make the first move. I don’t understand what is happening.
This makes no sense. Jeff doesn’t have guns lying around everywhere. He doesn’t get into fights with bikers. When did my life turn upside down like this? Ten minutes ago I was tucking away my moving money in my music box. Now thirty loaded guns feel like they’re all pointed at me.
And a very dangerous biker dude knows my mother? Knew my mother. Knew. She’s dead.
I can’t stop trembling. From behind, Chase’s voice makes me startle, softer now, but still on guard. “Ignore my dad. He’s just fucking around with yours.”
“He’s not my dad,” I say through gritted teeth.
Chase squeezes my shoulder like he gets it. “Stepdad. Right.” His hand with the gun slides against my forearm, sending an electric shock up to my scalp and down to my toes. I tuck my long, sweaty hair behind my ear and just try to breathe.
“I said get out.” Jeff cocks the shotgun but keeps it pointed up. All the other men tense up, the women stepping behind their men. Chase’s hand on my shoulder weighs on me, like he’s trying to push me down behind the counter.
“We’ll get out when we’re good and ready. After our thirsts have been quenched,” says the dark-haired one percent tattoo man.
“Shut up, Frenchie,” a voice growls.
Frenchie looks at me. His eyes settle on my breasts. The way he lo
oks at me makes my stomach turn. “We need to have lots of appetites taken care of, Galt.”
Chase’s father—Galt—looks at him and snorts in disgust. “You keep your appetite in your pants, Frenchie. We got bigger things to deal with. Lots bigger things.”
The group erupts into low-level laughter, but their eyes are serious. So serious.
So deadly.
“How ’bout this,” Galt says. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t remember where I’ve heard it before. All I can think about is the feel of Chase’s hand on my shoulder, the solidness of him behind me.
His hand pulls away the thick wave of black hair that has fallen over my neck. He is gentle and suddenly I can’t think, can’t speak, can’t move. I can hear him breathe, a ragged sound of suspense and expectation. It’s the only sound for a moment, all my mind can take as we wait.
“Guns down,” Galt continues. His men and women take it as an order and put them away. I see Chase put away his gun. Jeff eyes the gesture with a narrow look. It makes him look like a lizard. Then he grunts and nods. His five friends drop their guns.
Jeff finally does, too. He lays his gun down on the table beside him. I am relieved.
And that’s when chaos erupts. The clatter and rattle of shuffling boots, chairs crashing against flesh, and tables being overturned hits me so hard I feel like I’m in a tornado.
I don’t want a bar fight. I don’t understand why they are even fighting. They all just put their guns down. This really doesn’t add up. I’m so confused I just stand there, my mouth open, watching fists and glasses fly. All I can do is blink.
Chase wraps one arm around my waist and slams me to the ground behind the bar. A glass shatters against the mirror just above us. He throws his body over mine, wrapping his arms over my head.
He is on me completely, his pelvis grinding into my backside, his chest warm like a blanket of muscle against my back. His sweat mingles with mine on the back of my neck, my ears, my arms.
“Stay down,” he says.
“No problem,” I whisper back. I’m not going anywhere.
The grinding chaos of glass breaking recedes as I hear the sound of the ocean in my ears. Blood pumps through me so hard. I can’t hear anything but the sound of waves crashing against the shore, just the way I imagine in my dreams. I’m thinking of sand pouring between my bare feet, of kisses stolen in the surf, of foamy waves and pink-streaked sunsets as I rest in the arms of my true love.
I’m not going to think about grunts and cries, blood and sweat, and the never ending sound of glass breaking.
Chase says something to me but I’m gone. Gone. I can’t handle the fear and the chaos and the very real feeling of one strong man’s body over mine. His bones push into my soft curves. Thickly muscled legs part mine, hips pinning me to the rough wood floor. A wet warmth from his sweaty t-shirt, peeled to his chest, slides against my back. The bristle of five-o’clock shadow against the nape of my neck is like fire.
He’s protecting me.
I am his to watch over.
Chase’s lips touch the sweaty skin of my cheek and I feel his words vibrate against my jaw. “I’ll get you out of here. Don’t worry, Allie.”
He is no longer holding the gun. The crazy fight disappears and suddenly it’s just me and Chase. That’s all that matters. I think I’m losing it, because who feels this during a bar fight with thirty guns in the room?
Part of me feels guilty. But I can’t deny it. It feels like being home. And I haven’t felt that in a long time.
Cold. I feel a chill behind me and realize Chase just stood up and is now crouching behind the bar. He puts one finger to his lips in a shhhh gesture. His eyes soften when he looks at me, then harden as he looks up. My eyes follow his. I sit up and peek out from behind the bar.
Arms, legs, boots, fists... The room looks like someone took a bunch of people and put them in a blender. I see bloody noses everywhere. Frenchie is trying to get to the pile of guns but Jeff takes him out with a punch, hitting upward, right under his chin.
I still can’t tell what they are fighting about.
“C’mon!” Chase growls. He pulls me to him and looks down, concern in his eyes. “No girl should be caught up in this mess.” I can’t hear anything more, but I swear he mumbles something like “And especially you” just as he pushes me to the door, using his body as a shield.
