Undaunted: Knights in Black Leather

by Ronnie Douglas

  “Don’t overthink it,” he told me.

  I nodded and climbed onto the back of the bike.

  Zion drove slower than I would’ve liked, but he looped far out of the way, crossing streets a few times, before eventually pulling into the lot of the hardware store. I knew he had been extending the ride, and it made me smile.

  He slowly rolled into a parking spot, putting his feet down to steady the bike. He idled for a moment until I reluctantly loosened my hold on him. Once I released him, he cut off the engine.

  I slid off the bike. “I’m not so new to town that I don’t realize that the drive took twice as long as it would’ve if I drove on my own.”

  Zion didn’t bother seeming abashed at being caught. “I could’ve been lost.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Distracted by the woman pressed up against me, then.”

  I glanced his way, admittedly pleased at the idea. “Were you?”

  “Every day since I met you.”

  I bit my lip to stop myself from saying something foolish. I had a feeling that getting involved with him was a bad idea for more reasons than my new job and intention to leave Tennessee. The looming question I hadn’t even begun to consider was what Zion did to pay his bills.

  “Where do you work?” I asked as I pulled a shopping cart free of the stack.

  Zion hesitated a beat before saying, “I work for the Wolves, Red.”

  “That pays enough that you don’t need another job?”

  “The club owns my apartment, and my bike’s paid for. Some food and gas.” Zion shrugged. “Not a lot of need for money.”

  When he said nothing else, I prompted, “So you work for the club president, then?”

  My excessive hours of googling motorcycle clubs the day I accepted the job at Wolves & Whiskey had taught me a little bit about them—enough that I stopped reading.

  Zion nodded.

  “Why?”

  “Habit? Loyalty? My mother was one of their women, but she bailed when I was still in diapers.” Zion shrugged. “One of them is my father.”

  We were silent for a few minutes while we walked across the lot.

  He opened the door to the hardware store. “It doesn’t matter. They’re my family. They all raised me. Uncle Karl did the most of it, but they all took their turns minding me and Dash both.”

  The image of a bunch of bikers raising two little boys struck me as odd, but just because the Wolves made their money in ways I didn’t want to know about, it didn’t make them heartless. I’d only worked at the bar a few weeks, but I could already see how the Wolves were like a family of sorts. Even as a barmaid, I already felt welcomed and respected.

  Zion and I were silent as we walked through the store, but I didn’t miss the curious looks we got from a few people. I had no doubt that Uncle Karl and my grandmother would both hear about my impromptu shopping trip with Zion. I was glad I’d changed out of my shorts. Even dressed properly and not touching Zion at all, I was being judged. Zion received several friendly greetings, and I suspected that whatever business he handled, it wasn’t something that caused problems around Williamsville.

  “You have more questions,” Zion said quietly while we walked.

  My hands tightened on the handle of the cart. “What do you do?”

  He met my gaze unflinchingly. “I work for the club.”

  “Right. I got that, but—”

  “That’s all there is,” Zion said. “I do what needs done.”

  I opened my mouth, but there wasn’t a reply to that. I thought of my question about his name—a question he wouldn’t answer. My imagination filled in things like shooting or drug deals or any number of crimes I couldn’t even think about when I looked at Zion. “You can’t give me examples?”

  “I run errands. I make sure our president is safe,” Zion said carefully.

  The meticulous way he answered made clear that there was a lot that was illegal about his job, things he wasn’t going to tell me and I probably didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to leave it at that, though. I already had feelings for him that were a bad idea. Even if I broke my no-dating rule, it couldn’t be with Zion. I’d lose my job—and in the couple of weeks I’d been there, it had become very clear that bartending paid better than anything else I could do.

  “Do you carry the gun because of your job?” I asked very quietly.

  “Yes.”

  In an even lower voice, I asked, “Have you used it?”

  He nodded slightly, just one brief dip of his head.

