by Cathryn Cade
By the time they rolled up the on ramp to the interstate and headed east through the city, she was feeling more comfortable. By the time they reached a turn-off to Post Falls, she was smiling like a fool. As they coasted down an off-ramp and to a stop at a red light, she fumbled up the windscreen on her helmet and tipped her head to his ear.
"Do we have to stop?"
He pulled down the bandanna over his face and grinned. "Having fun?"
She patted his hard abs exuberantly. "Yes! I love it."
"Good. We're just turning onto another road that goes across the river. You'll like it. Now hang on."
She adjusted her helmet and hung on as they accelerated south through the small but pretty downtown, past older buildings that had been re-furbished, and over a bridge, with the Spokane River green and smooth below. They swept up a hill and curved through the trees along a narrow road, with flashes of the river below, lined with pretty houses, docks and the occasional boat arrowing through the water.
After a while they slowed to descend a switchback and emerged onto a busy highway, with Coeur d'Alene Lake on the opposite side. I-95, the main north-south highway through Idaho, she realized.
They headed north, crossed the river again and turned east into Coeur d'Alene. It looked so different from the last time she'd been here. Because she was happy, Sara realized with a shock. When she'd driven out of town only a few short weeks ago, she'd been at the end of a very short rope—fed up with her life and herself.
Now she still didn't know just where she’d end up, but she felt so much freer, and lighter, as if she'd set down a heavy yoke of responsibility that no longer fit her.
They idled past the City Park, and along Sherman. At a stop light, Stick turned his head. "You pick a spot for lunch. You know this burg better than I do."
Sara pointed over his shoulder at the place she'd eaten with Lindi and Kit. "That place has great sandwiches, and lots of microbrews."
He nodded, motored on past it and then executed a left turn and looped around so they were facing back the way they'd come. Rolling to a stop in front of the cafe, he put his feet down and walked it back at an angle against the curb, then put down the kickstand.
"Hop off, woman."
Sara hopped off, then pulled her borrowed helmet off and shook her head, fluffing her hair with one hand. She smiled at him as he threw a leg over his bike and stood, the biggest, baddest man on the busy street.
"I'm buying a motorcycle," she announced.
He smirked from behind his mirrored aviators, and put a hand on her back to guide her up onto the sidewalk. "Not for a while, you're not. You wanna ride, you'll ride with me. Then I’ll give you lessons, and we'll see."
"Bossy," she said, and tossed her head.
It was at this point that she looked to the outdoor table just beside the entrance to the cafe. Sitting there, staring at her with eyes wide and mouths slightly open, were George Bartlett, Nikki Tupper, and two other attorneys, whose names she could not recall.
Sara froze for an instant. Then she cocked her head and smiled as if she were delighted to see them, which she totally was, in a way.
"George, Nikki," she said. "Imagine meeting you here. Ivan, baby, this is my former boss, CP George Bartlett, and his new ... oh, darn, what was it you do again, Nikki?"
"I know who he is," Stick said, his deep voice cold as ice. "Is she the back-stabbing bitch who cost you your job?"
George's face reddened, and Nikki, whose gaze had been flicking from Sara to Stick and back again in fascination, stiffened, her face flattening with disappointment.
Sara snapped her fingers. "That's it. That's what she does," Sara told Stick. "But you know what? She can have the job, and George too. The only stick he has is up his ass."
Stick chuckled at her joke, and gave her a squeeze. Then he swung the door open and walked her inside the cafe. They were seated outside—around the corner of the building from Nikki, George and his cronies—when Sara looked at Stick and then tipped her face forward against his leather-clad shoulder, groaning. "Did I just say that to them?"
He gave her a full on smile, face alight with warmth and humor and something else she was afraid to try and name. "Da, dorogoy moye, you did. You faced them down like a fuckin' warrior queen. Not to mention, you looked hot as hell doing it."
“Well, it was a boring job anyway,” she mumbled. “And one thing about you Flyers ... you may drive a woman full-moon crazy, but you’re never boring.”
