by Kati Wilde
“We’ll get them,” Picasso says, which isn’t a surprise, because he’d be more likely to let another man screw his girlfriend—if he had one—than push his motorcycle a few feet. He and Spiral start to head off, then he turns around, pointing at me. “About the ride home last night. Thank you.”
“You don’t have to say it again.”
“I was so damn drunk I couldn’t remember if I said it the first time.” He snaps his fingers before looking to Gunner. “And speaking of drunk—don’t forget the kegs.”
That’s like a magic word to Jenny, whose brewery is located in a renovated barn a few minutes’ drive from the house. As Spiral and Picasso take off, her gaze zeroes in on Gunner. “Kegs?”
He nods. “The brothers have food here, some booze, and no reason to go. So I figure it’ll be easier to round them up and get them out of your hair if we promise to have enough beer at the clubhouse to get them shitfaced by midnight.”
She frowns. “I don’t care if they stay here.”
“Maybe so, but it’s my responsibility to see they stay in line,” Gunner says evenly. “And I don’t want to explain to the prez why I let a brother get drunk enough to break a window or to piss in a houseplant, or let one start a fight that scares the shit out of the good civilians here. Because with the brothers’ emotions running high, you know it’ll happen.”
He’s right. Jenny glances at me, as if looking for someone to help her be sweet and generous enough to leave her house open to fifty bikers and their old ladies all night. My wide eyes and a shake of my head tell her I’m not that person.
She sighs and nods, then scans the crowd. “Have you seen Hashtag?”
Who has been working with her at the brewery. I scan, too. I don’t remember seeing the Riders’ newest member in the house, but I know he didn’t miss the funeral.
“Widowmaker sent him home sick.” Gunner solves that mystery. “The kid was supposed to take care of this for us, but he could barely stand through the service. Picked up some flu going around.”
“Oh. Well, I don’t know if I can leave…” As Jenny glances around the crowded room again, uncertainty flickers over her face, followed by resolve. “It’s okay. I’ll head out to the barn and—”
I stop her. “I’ll do it.”
“But—”
“I know where all the stuff is.” I’ve helped her out in the brewery’s storefront plenty of times. But she’s already looking guilty, so I add, “I’d actually like to go, because a little fresh air sounds really good right now. I’ll take your truck, so I can load the kegs up in the back.”
My body stiffens when Gunner says, “I’ll go as muscle.”
“I can do it—”
He cuts me off. “I know you can.”
His eyes are hard when they meet mine, as if he’s daring me to keep arguing. I wouldn’t. Because A) loading those kegs is hard and I could use the help, and B) I’m hardly going to tell him what he can do while we’re in someone else’s house.
And of course there’s C), which is: being alone with him will hurt—but I’m hurting now, so there’s not much difference.
“Anyway, I could use some air, too,” he says to Jenny, and I’m not sure if he means it or if he’s following my lead, making Jenny believe she’s doing us a favor by letting us go.
At least her guilt is gone, and she’s smiling again as she nods—then her expression freezes, her eyes locked on mine and flaring wide. Her gaze flicks to Gunner and back to me.
Oh. That look was gone in an instant but I could read it. She probably knows I was grabbing onto any excuse to get out of here, especially after hearing about all that shit.
But it’ll be okay. Because like the gossip, this means nothing. Gunner’s simply not the kind of guy who will let me wrestle kegs into the back of a truck by myself. He’s just being nice by offering to help.
Because if there’s one thing the past ten years have taught me, he’s sure as hell not offering because he wants to be alone with me.
9
Anna
I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been alone with Gunner in the past ten years. I don’t even need to use all five fingers.
The first time was when Gunner stopped to help change my tire. Big, sexy, sweet—and he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen, so I offered him my name, my number, and a drink that I hoped would lead to my bed.
He didn’t want any of them. He claimed one night probably wouldn’t be enough and he’d come looking for me. I didn’t see the harm in that.
Gunner did, though he didn’t explain why. So he only took a kiss and walked away.
A few moments later, he learned my name anyway. Before he could ride off, I got a call from my brother, and I discovered the man who stopped to help me out was the same man visiting my family for the next week.
He was the man who would be sleeping in the bedroom across the hall from mine.
The second time I was alone with him, we were in that bedroom. Well, we were in the bedroom for a few minutes, but mostly in the hall. I hadn’t expected him to be home that Saturday night. My brother and Gunner had been to another funeral that day—standing with the Hellfire Riders, who were forming a line to block a hate group picketing a soldier’s burial. My brother’s plan for afterward had been to hook up with any willing chick. I assumed Gunner’s plan was the same. I don’t know if my brother scored that night but Gunner didn’t, even though I would have been an easy shot.
I’d been out with Jenny, trying to have a good time and pretending that it didn’t matter where our visitor spent the night. But when I came home I found Gunner already in the guest room, reading. We talked for a few minutes, then I asked if he wanted to grab breakfast with me the next day—an invitation that he could have taken any way he liked.
He didn’t take it at all. Instead he said it was better to keep things simple between us—because Stone was his friend, and I was Stone’s sister.