  “I’ve never been around them. Until the bar, I mean. It scares me to have to handle them there, but next to you . . .”

  “It isn’t going to go off on its own,” Zion said, not mockingly but in a tone I knew was intended to reassure me. “And everyone at the bar knows not to—”

  “You said something,” I interrupted, thinking back to how there had only been a couple of times that I’d actually had to touch a gun at the “weapons check-in” at work. That was Zion’s doing.

  He shrugged. “Saw that it made you nervous. Handled it.”

  My hands felt sweaty on the handle of the shopping cart. I tightened my grip as if it would keep the shiver of fear at bay. I didn’t want to ask how he’d handled it or why they listened or why he’d used his pistol. I wasn’t afraid of him hurting me; he’d done nothing but be kind and protective of me. That didn’t change my reaction to the things he could’ve done for his job with the Wolves.

  We continued in uneasy silence as he pointed me toward the aisle with the supplies he’d said I needed to remove the paint. I didn’t know what to say, and he didn’t push me. There were more questions that I didn’t want to ask than I knew how to admit.

  He put the paint-removing supplies in my cart, and then instead of stepping away, he caught my chin in his hand. Gently, he made me look at him. “I would never hurt you, Red. Ever.” His thumb slid along my jaw. “You’re safe with me. I told you that the night we met, and I meant it.”

  I swallowed hard.

  “None of us would hurt you,” he continued.

  Words still wouldn’t come. I nodded.

  “You work for Uncle Karl, and you’re . . . my friend.” He moved closer to me. “Aren’t you?”

  What I felt when I saw him, when I rode with him, wasn’t simple friendship. But it had to be. He was called Killer for a reason. He was the enforcer for the club president. That part was clear now. I’d certainly suspected that he was more dangerous than most of them. Very few Wolves moved through the crowd with the kind of respect Zion received.

  “Are you still my friend, Red?” he asked again.

  I nodded. I couldn’t even pretend that I was no longer feeling the exact same things I had before he answered my questions. I liked him. In a very soft voice, I said, “I am. I still am.”

  Zion rewarded me with a smile, but then he took his hand away from my face and stepped back. It took more effort than I could explain not to follow him, to remove the distance between us. I wanted the comfort of his touch, even as he was the reason I needed comfort. I felt safer when he was near me.

  I had to remind myself of the things he’d told me about his job. He was a criminal. He wasn’t someone I could fall for, even if I did break my no-dating rule. “We should head back,” I said, not meeting his eyes this time. “I appreciate the ride, but I have work to do.”

  He stared at me but didn’t argue. In fact, he said nothing as we checked out and walked back to the bike. Friends. I had never met anyone like him in Oregon. I certainly hadn’t ever expected to be interested in a motorcycle-riding criminal. I’m friends with a killer. The thought tripped through my mind like the refrain to a bad song. Unfortunately, it did nothing to erase the way I felt when I pressed up against him as we rode back to the house. He took a direct route this time, and I wanted to whimper when we arrived home too soon. In a tiny, well-hidden corner of my mind, I admitted that what I still wanted when I was near Zion was not just friendship.
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  Chapter 12

  WHEN WE REACHED the house, I slid off the bike, wondering if that had been my last ride. If I were smart, it would be. If I were smart, I’d tell him to leave now. Instead, I handed him the helmet and asked, “Can I get you anything before you go?”

  He looked at me silently.

  “A drink?” I added.

  “Are you asking me to leave, Red?”

  I wanted to run, but I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to run toward him or away. Okay, I was sure what I wanted to do right then, but want and should were pretty far apart where he was concerned. I took two steps away from him. “I figured you had better things to do and you already took the time to help and—”

  He got off the Harley in a fluid move and walked toward me. “There is nothing I could do that would be better than being here.”

  “Oh.”

  He advanced on me like he expected me to bolt and invited, “So tell me more about the life of Aubrey before Williamsville.”

  “It’s not very exciting,” I said.

  “Is that a no?”