Stick slid his hand around the back of her neck, and pulled her in for a long, wet kiss. Pulling back at last, he nuzzled his face against hers. "Neither are you, dorogoy. Not for a minute."
Sara thought about diving under the table, or pulling her new jacket over her head and hiding under it. She had to stop blurting around him! But then she sighed, and smiled at him. "I used to be boring, before I met you," she assured him. "Just ask my friends."
"Nah," he told her. "You were just waiting for me to break you out of your boring life and beliefs."
"Whatever." She wrinkled her nose. "But Stick ... what if once you really get to know me, you realize I'm still just boring, beige Sara under the new biker chick disguise?"
He threw back his head and laughed, then gave her neck a final caress before letting her go. "Milaya, this is not a disguise—not for you. The little suits and the careful life—that was your disguise."
She stared at him as the waitress set down glasses of ice water and menus and said something cheery about the lunch specials. Was he right? Could she trust that the warm, delicious glow swelling in her heart for him, his boys and for the possibility of a creative future was meant for her to have and to hold?
"What?" she asked, realizing Stick and the waitress were waiting, Stick smiling and the waitress politely but with a dozen other people to wait on as well. "Oh. I'll have the special. And a glass of white wine."
The waitress hurried away, and Stick waited, gaze on Sara.
She twiddled a strand of her hair between her fingers, moistened her lips and went for it. "Stick, where do your brothers buy their vests, their cuts?"
His gaze sharpened. "Special ordered from leather craftsmen around the country. Sometimes the wait is long. Expensive too. And if any mistakes are made in fit or lettering, there's more waiting. Why?"
She swallowed. "Well, because I'm going to learn to do that—to make custom cuts. And other stuff, too. Purses, and money belts like you wear, with the loops for your knife, or whatever."
"Ah." He nodded slowly. "This could be good, for you and for my brothers. Of course, you'd have to give first service to the Flyers."
"I could do that."
His eyes twinkled. "You could begin by making sample cuts for my boys. They would think Christmas came early."
"It might be Christmas before I get them done," she said wryly. "I'll need a leather sewing machine, and a better work table, and lighting ... and more hand tools."
"I'll loan you the money," he stated. "And before you argue, listen. The Hangar turns a nice profit for me and Pete. So do various other businesses I'm involved in, which we won't go into here. I've loaned money to brothers to get them started in business ventures, so you wouldn't be the first. Or the last. You're gonna do this, you wanna do it right, go all in, not piss along without the right equipment or workspace. You'll need a website, business cards, all that shit. Get someone to design them for you, do it right, make it look good, so customers will trust you, want you to do their pieces."
Sara stared at him. A tiny corner of her mind knew she probably looked as stupid as George and Nikki had a few moments ago, but she was struggling to process all the implications of this incredible offer.
He raised a brow. "What? You don’t think the president of a motorcycle club knows anything about how to run a business?"
Sara shook her head. "No, I can see you do. It’s that ... you believe I can do it," she said. "Without even seeing any of my work."
The warm glow was bigger, and softe
r, until she felt like a Mylar balloon who might lift right out of her chair and float away, leaving goodness drifting in her wake. Instead of cautioning her, saying her idea was cute but she'd better study the market, etcetera ... Ivan was simply offering to back her.
"Don't need to see your work. You're a class act, Sara. You've been workin' hard, movin' up since you were a teen. I've seen the way you put yourself together, the way your little house looks better than it ever has, though if you tortured me, I couldn't say why, 'cause I'm not into that shit. But what I do know is, you're not gonna work leather and turn out shit. You'll do work that's classy, like you."
She held up her hands, palms out. "Okay, stop talking. Right now, Ivan, I'm not kidding. You're gonna make me cry, and I am not doing that in my hometown, lunchtime crowd." She blinked furiously, feeling the hot press of tears behind her eyes.
He chuckled, and reached to put his hand on her knee and give it a squeeze. "Can't have that. I'll shut up, milaya. Besides, here come our sandwiches, and I'm hungry."
