The Devil's Silver (The Road Devils MC Book 2)

by Marysol James

  So, sure. Silver knew Nell from drinking here – but he’d only ever had a drink here because he’d negotiated some deals with Gunner on behalf of his own President. Because he’d been a criminal hanging out with a criminal, and then going to said criminal’s wife’s bar for a beer. And since the best lie always has an element of truth, Silver stuck close enough to the truth to not tell a whole lie:

  “Yeah. I work on choppers, so I’m all over the country sourcing parts. One of my best suppliers is a woman named Roberta and she’s got a place just outside Lincoln, so I’m up here at least four times a year to check things out in person. Better than the internet, and safer than trusting any kind of courier. Some of the parts are huge, some are pretty delicate and anyway, I like getting my hands on something before I buy.”

  Ana blinked at him. “You work on what? Choppers? Like – helicopters?”

  Silver laughed. “Motorcycles. You got motorcycle stuff coming out of your ears tonight, sweet thing.”

  She giggled. “You repair them?”

  “Nope, not mainly. I custom-build them. Sometimes I get a bike that needs to be fixed, but I only work on really unique machines, to challenge myself. The one that I’ve got in my work garage now is a custom-restore on a bike from 1920. Beautiful thing, and Roberta told me that she a few parts that I might be interested in. I’m going to see her tomorrow morning, so as usual, I dropped by here for a drink and a quick catch-up with Nell.”

  “Did you ever meet her husband? Gunner?”

  “Oh, sure. Like I said, he only died about a year ago and I’ve been drinking here for about seven years. He knew I was big into motorcycles and we talked about bikes a lot.” Not even a little lie there, because it was true that he and Gunner had talked bikes – after they’d finished talking about percentages and how many guns and how many kilos of drugs. “We were both passionate about ‘em. Custom-builds can be really beautiful pieces of art and Gunner understood that.”

  “I don’t know much about motorcycles or… ummm… choppers.” She paused, shot him a saucy look. “Or helicopters.”

  He laughed.

  “I’m just not very good with my hands,” she said, looking down at his large, rough hands, speaking absently. “I guess you are though, huh? Oh!”

  Clearly abashed at her thoughtless words, she raised her eyes back up to meet his, blushing again, this time from sheer embarrassment. And just like that – knife-flick-quick – the electricity was back between them. It sizzled down Silver’s spinal cord, out his fingertips and toes, tightened his cock.

  From her side, she looked just as in thrall, just as helplessly turned on, but still like she wished for a pit to open up in front of her so she could dive in. He itched to reach across the table and touch her – to just hold both of her hands in one of his. He was sure that hers would be soft and delicate.

  But it was too soon to touch her… Silver was a lot of bad things, but being a creepy groper who lunged at women in sort-of-dive bars and sexually harassed them wasn’t among his failures. No, he waited until a woman wanted to be touched – then he didn’t stop touching her until she passed out in his arms.

  “I sure am, darlin’,” he drawled, exaggerating the fake accent to defuse the sexual tension a bit. Ana was looking awkward, and he wanted her to relax again. “My hands are my paycheck, so I’m damn good with ‘em. Never met an engine yet that I couldn’t get purring.”

  Despite the hint of sauciness, she giggled again and he thought that was just fine. But here he was babbling like a lunatic, and he knew nothing whatsoever about this smart, glorious beauty across from him. Well, time to correct that error.

  Silver glanced down at her glass, saw that it was almost empty. “Can I get you one more, Ana?”

  “Oh.” She looked down too, looking a bit surprised. “Oh, um. I’m not much of a drinker, and I’ve already had two…”

  “So a Coke?” Silver stood up. “Juice?”

  Ana gazed up at him as he towered over her. “I – you want to –” She seemed to struggle with herself for a brief second, then she said, more calmly: “Yes, please. A cranberry juice would be great. Thank you, Zeke.”

  “Sure.”

