The Biker's Brother (Sons of Sanctuary MC Book 2)

by Victoria Danann

  “You’re entitled to your opinion, but it doesn’t count for much. That’s how it is.” After putting the mattress in place, he threw the quilt and pillows on top of it.

  “Why did you say ‘good’ about the rain?”

  “What?” He looked confused.

  “In the car. The radio said rain is coming and I heard you say, ‘Good’.”

  He took in a deep breath and willed himself calm.

  “Everything has two sides. It makes travel slower, but it also makes it difficult to either find or follow you.” She didn’t seem to have anything else to say on the matter. “Sandwiches in the kitchen.” He smiled. “Along with a few non-packaged items. It will be a few days before tofu will be readily available again.”

  She sniffed as he turned away. When she thought he wasn’t watching, she took her time leisurely appreciating the way his broad shoulders tapered to his waist like the shape of the letter V. The way his muscles rippled under the Henley he wore was fascinating enough that she wanted to ask him to repeat certain movements.

  The fact was inescapable, especially when he seemed to take up most of the space in a tiny little house. He was an extremely hot guy. But Cami wasn’t a one night stand kind of woman. Even if she was, she suspected he regarded her as all business. Like he said, she was a box of widgets. Besides that, she couldn’t imagine having anything in common with Brandon.

  She’d been raised with money, gone to the best schools, and had even been to an Inaugural Ball. What could she have to talk about with a bodyguard from Texas? She knew practically nothing about him, but what she did know she didn’t like.

  He’d covered himself with tattoos. At least part of himself. He was okay with eating poison food like he was immortal, and had awful taste in music. Worse, he was imperious in the most heavy-handed and distasteful way possible.

  She ate a turkey sandwich in the kitchen while reading her book. When she was ready for bed, she opened one of her bags and rifled through it. She took her toiletries and her night clothes into the little bathroom to change and emerged twenty minutes later wearing Gucci tartan pajama bottoms and a hoodie.

  “It’s freezing in here.”

  Brand looked up from doing whatever he was doing with his assortment of firearms that he’d carefully laid out on the coffee table. He appeared to have been oblivious to the temperature. He spotted the thermostat on the wall by the hallway.

  After fiddling with it for a couple minutes, he said, “Nothing.”

  “It’s not working?!?”

  “That’s what ‘nothing’ means. It’s not going to be that cold tonight. Bundle up.”

  She made a show of exasperation, stomped over to her bags, and proceeded to put on a sweater, a knit hat, and a pair of thick socks while intermittently glaring at Brandon like it was his fault.

  He smirked. “Overreact much? It’s September!”

  “I don’t care if it’s July. I’m cold!”

  “Okay.”

  He shrugged and went back to what he was doing, appearing to have lost interest in the drama.

  After she was outfitted for sleeping outdoors in the Arctic, she sank down on the mattress, pulled the quilt around her and, to her surprise, went to sleep.

  The sounds of furniture moving woke her some time later. She opened the bedroom door.

  “What’s going on now?”

  “Nothing,” Brand said. “Go back to sleep.”

  He was moving the coffee table armory so that it was easily accessible. When he was satisfied with where it sat, he switched off the lamp, laid down, and pulled the quilt over his body.

  “Are you done?” she said.

  When he didn’t reply, she closed the door a little too hard, for punctuation, and settled into bed again.

  The next time she woke it was to the sound of raindrops on the roof. She lay awake for several minutes listening to the rain and feeling remarkably safe with the armoire in front of the windows and Brandon situated just on the other side of the door. She pulled the quilt under her chin, sighed, and was asleep before she could examine that thought too closely.

  The next time she woke it was because a pillow had been thrown at her head.

  With as much outrage as she could muster when she was drowsy, she said, “What the fuck?”

  “Get up. We’re going. You’ve got five minutes to get in the car.”

  She looked around. “It’s dark.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I need to take a shower.”

  “You smell fine.”

  “First, how would you know? And, second, that’s not the point!”

  “Four minutes.”

  She pulled herself up, went to the bathroom, and brushed a hand over her hair.

  When she came out, he said, “One minute.”

  Without changing clothes, she pushed her feet into her boots and said, “Fine. How’s this?” She stood there in her tartan pajama bottoms, combat boots, multiple sweaters and knit hat.

  “Not for me to say. This is not a fashion show,” he responded drily.

  She pursed her lips. “You got an umbrella?”

  “You won’t melt.”

  “Ugh! What is wrong with you?”

  Brandon stopped for a second, thinking that maybe his attitude did need some adjusting.

  “Just concentrating on vigilance is all. I’m not trying to make your life suck. I’m trying to make sure you have a life. After this is over, whether or not it sucks will be largely up to you.”

  He walked into the kitchen, banged through the cabinets until he found the large garbage bags and brought one to her.

  Understanding the gesture as a kindness, she took the black plastic square gratefully and began unfolding it.

  “I’ll be back for you when I’ve got the bags in the car.”

  “Okay.”

  Two minutes later Brandon instructed Cami to lock the cottage front door while he kept watch. When she returned the key to its hiding spot, he ushered her to the car as fast as possible without worrying about cover from the rain for himself.