That rejection sucked, but I accepted it. After all, he was so nice about letting me down. And he was just visiting, anyway, so I assumed I’d never see him again after he left.
And I didn’t for four years, though Stone frequently mentioned him.
I never imagined Gunner would come back to Pine Valley. Certainly not to live. People don’t move to this town. They move out. But he came, patched in with the Hellfire Riders, and was always around—at the house Stone and I bought, at the Wolf Den.
And since he was always around, it didn’t take me long to figure out that he still meant to keep things simple. Because he didn’t talk to me unless someone else was there to act as a buffer. Because he clearly made every effort not to be alone with me.
That’s when it started hurting. But it was so stupid to feel that way—I knew it was. So I tried not to care.
I tried so hard. But of course, the next time I was alone with Gunner, I threw myself at him. Nine years of wanting burst through the dam I’d built of my emotions and I don’t know if I could have stopped myself, even if I hadn’t been drinking.
Sure, I was drunk off my ass. And sure, he’s a decent guy, so he pushed me away. But the next day, I wasn’t drunk. The next day, he had to know I wanted him. But instead of taking a step in that direction, he asked if things were still the same between us. So I shrugged and told him of course they were.
Simple. Like always.
Maybe that’s why he’s wary of being alone with me, though. What an awesome track record I have. The first time, I give him a clear invitation to my bed, but he only takes a kiss. The second time, I invite him to my bed again and he gently declines. The third time, I drunkenly throw myself at him and he pushes me away.
Even now, he’s probably wondering how hard he’ll have to fight me off when I inevitably jump him on our way to pick up the kegs.
But I’m not going to touch him. If I can help it, I won’t even look at him.
I’ve never been able to help it, though.
My stomach has twisted int
o a nervous coil by the time I grab Jenny’s keys, slide into my big puffy coat, and make my way out to the garage. The overhead door is rolling up, the motor a smooth hum. Gunner must have told Bottlecap we were leaving, because the prospect is sliding into the driver’s seat of an SUV blocking the garage entrance. The rig’s headlights cut through the dark outside, sparkling against rain mixed with bits of snow.
Standing by Jenny’s pickup, Gunner glances up from his phone, slipping the device into his back pocket as I step through the door. Good Lord, he’s beautiful. Halogen lamps glare down from the ceiling, but the harsh light seems to soften against the sharp angles of his face. The stark shadows below his eyebrows highlight the dazzling blue of his eyes.
I suspect those bright lights aren’t as kind to me as they are to him. There are no tears now, but my face must be ravaged. Puffy, red. As I approach the truck, his hand lifts toward me—then he abruptly shoves his fists into the pockets of his black jeans, his shoulders hunching over. He doesn’t need to tell me I look like hell. The sudden concern on his face says it for him.
But since I can’t count on him to actually say anything, I opt for a polite, neutral, “How are you, Gunner?”
“Shitty.” His voice is low and rough and it doesn’t matter that his hands are tucked away, because his gaze moving across my face feels like the warmest caress. “I won’t ask how you are.”
A ragged laugh escapes me. Great. “You don’t need to ask because I look shitty? Or you won’t ask because Saxon told the Riders not to?”
“He told us not to ask Jenny. But you loved Red, too.”
Yes, I did. For a long second, my throat hurts too much to get anything out, then I finally manage a hoarse, “He was her dad, but…I was here a lot.”
“I feel the same way about your parents,” he admits and I almost start crying again.
Because I know he does. The way my parents welcomed him in, he might as well be part of the family. Maybe it would have been easier if he was. If I could think of him like a brother. If he could just wrap me up in his arms like my brother sometimes does. Maybe this would hurt less if he talked to me as easily as he talks to Stone, so I wouldn’t try to grab moments like this and hold them close.
But maybe it would be harder than it already is.
“Anna, no. Don’t cry.”
His command is a soft groan. He steps closer, obviously thinking the tears swimming in my eyes are for Red. Because if he knew the real source of my distress, he couldn’t be backing away fast enough, telling me to keep it simple.
I desperately try to pull it together. This is not me. I’m not a weeper. I’m a laugher. I’m a snapper. But today nothing is normal. “It’s okay. I’m not crying again.”
“All right.” Something in his voice says he doesn’t believe that, and he’s watching me so carefully. “But tell me if there’s anything I can do for you.”
There is. Grab me and kiss me and tell me there’s hope for us.
I’m not stupid, though. There’s pain, and then there’s pain. Asking for Gunner’s love and then hearing him say he can’t give it would destroy me far worse than a broken heart could.
“You are doing something for me,” I remind him, gesturing to the truck. “You’re the muscle, remember?”
Over six feet of lean, gorgeous muscle.
He shakes his head. “Loading up the kegs isn’t for you. The beer’s for the club. If anything, you’re doing this for us.”
“For Jenny, actually.”
A smile lifts the corners of his mouth, but his solemn gaze doesn’t lighten. “I’d like to do something for you.”
He’d like to do something. As if I would be doing him a favor by letting him. Oh god. He’s managing me in the same way I told Saxon to manage Jenny.
I purse my lips. “You’ve been around my mom too much.”
Because that’s where I learned it from. I should have known Gunner picked up this kind of thing from her, too.