  She stood up now too and grabbed her backpack. He looked askance at her, but figured she was maybe going to the bathroom, so he moved his jean jacket from the chair to the table, to show that the space was occupied. When she trailed behind him to the bar, he turned and stared at her some more.

  “What’s up?” he said. “I’m buying.”

  “I guessed that and thank you,” she said airily. “But as I recall, someone handed me my butt because I didn’t watch him buy my drink earlier. I just thought that I’d better come on over here and supervise the juice purchase made by said shady character.”

  Silver threw his head back and laughed again. Nell shot him a look of surprise, then crossed her arms and glared at Ana.

  “You let a stranger buy you a drink and didn’t watch him to make sure he didn’t roofie you?” Nell snapped at Ana. “You’ve got a good guy here and so you’ve got no worries about him, but you didn’t know that when you accepted the drink, did you? C’mon now, girl… that’s Bar Smarts 101.”

  “Hey, Nell,” Silver said as Ana stared down at her feet, praying hard that she didn’t call him ‘Silver’ in front of Ana. “We’ve had the discussion, alright? The lady here is kinda new to the scene, and isn’t totally paranoid to appropriate levels quite yet. Besides…” He gently touched Ana’s hand for the first time, felt a shock at its softness and she looked up again. He gave her a little wink. “She’s watching me now. Right?”

  “Right,” Ana whispered.

  “So! She’s a fast learner.” Silver took his wallet out. “A cranberry juice please, Nell.”

  “And another whiskey?” Nell asked.

  “Nope, I’ve still got some and I’m done for the night, thanks.” He paid quickly, eager to get Ana away before his luck ran out and Nell or Davie called him by his road name, which was the only name that they knew for him; he’d have some explaining to do if he got called ‘Silver’, for sure.

  Nell poured the juice, shot Ana another look that damn near sent her scurrying out the door and turned to a hovering customer. Silver handed Ana her juice, then – so gently, so carefully, like she was made of the finest porcelain – he placed his large hand on the small of her back, just barely skimmed that vulnerable little curve, and steered her back to their table. He held her chair out and she sat with all the grace of a queen. He moved his chair over to her side of the table, then paused.

  “Is this OK?” he asked her. “Can I sit closer to you?”

  Those amazing dark eyes gazed up at him. Receptive, warm, surprised, a bit fearful. Silver waited – he wasn’t going to ask again, and he wasn’t going to presume. It was her call, everything was her call and if she said no, he’d haul ass back across the table, no problem.

  But she didn’t say no.

  “Yes,” Ana said shyly. “I’d like that.”

  Silver didn’t need telling twice: he planted himself in his chair, close enough that he could inhale her scent. She smelled of something sweet and fresh, like wild roses or a sunrise in spring. He longed to bury his face in that luxurious hair, just breathe her in. This was a woman that he’d happily drive across state lines for and if she was from Omaha, he’d make damn sure that he needed to come out this way and visit Roberta more than three or four times a year. Silver could definitely invent reasons to come back to Nebraska for ‘work’ – you bet he could. For Ana, he could do a lot, even if he didn’t totally comprehend why he wanted to do anything at all.

  Jesus Christ man… you haven’t even asked her a single personal question, let alone kissed her. Get a goddamn grip, open your mouth, and get to know her a bit before you commit to driving for ten hours and bedding her regularly, huh?

  “So where do you live, Ana?�
�� he asked, needing to get this information ASAP. “Around here? You a Nebraska girl?”

  She started at the question, spilled her drink as she brought it to her mouth. Blushing again and murmuring an apology, she grabbed some kleenex from her backpack, wiped the table and her hands and then – oh, God, so fucking beautiful and pure – she lifted her fingers to her sweet little rosebud mouth and licked the sticky juice off them. It was a totally innocent and fleeting gesture, even a practical one, but Silver was transfixed as her pink tongue teasingly ran the length of her fingers. His cock hardened yet again and he cursed a blue streak in his head, trying to talk himself down – literally down.