  When he slid into the driver’s seat and started the car, she said, “You’re drenched.”

  Without looking at her, he said, “In a few minutes, when the engine’s warm, I’ll aim some warm air my direction.”

  She shook her head. “That’s not going to dry you off. How are you going to protect me if you get the flu? You’re not invincible you know.”

  “Getting wet doesn’t give you the flu,” he said as he pulled out onto the road. “It might make me a little uncomfortable, but it doesn’t make my immune system more vulnerable. Influenza is caused by a virus. Rain clouds don’t carry viruses. People do.”

  “Well, thank you for the lesson, science guy,” she said sarcastically.

  “You really thought that getting wet makes you sick? Do you also think the Sun circles the Earth?” His brief grin was a little charming even if it was seated in ridicule.

  She narrowed her eyes. “I’ll put my education up against yours any day.”

  Brandon grew serious as he studied the pattern the headlights made on the dark road ahead.

  “You might not want to do that. You don’t know much about me.”

  “So you’re saying you’re that famed but elusive poet slash philosopher who chooses to work as a longshoreman because he believes we’re intended to work with brain, body, and spirit?”

  He glanced over at her face dimly reflected in the dashboard lights and screwed up his face.

  “What!?!”

  She slumped down in the seat and sighed.

  “Well, that proved nothing. If you were him, that’s exactly what his reaction would be.”

  “You’re a strange girl, Rose.”

  “I’m a woman, Brandon.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “I’m not the only person in the world who thinks females in their mid-twenties are past being ‘girls’.”

  “Are you trying to start a fight?”

&nbs
p; She thought about that for a minute. “Maybe.”

  “Why?”

  She thought about that for another minute.

  “Maybe I think it’s safe to fight with you.”

  “Safe?”

  When she didn’t say more, Brand concluded that it had been a while since she’d felt like she could safely voice an opposing view. She was exercising the privilege. Taking it out for a run. With him.

  “You want to talk about what happened?”

  “Happened?”

  “With him?”

  She glanced at the clock and shook her head.

  “Not at five freaking twenty in the morning.”

  He shrugged. “Up to you. It’s my turn to pick the music.” He reached for the radio.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Well, since we’re going to be stuck in a crate together for days, it’s a way to pass the time.” He smiled at her. “Who knows? You might give me a reason to be enthusiastic about guarding your body.”

  “That pillow you threw at me this morning felt like you’re already pretty enthusiastic.”

  Without another word he began scanning the radio signal. With his left hand on the wheel he went up and down the range of stations before settling on a mix of rock old and new. When the first song ended, the DJ announced that the system was going to be sitting on top of a forty thousand square mile area including parts of West Virginia, Kentucky, and Tennessee. She warned drivers to be safe in a voice far too sexy to sound alarming, but the message was received nonetheless. It was raining where they were and it was going to be raining where they were going, too.

  Brand began happily drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel when the DJ’s admonition was replaced with a song by Stink Fist.

  After a few seconds, Cami reached over and turned off the radio.

  “Okay. You win. No more torture. I’ll talk.”

  “Stink Fist isn’t torture,” he said. “Wait until you hear Sick Puppies.”

  She stared. “That’s not a real band.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “It really is.”

  “There should be a law.”

  “You’re stalling. Give me something else to listen to. If Stink Fist is off the table, you’re up.”

  “Why do you want to hear this?”

  “What else have we got to do? You’ve got a story that I’ve become a part of even if that was by contract. So I’m curious. How did a…” he smiled, ”well-educated woman such as yourself end up here in the rain in a car too old for satellite sounds or navigation, leaving West Virginia in the dark? With me.”

  “Is this in confidence?”

  “Are you asking for it to be?”

  She bit her lip. “Yes.”

  He waggled his head back and forth.

  “Sure. I’m not very big on carrying gossip anyway.”

  “Hmmm. I took you for a tongue wagger.”

  “Stalling.”

  “Alright. Alright.” She faced forward, like she didn’t want to know his reactions. “I met Trey at a party, a fund raiser for Catholic Charities. I’m not Catholic, but you know… Boston.” She said that as if the name of the city carried a world of background information and explanation. “It’s good for the family business.”

  Brandon knew a lot about attending charity events and giving generously because it was good for the family business, but he wasn’t about to share that they had that in common.

  “Somebody I’d known from school was there and introduced me. Mary Donovan,” she added, like the name was somehow pertinent. “I’d noticed him staring at me throughout the evening. It would have been impossible not to notice because he’s not the sort of personality who’s easily overlooked. Well… and he’s very good-looking.”

  Brandon shifted his weight in the seat when he heard that. It bothered him that she thought the villain she was running from was good-looking, though he had no idea why. Why should he care what she thought about her ex’s looks? He reached for a bag of peanuts and ripped it open with his teeth.

  “He immediately launched a full courtship press. Apparently he decided on sight that I was going to be the lucky girl.”

  “Woman.”

  “What?”

  “No double standards. If I can’t call you a girl, you can’t call yourself a girl.”

  “Oh. Right. It’s just an expression.”