  It should be. It really should be, and I was sure he knew that too. “Let me grab sandwiches and drinks.”

  I walked to the house, aware of the heat of Zion’s gaze as he followed me.

  I stopped on the porch, looked back, and added, “I don’t have any beer.”

  “Whatever you’ve got is perfect.” He sat on the swing he’d fixed, and I couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him on my grandmother’s white porch. The geranium and daisy planters were destroyed¸ but even without the flowers there, Zion looked out of place.

  “Right. Let me change and grab a snack for us, then.” I went inside and changed back into my work-in-the-yard clothes while Zion waited on the porch. I had a moment where I considered putting on something other than the shorts I’d been wearing, but that led to worrying that it would look like I was dressing for him. I put on the same shredded jean shorts, gathered up bread, cheese, and lunchmeat, and went back outside.

  “Here,” he said, holding out a hand.

  I left him with the basics while I grabbed drinks and condiments. Stepping back outside to see him putting together sandwiches made me grin.

  “First porch picnic?” he asked.

  I nodded and sat next to him. “Maybe.”

  “So, Red’s parents weren’t country. That’s another fact for my list.”

  “There’s a list?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He took the tomato slices and added one to each sandwich. “From Oregon, not happy being in Tennessee, never been on a Harley until coming here but already likes it, doesn’t date, college girl, hard worker, not a drinker.” He paused, glanced at me, and added, “Looks damn good in whatever she wears.”

  I blushed. “Thank you.”

  “No criminal record,” he said.

  I thought about my father, about the things he’d done. Was that worse or better than the things Zion had done? It wasn’t about the individual crime. It was about the kind of life I wanted for myself, and that life didn’t include criminal parents or a criminal . . . whatever Zion was.

  “Red?” His voice interrupted my growing panic.

  When I looked up, he said, “I’ve never been arrested.”

  I nodded. I didn’t add “yet,” but I thought it. What was I doing with a guy like him? What was he doing here with me?

  “Me either,” I managed to say.

  “Not used to men finding her irresistible,” he said, returning my attention to him.

  “I’m not.”

  “Liar,” he said softly. When I looked up, he continued in a more serious voice, “I like you, Red. Most everything about you. It’s nice being with you outside the bar.”

  “I like it too,” I admitted. Then, before things veered into forbidden territory, I prompted, “Best song ever?”

  “Ever?” He shook his head. “That’s a hard one. Maybe a few of the best blues songs or something. I could answer that. But one song? Not possible.”

  I laughed at his expression of absolute certainty and steadfastly refused to admit that he was lulling me back into calmness. He was good at that, like trying to lure a wild thing to trust him, but the truth was that I wanted him to succeed. I wanted to trust him.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “What about something like ‘Nobody Knows You When You’re Down and Out’ or ‘Boom Boom’ or . . .” My words dried up at the way he was looking at me. “What?”

  “Little Miss Oregon’s a closet blues lover,” he said with a note of awe.

  “No closets,” I stressed, thinking back to discussing the blues with Ellen a few times. “It’s no secret. It just hasn’t come up when we talked.”

  “Well, all right then,” Zion murmured.

  We ate in a comfortable silence that was punctuated by little notes on bands we liked or movies we’d enjoyed. We continued that way as we cleaned up and then started to work on removing the graffiti from the house. Every so often, his hand brushed against me, and it didn’t take long for me to realize that it was intentional.

  I’d never wanted to throw caution away as much as I did in that moment.

  When he took off his vest, his gun holster, and then his shirt too, I couldn’t find the strength to pretend I was immune. I stared at him.

  “Not quite running yet,” he murmured.

  “Friends,” I reminded him. “We’re friends.”

  “For now.” He turned back to his task, and I bit my lip to keep a sudden whimper from escaping. Whatever he did in his free time, more than a little of it was obviously devoted to fitness. Muscles rippled as he scrubbed the side of my grandmother’s house.