  “So…” He cleared his throat, manfully ignoring her glistening skin, almost managing to not imagine his own tongue running over her curves. “Are you from Omaha?”

  Jo looked at him, her heart still pounding hard. She wasn’t surprised at her reaction to what was, for Zeke, a totally innocent question, a totally idle and banal query. Everybody asked where everybody else was from, right? Sure they did. No need to jump and spill her drink; no big, scary question.

  But the problem was that for Jo, it kind of was a big, scary question and the fear was brought on by the years not trusting even the most basic information from and with Brian. She’d spent over half a decade being lied to by omission and commission, using silence whenever possible to avoid having to answer questions. But when pushed, she’d often talked as little as she could get away with and still be safe.

  Anything and everything was a mine field of things that could be done wrong, said wrong, thought of wrong, felt about wrong. For most of her marriage, Jo had reacted to every single damn question posed by Brian as a potential threat; it had made her quiet and timid. Voiceless, almost, as she weighed every single part of every single possible answer to even the most straightforward questions because she honestly didn’t ever know the right answer.

  So she’d been conditioned to be afraid of answering questions, of having an opinion, of using her voice and he’d done a bang-up job of it. Moments like this showed her just how much of a hold he’d had on her mind, her body, her soul.

  Yeah, well. Not anymore you don’t, you fucking asshole.

  But now came the second problem with Zeke’s amazingly basic-not-basic question, which was: where did she live? Jo obviously knew where she’d been born and raised (New Mexico), and she knew where she’d lived with Brian (Minnesota), and she knew where she was now with Zeke (Nebraska), and where she was headed to hopefully start again (Colorado) – but she didn’t actually live in any of those places.

  The truth was… she didn’t live anywhere. She was – quite literally – homeless.

  But there was exactly zero way that she was going to say that to this gorgeous, smart, clearly successful man. She wasn’t about to share her abusive past, her Decision from a month ago, her current relationship status, her homelessness and joblessness, the details of her bizarre and slightly-risky job interview on Monday morning. Jo might be down for the moment, but she was far from out and she knew in her heart that her situation was temporary. She wasn’t interested in Zeke’s sympathy, or being seen as a victim, or a weakling.

  Sitting in front of the TV that day ten months ago, she’d resolved that her weak victim days were behind her and she was starting her new life. She wasn’t somebody new yet – but she was in progress. She was working on it.

  So. The best lies always had an element of the truth to them… and she was going to be asked questions for the rest of her damn life and even though she knew that she’d have to be honest about some things, she’d decided to never discuss her past at length. Not with anyone. She was only looking to the future, to all the possibilities that her newfound freedom offered her, she was reinventing herself.

  Well, no better time than the present to start practicing who she wanted to be, with this stranger that she’d never see again after tonight.

  Jo straightened her shoulders, watched as those astonishing silver eyes dropped to her breasts again and she rejoiced. Yes, confidence was sexy, and being weak was the exact opposite of sexy… so she put her chin up a bit, tilted her head, gave Zeke a slow smile.

  “You want to know where I live, huh?” she asked him. “Why? You want to come by and visit sometime? Come over for coffee?” She paused, then added, “Or a glass of rosé?”

  He laughed, that deep, dark sound rolling over her body helplessly. “Hell, yeah, sweet thing. I’ll come by any time I’m invited.”

  “Well, I hope you like sweet pink wine in the desert, querido.”

  He looked puzzled, his mostly-empty glass of whiskey held aloft in mid-sip. “The desert?”

  “Yep. I’m from New Mexico.”

  “No kidding?” he drawled. “We’re neighbors.”

  “We are?” she said, feeling a tiny stab of fear that somehow, by some completely freak and fucked-up twist of fate, he lived six blocks over from her childhood home or something. “Are you – you’re from New Mexico?”