So was she, ravenous. Luckily, the special turned out to be a turkey sandwich with cranberry chutney and melted gruyere, with sweet potato fries. It was delicious. Stick had a huge cheeseburger with all the fixings.
Sara couldn't remember when she'd enjoyed a lunch more.
But when they rolled back into the drive to his house and hers, a large black van was parked on her side of the hedge. Two men were standing beside it, chatting and smoking cigarettes. They wore jeans and black shirts with name patches on the pocket.
Sara’s heart gave a thump of alarm. Oh, holy heck, who were they, and what were they doing on her property?
The men gave Stick a chin lift--she assumed they weren't greeting her as she'd never seen them before. One was older, and the younger one looked like him. Father and son, maybe. Stick nodded back, as if he knew them.
Sara let go of Stick and lifted her visor. "Who are they and what are they doing here?"
"Gene and Roy. They're putting in the new security system I ordered for you," Stick said. "Hop off, and let's take a look."
Sara didn't exactly hop off, because honestly, her legs were now like rubber. Riding a motorcycle used muscles she didn’t know she had. She clambered off, pulled off her helmet and fluffed her hair. Then she stalked over to have a look at her house.
There was a camera over her back door, and another on the side facing the drive. When she walked onto the back step, a light flashed on, bright in the shadows of the house. Then a siren went off.
"What the hell?" Sara demanded, dashing off the step and over to Stick and the two men, all of whom were watching her and grinning. "Make it stop!"
One man held up a remote and the siren stopped. Sara glared at the three of them. "I did not ask for this, and I don't want it. Take it down—all of it."
"No," Stick said, in a voice that caused the other two men to fade back several steps and begin quietly loading odds and ends into their van. He glared down at Sara. "You'll keep the system, and you'll learn to use it. Anyone comes around here, day or night, you'll know. Then I'll know, and I'll do somethin' about it. I need you to be safe."
Sara huffed a sigh of frustration. "But Ivan, I can't live with a siren that goes off if I step on my own back porch! And where is my dog? Huh? He's probably scared into the next county by all this."
"You mean that dog?" Stick asked dryly, pointing. Sara turned. Blackie sat by the Harley, watching them. When Sara turned, he thumped his tail twice on the gravel, stood and strolled toward her.
"He's a great dog," Gene or Roy said. Sara didn't have time to straighten them out in her mind. "He barked at us, so we waited in the van till Rocker came over and calmed him down, let him know we're cool."
"Rocker?" Sara asked, bewildered.
"He used to be a cop," Stick said, still in the clipped tones of irritation. " So was Blade. Worked with K-9. Blackie understands the commands, so they’re certain the dog at least went through the training. Maybe he washed out, who knows. That enough, or you need more history?"
Sara flushed. She may have been a little bitchy. He should've asked first, but he was doing this for the right reasons.
"That's enough, thank you." She turned to the two technicians, who were grinning at her. "Which one of you is going to show me how to use my new security system?"
"I am," the younger man said. "Unless Stick wants to. You got the same system he does."
"You do it," Stick said to him, and turned his back on Sara, starting a conversation with the older man.
Fine with her. Sara smiled at Gene, according to his pocket. "Okay. Hit me."
Forty minutes later, she had two remotes, a set of instructions, and a pounding headache.
She thanked Gene again, showed him outside, noted that Stick and his Harley were both gone. She went back inside, slammed the door, and tried, with little success, to talk herself out of having an angry cry.
Then she washed her face and fixed her eye-makeup, reminding herself that by insisting on the security system he was looking after her, in his own over-the-top, bossy, biker way.
Thus, she marched over to his house and knocked on the back door.
Marta answered. The pretty redhead looked surprised to see her and then uncomfortable.
"You’re looking for Ivan? He's gone ... to the compound. Listen, you seem nice, so I'll tell you this--you shouldn't come here looking for him. He doesn't like women to chase him. If he wants to see you, he'll let you know."
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Sara's cheeks burned. "Right. Thanks for the advice."