“Guilty,” he says and this time his smile touches his eyes. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not true. I’m not used to seeing you…hurt.”
Because I usually hide it from him. That won’t change now. A long, deep breath helps to outwardly steady me. The ache in my chest still grows—but I won’t show it.
Instead I arch my brows and jingle Jenny’s keys. “All right. Let’s head out, and on the way I’ll think up some horrible task for you to perform on my behalf.”
Interest narrows his eyes. “How horrible?”
“Really horrible,” I tell him but the ideas springing to mind aren’t so terrible. Ideas that involve his lips and his tongue and his fingers. Or my lips and tongue and fingers.
You know what you can do for me? Just stay still as I taste every inch of you.
Every hot, hard inch.
I don’t know if what’s running through my head is showing on my face, but his powerful body’s gone still, his pale gaze locked on my lips. I want to believe he’s thinking the same thing I am, that he’s thinking of tasting me all over.
But he’s already looking away, his jaw tight. So whether he read my expression or was imagining what I might ask him to do, he doesn’t want any of it.
God. Just pretend it doesn’t matter, I tell myself. Pretend that imagining his touch hasn’t hardened my nipples and fired a low, liquid ache between my legs. Pretend I don’t hate myself for desiring him, even now, like some idiot who rams head first into a brick wall, over and over and over again.
Pretend it doesn’t hurt.
Shrugging, I say, “However horrible it will be, I’m sure you’ve done worse before.”
His gaze flattens. “Yes.”
With that brusque admission, he snags the keys and opens the pickup’s door. Though he gestures to the seat, inviting me to drive, I head for the passenger side. Jenny’s truck has a manual transmission. Technically, I know how to use a clutch but the ride will be smoother if Gunner takes the wheel.
Smoother—and quieter. Because his silence is back. By the time I’ve settled in and clicked my seatbelt, a familiar tension has slipped under his skin, holding his big body rigid. He stares straight ahead while starting the engine, and it’s like a canyon separates us instead of eighteen inches of bench seat.
Throat tight, I turn my head away. My face is a shuttered, transparent reflection in the passenger window. I close my eyes so I don’t have to look at myself.
Because what I see is a woman desperately trying to drag out these minutes alone with him. I need to move forward, but having Gunner to myself is such a rarity that I’m grabbing onto this chance like a starving woman grasping for the last crust of bread, knowing each bite only delays the end but too hungry not to devour it.
I rest my cheek against the cold window, and desperately try to think of anything but how close Gunner is. In my own way, I’m as pathetic as my brother when it comes to romance.
But at least Stone plays the hero. So even though I tease him about going for the girls in trouble, I admire him. He just throws himself out there, risking his heart every single time.
I’ve thrown myself at Gunner. Each time, he shot me down. Throwing myself at him again wouldn’t be taking a risk—I know exactly how it will end. Let’s keep it simple, Anna. The real risk will be moving forward. But I take a step back every time he smiles at me.
I have to quit this.
I close my eyes. Just get the kegs and get away from him. No more smiles. No more time alone.
No more hope.
Not that I have much hope left, especially now. I was searching for something wrong with Gunner, hoping to learn something bad enough to knock him off the pedestal I’ve built for him, yet all the while I’ve been dancing around the truth. But Picasso and Spiral aimed right at it when they asked about Gunner’s type.
Because I am his type. Or I was. The first time we met, Jesus—he basically told me that I was. And the kiss we shared was insanely hot. It wasn’t only the physical attraction, though. We just clicked. Ev
erything he said, every joke he told. It was like he was made specifically for me. And I’m pretty damn sure he thought the same.
But still he told me he wouldn’t see me again. I like to pretend the reason he stays away is because of what he said later—I’m Stone’s little sister, and it’s best to keep things simple—but that wasn’t why he planned to ride away that first day. He didn’t know I was Stone’s sister then.
Anyway, Stone wouldn’t care if his friend dated me. He’d care if Gunner acted like a dick or screwed me over, but my brother’s not some stupid meathead guarding his sister’s virtue.
And I’ve been looking for a reason not to want him. But the truth is, there’s not anything wrong with Gunner.
There’s something wrong with me.
Or if not something wrong, just not enough right. And because of that, he drew a line between us—the line that said, “Let’s keep it simple.” The concern in his eyes is genuine, I’m sure. But no matter what he feels for me, I’m not worth enough for him to cross over that line. Maybe the reason is my brother. Maybe it’s something else. But whatever the reason, he doesn’t want me enough to step over.
And every time I’ve thrown myself over that line—he doesn’t want me enough to hold on. Instead he carefully pushes me back to my side.
God. I wanted a knife sharp enough to cut out my heart? Here it is. Knowing that Gunner’s everything I want…but I’m not enough for him.
And after all these years, it’s clear I never will be.
“You drove Picasso home last night?”
A hard note in his voice makes me lift my cheek from the window to look at him. I don’t know why I bothered. He’s staring straight ahead, wearing no expression at all.
My throat’s a solid lump, so I just nod.
He glances over to catch my response. His jaw tightens. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
The quiet anger in his reply makes me frown. “Why?”