  Criminal. No dating anyhow. Would lose my job.

  The words played like a self-hypnosis recording in my head for the next hour as we worked. It didn’t cure me. I couldn’t stop myself from looking at him. It was one thing to see such defined muscles in pictures of models; it was another to see them on a person beside me.

  By the time we finished, I was ready to forget every last reason I knew for staying clear of him. He was sweet and funny, and he listened when I talked, and to top it all off his body looked like statues I’d seen in museums.

  “That’s all of it,” I said. “Thank you.”

  I stepped back.

  “You keep looking at me like that and I’m going to need a cold shower soon, Red.” He didn’t glance my way when he spoke. “Do you remember what I said when we met?”

  “I do.” I bit my lip again, keeping any other words from escaping. I couldn’t believe I’d been drunk enough to proposition him, but when he looked at me like . . . like he was right now, the words slipped out. My voice was a whisper when I told him, “I shouldn’t have said—”

  “It’s fine.” Zion paused, giving me an opportunity to say something that I couldn’t, and then he motioned to the house and said, “You’ll call me if you need anything.”

  It sounded more like an order than a request, but I answered it like it was a question all the same. “I will, and about the other thing . . . I do think about it, you know?”

  “Oh?” Zion’s fingers curled into a loose fist, like he was resisting reaching out.

  Somewhere in a hazy part of my mind, I realized that he wasn’t used to having to exercise self-control. I liked that he seemed to feel as drawn to me as I did to him. Softly, I said, “I think about it, and you, a lot.”

  “Good.”

  “You never said why you were here this morning,” I pointed out, giving us both an excuse to stay together a few moments longer.

  He shrugged. “Riding by and saw you. It looked like you could use a hand, so I stopped.”

  “Really?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Are you planning on showing up every time I need rescuing or help with something?” I stepped closer to him as I spoke. I knew it was a bad idea, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself.

  His eyes darkened. “Do you have something else I can help you with, Red?”
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br />   A droplet of sweat rolled down his chest and over his stomach. I watched it like I was transfixed. I reached out and traced its trail with one fingertip. Standing this close, I could smell a mix of bergamot, musk, and the lingering scent of leather. I flattened my hand on his stomach, relishing the feel of taut muscles.

  Zion caught my wrist, holding my hand in place against his skin.

  I looked up and met his gaze. “I’m . . . sorry.” My uncertainty caused my voice to lift, making my words sound like a question.

  “Don’t be,” he said in a voice that made me want to lick my lips.

  His grip on my wrist loosened, and I gave in to the urge to slide my fingers over his chest and stomach again. I didn’t break our gaze as I admitted, “I wish you could help me.”

  “Say the word.”

  “I can’t,” I whispered. Then I steeled myself to be bolder than I usually was and told him, “But I’ll think of you when I handle it myself.”

  He sucked in a breath at that. “Yeah?”

  My cheeks burned, but I didn’t look away. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Jesus, Red, you’re testing any control I have saying things like that,” he rasped.

  “I’m sorry.” I started to step back but his hand tightened on my wrist again and slid my hand back up his chest.

  “No apologies,” he ordered.

  He pulled me in close for a hug. This time I was the one drawing in the unsteady breath. He leaned close enough that I thought he was going to kiss me, but he shifted and his lips grazed my jaw instead. I tried not to be disappointed. I failed.

  “I’ll think of you too,” he whispered as his lips barely touched my throat. Again, it wasn’t a kiss. He moved close enough that it was only a moment from a kiss.

  His breath was warm on my throat, and then on my cheek.

  I stepped back. I felt like he was both respecting my rules and proving to me that I wanted to break them as much as he did. I shook my head. Spending these hours with him had made me forget reality. He was a criminal, and I had already decided that I wasn’t going to get caught up in anything here.

  “I . . . I’m sorry. I shouldn’t . . .” I swallowed hard, but my words were still rough whispers. “I wish I could do one-night stands. You make me wish that.”