Then, because she was not putting up with anymore shit from Ivan ‘Stick’ Vanko, or any uncertainty, she stalked back to her house, and changed her clothes, into the little black dress and the high-heeled strappy sandals. She added the red lip gloss, dangling jet earrings and another dab of perfume. Then she marched back outside, got into the Caddy, and rolled out of the drive.
Marta might be right, and she might be making another big mistake. This might be just a repeat of her last, humiliating visit to the Devil's Flyers' club house. But Stick Vanko had been chasing her for over a week, and she was going to find out exactly what he meant by it.
If he tossed her out again, well, then she was going out to dinner with another man, a nice one who shared her interest in leather-work and like dogs, and Stick could just roll on, doing whatever he wanted, with whoever he chose ... and ripping her heart into bloody shreds while he did it. But he would never know that, because she’d hide it for all she was worth.
The Caddy rolled along the dusty road through the early evening, straight to the compound.
The young prospect, Streak was hanging by the gate, smoking. He let her in with a chin lift and a grin, and Sara drove in and parked near the open front doors. Her heart was pounding like a Native American drum, and she felt a little sick, but she took a deep breath, stepped out of her car, leaving her keys in the ignition and her purse on the seat. Because she might be coming right back out again.
When she walked in, an old country song was playing on the sound system, pool balls were clacking at one of the tables, and some of the brothers were cackling over the punchline of some story at the bar.
Near the back, at the big round table, Stick sat with his usual crew, Rocker, Bouncer and a few other brothers. There were women there too.
And one of them, a striking brunette Sara had never seen before, wearing a tiny halter playsuit and stiletto heels, was leaning over Stick's shoulder, whispering something in his ear.
All Sara's nerves went up in a searing flame of absolute fury. She shoved an empty chair out of her way with a screech of the legs on the linoleum floor, and stalked to stand before Stick's table, hands on her hips.
"What the hell, Ivan?" she demanded, glaring at him and the brunette. "You have me on the back of your bike one minute, and this club whore all over you the next?"
As luck would have it, the song had ended, and her words cut like a blade through the odd
quiet that had fallen over the club as she walked in.
Stick set down the glass of beer in his hand and gave her a look so full of intensity she felt it clear to her bones, although damned if she could decipher it. "Hello, milaya."
The brunette straightened with a flounce, and glared at Sara. "Who are you calling a whore, bitch?" she demanded. "Find another man, this one's taken."
Sara tipped her head and looked the other woman over. "Yes, he is," she said. "By me. And if you don't get your fake nails off of him right now, I will take you down."
The brunette tossed her long, glossy locks. "You can try."
Bouncer slammed his empty glass on the table and laughed. "Hoo-yah! Go for it, bitches."
"Take 'er, Sara!" one of the brothers yelled. Others laughed.
"Whoa, now, Sara." Rocker started to come out of his chair, but Stick shook his head and the VP sat back, looking resigned.
"Really?" Sara asked IStick, holding his gleaming gaze. "You think I won't?"
Something inside her snapped, and she went for the brunette in a way that she had not done since another girl pulled her pigtails in second grade.
She grabbed a handful of brunette hair and yanked, hard, pulling the other woman away from Stick. The brunette let out a shriek and grabbed Sara's arm, but Sara lifted one knee and shoved with her sandaled foot.
The brunette went flying, her eyes and mouth wide, right into Bouncer's lap. She landed with a shriek, legs flying up, hair in her face.
"There," Sara called, panting. "You want a club officer, maybe this one will give you a sample."
Rocker laughed, and slapped his hands on the table. "Righteous, mama." He gave Sara a big smile, teeth flashing in his tanned face.
Hoots and laughter rang out, along with a few filthy suggestions of what Bouncer should ask for.
Sara was watching Stick. She cocked her hip, and looked him over while the brunette huffed and wriggled on Bouncer's lap. Bouncer said something to her, then laughed and smacked her skinny ass as she stood. The brunette tossed her head and stormed away.