  When she didn’t resume her story, Brand prompted her. “It’s just an expression when I say it, too. Go on.”

  “Ah, well, this is harder than I thought. I’ve never told the whole story before.”

  He glanced over at her. “Not to anybody?”

  “Nope. Not even my mother.” She laughed. “Of course she’s the last person who’d be interested.”

  “Your dad is interested. I know that for a fact.”

  She nodded. “I don’t know how I would have been able to pull away without his help.” She sighed. “So he did that thing that predators do. Now I know how to recognize it because I’ve done a little research, but at the time, it just looked like a very attractive and successful guy was head over heels in love with me and desperate for my attention.

  “It was nonstop flower deliveries and handwritten love notes. He even showed up at work to take me to lunch two or three times a week.”

  “Work?”

  “Yeah. Work. I’m, well, I guess I should say I was a junior Art of the Americas curator at the MFA.” He whistled and gave her a look that made her feel defensive. “I know what you’re thinking. That I got the job because of my family. And you’re right. I did. But it’s not like I didn’t do the work. I have an M.A. on the subject. I spent a year of high school in Mexico City and two years at the art museum in Sao Paulo.”

  Brandon raised an eyebrow.

  “You speak Spanish and Portuguese?”

  She smiled. “Well, that’s a surprise.”

  “What is?”

  “Most Americans think Brazilians speak Spanish.” Brandon shrugged. “Yes. I speak Spanish and Portuguese. And a little bit of French.”

  “Combien coûte un peu?’’

  “Well, Sir Bodyguard. I’m even more surprised.”

  “Work takes me all over.”

  She nodded.

  “To answer the question, I know enough that I could get around a French menu without using an app.”

  “So you were saying he would take you to lunch.”

  She seemed to deflate a little. Like the conversation had turned halfway pleasant and that tenuous grip on cheer was jerked out from under her.

  She faced toward the windshield.

  “It was flattering. Really flattering. I think maybe there’s something deep in the core of femininity that longs to be pursued like that. For all appearances, he made me believe that I was desired above all other women, that not only did he only have eyes for me, but that he would always feel that way. And I mean, what woman could resist that?”

  Brandon’s only response was a deep sigh.

  “I guess you’re thinking that I was really naïve. And gullible,” she said.

  “I wasn’t thinking that. My thoughts were more along the lines of thinking this guy is growing in douchebagness with every new syllable you speak.”

  “You know, you don’t talk like a bodyguard.”

  “You keep saying that. How many bodyguards have you had?”

  “Um. You’re the first? Okay. So point taken. Maybe I’m not in a position to claim authority on how bodyguards talk in general. I just suspect they don’t talk like you.”

  The rain was coming down so hard that Brand was forced to slow to twenty miles an hour. He couldn’t see farther than the projection of the SUV’s headlights.

  “You get easily distracted. You know that?” he asked.

  “I’ll have you know I’m quite capable of concentration.”

  “Well?”

  “So where was I?”

  Brandon rolled his eyes.

  “You know exactly where you were.” S
he reached up to run a hand over her head and gasped. “What’s wrong?”

  “Ah, nothing. I’m just not used to not having any hair.”

  He glanced over at her.

  “It’s different from what you’re used to, but it still looks good.”

  She looked at him with surprise, not expecting a compliment. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Music or story. Your choice.”

  “You’re kind of confusing. You say something nice and dovetail that with blackmail.”

  “You’re stalling, Rose.”

  “Okay. Okay.” She unzipped her jacket and aimed the warm air vent away from her body. “I told you he was good-looking. And successful. Well, add charming and sophisticated to that.” Brandon felt the muscles in his throat tighten. “The reason I’m telling you all this is so you won’t think I was crazy to fall for somebody like him. He pushed every button. Metaphorically speaking.”

  “Why do you care if I think you’re crazy?”

  “I don’t,” she said a little too quickly and a little too defensively. “Never mind. It was one of those whirlwind romances you hear about. At least that’s what I thought it was.

  “Three weeks after I met Trey, we were having dinner with my family to announce the engagement and show off my obscenely showy diamond. He didn’t ask me what kind of ring I wanted. Now I recognize that as an early warning sign, like foreshadowing in books. You know? But at the time I thought it was kind of romantic that he wanted to surprise me with the ring he wanted.”

  “Hold on. I may be off on this, but don’t a lot of guys just go out and buy rings?”

  “Maybe they used to. These days, I’m pretty sure most consult with the bride-to-be about what she wants to wear twenty-four seven for the rest of her life.”

  Brandon nodded. “When you put it that way…”

  “Anyhow. My family was more than okay with it. Especially my mother. And, well, why not? He looked good on paper.” She let out a bitter little laugh. “He looked good in person. Gave every appearance of being the catch of the century. So they gave us their blessings and my mother spent the next nine months planning a society event to remember. I don’t know how much it cost, but my dress alone was nutty expensive. The wedding was at St. Paul’s Cathedral. We’re Episcopal.”

  She looked at Brandon for a reaction, but there was none. She studied his handsome face reflected in the dashboard lights for a second before continuing.