The sunlight blinds me, making me reel backward. I stagger, my knees buckling. Just because I’m outside doesn’t mean I’m safe. The day is as dull and quiet outside as it was when I entered the bar. The landscape is beige and brown, dry dirt and trash littering the cracked asphalt road. A car whizzes by, its driver completely unaware of the drama right inside the bar’s doors.
As my eyes adjust I see Chase is watching me. Carefully, like I’m worth watching.
“You okay?” he asks, his eyes floating between me and the bar’s main door.
“I’ll be okay,” I rasp. I reach up and feel something in my hair. I pull it out.
It’s a sliver of glass. A drop of blood forms on my fingertip as I flick it away.
Our eyes lock. His face has a hard edge to it, with a tight jaw and cheekbones to die for. He looks determined, angry, and tender all at once. I can’t stop looking at him. He can’t stop looking at me.
He reaches up and brushes my hair with great tenderness. “No one’s going to hurt you,” he says with a possessiveness that makes my heart leap. He pulls another shard of glass from my hair and tosses it aside.
“You said that already.” I slip my bleeding finger in my mouth and suck on it. He cocks one eyebrow and makes a little groaning sound in the back of his throat.
“I mean it. And I don’t say anything I don’t mean,” he insists in a hushed voice.
I open my mouth to say something, even though I have no idea what to say. A light, hot breeze chills my wet finger, the pink stain of blood already fading as I slip my finger back in my mouth.
Chase’s face turns dark, eyes filled with desire as he watches my mouth work my finger. My face turns nine shades of heat and I pull the injured part out quickly, words spilling over themselves in my head. Does he think I am mimicking...that I am implying...that I...what?
What makes him look at me like he wants to throw me down and kiss me until I can’t think?
Law enforcement sirens begin in the distance.
The door practically falls off the hinges as all thirty bikers come pouring out of the bar, holding guns and nursing cuts and broken noses. Thirty or so to six means that the odds are good Jeff and his friends are seriously hurt, but I can’t think about that.
All I can see is Chase, in front of me, looking at me like I’m the only thing that matters.
The air fills with the rattle and clash of boots on steel, then the roar of engines. Chase is bent over, his hands on his knees, just staring at me. A drop of sweat rolls down the sculpted bones of his face, then lingers at his chin.
It lets go and falls to the ground.
“Chase! Get your ass goin’!” says Galt Halloway, who frowns at me, then rolls his eyes as he gives Chase a hard look. I get the sense that Galt doesn’t like me. Then again, I get the sense that he doesn’t like anyone.
Chase looks up and gives me a wicked half smile. “I’ll see you around.” He winks.
Butterflies burst inside my belly and I say, “I hope not.” Then I clap my hands over my mouth. Why did I do that? I can’t believe I said that. I want the exact opposite.
His mouth opens with a laugh that isn’t mean. His throat rumbles and even in the chaos of thirty riders and bikes all peeling out of the parking lot, with the sheriff’s sirens getting louder, he stands in front of me and laughs. The sound is like hearing joy for the first time and feeling an endless river of it.
Knowing you can touch it any time you want.
“I don’t think you mean that.” He smiles and runs to his bike, a huge Yamaha that makes a thrill of electricity shoot through me. Chase is so big. His bike i
s power. His arms pull it up. He kicks the stand and then he swings one leg over his bike with such grace it’s like watching an athlete.
It fits him like he was born on it. The other bikes take off, spewing gravel, and a panic fills me as I realize he’s leaving. Forever. I’ve driven him away with my stupid comment.
I watch as he pulls a helmet over that thick, wavy hair the color of the beach I just imagined, his fingers practiced with a swift skill. He’s done this a million times before.
Riding a bike is second nature to him.
It’s such a part of who he is.
“I’ll be back!” he hollers as his engine revs, the vibration going straight to my heart. I splay one palm over it, as if I need to keep it from escaping and climbing on the back of that bike, riding off with him. He joins his group and a long line of motorcycles take off, like a flock of Canada geese, following the leader.
I stare until only my mind imagines Chase is really there.
Chapter Three
Later that night, after the sheriff comes and takes my report about the bar fight, I sit on my bed, sore and tired. All I want to do is talk to my sister, Marissa. If I tell her about the day, tell her all about Chase, it will make him seem more real. I need him to be real.
I think he made me a little more real today.
When I showered earlier I had to be careful. Glass shards were sprinkled in my hair here and there. All that I have to prove it all happened now are tiny cuts on my fingers, red lines where the blood is clotting. Chase watched me lick one of those cuts with a hunger in his eyes. The memory makes me shiver.
After a second shower to make sure I really get all the glass out, I change into my cotton yoga pants, the ones with Disney cartoon characters all over them, and a purple cami top. Mom gave me these pajamas when I was thirteen. That was five years ago. It feels like forever.
Combing out my long, black hair takes time. I keep it long because Mom always said it looked beautiful, the waves shimmering over my back. It’s wet when I crawl into bed, but that’s okay. On a hot day like today, it feels good.