  “Arizona,” he replied. “But I know your home state well. Been there more times than I can count.”

  Jo was overwhelmed by relief, and mentally high-fived herself for not saying that she was from California or some other state that she’d never even set foot in, because with her luck and dollars to donuts, that’s the exact damn place that the man would be from. But if Zeke wanted to talk about New Mexico, she could just relax and do that. Hell, she could talk about it until the damn cows came home.

  That was, of course, because what she’d said was completely true: Jo was from Santa Fe, every member of her family still lived there and she loved it passionately. She’d seriously considered moving back after leaving Brian, but then she’d seen the ad for the accountant job in Denver and something about it had just stuck in her mind.

  She wasn’t sure why, exactly. Jo had never been to Colorado, never even wanted to really, but when she’d looked at the photos of the city with the Rocky Mountains looming in every direction around it, something in her had responded. She loved the amazing rock formations of her home state, she missed them every day – and somehow the Rockies called them to mind. It felt like Denver was familiar to her in some indefinable way and she’d looked at the job ad over and over again, going back and forth for two full weeks. Then in a moment of white-wine-induced courage one night in her cheap motel, she’d just applied. She’d sent her CV, sent a list of references and written an e-mail to a guy named Wolf who – if he was what Jo thought he was, and with a name like that, he had to be – was undoubtedly terrifying.

  Mr. Wolf had written back a surprisingly warm and charming response. He’d told her that yes, the accountant position was still open and he’d been wonderfully open about the organization in question. Jo had blinked at the e-mail, then launched herself into researching motorcycle clubs. Mr. Wolf had been very clear that his club wasn’t one of the ‘bad guys ones’ anymore and as such, the job would actually involve legitimate businesses (a tattoo parlour, a garage, a bar). That meant genuine documents, tax forms, invoices, pay checks, and lots of all of them. The truth was that above-board businesses were all about paperwork, far more so than shady ones, where literally nothing was documented and everything was in cash and no paper trail existed.

  So. The MC needed an accountant and for real, because it seemed that the three businesses were quite busy and profitable and the tattoo parlour was expanding. Before her two Decisions, Jo would never have imagined herself working for a former criminal group, but hey. She was determined to give herself a second chance to live better – and what better place to do that than among a group of people also striving to make a success of their own second chance?

  Looking over at Zeke now, remembering how positive he’d been about Gunner being President of The Howling Highwaymen MC, Jo wondered if he’d be helpful about giving her information for her Monday interview. Not that she expected him to know Mr. Wolf
and The Road Devils MC personally, of course, but maybe he’d be able to give her some pointers about what to expect?

  She opened her mouth to tell him about the accountant job, when suddenly, she heard loud shouting behind her. Then glass breaking, tables and chairs scraping, and heavy thudding sounds that could only be bodies hitting the floor or fists making contact. She started to turn to see just what the hell was going on but Zeke was already up and on his feet, his hand on her elbow.

  “Back up,” he growled at her and the nice guy, the one with the great laugh and warm eyes, was long gone. The man standing in front of her now was huge, strong, angry. A warrior and frightening in the extreme. “Take your bag and get that cute ass against that far wall. You hear me, Ana? Move.”

  Shocked at the absolute command in his voice, she obeyed. Jo backed right up, watched Zeke stride across the bar on those long legs, heading straight into the trouble. He actually looked like a man who was pretty comfortable throwing himself into a fight with a bunch of MC members, and that froze her up somewhere inside, really gave her pause.

  Because who was this guy anyway, really? Oh sure, she’d been enjoying the flirting and attention, entertained a few filthy fantasies for her deprived little body in her depraved little mind… but she’d seen enough brutality in a single man to suffice a lifetime. And if this man had a love for hurt, a passion for violence, a single-minded desire to throw himself headlong into a bar fight, then Jo was perfectly happy to pack it in this minute, wait for a better time for Mr. Number Three.

  Hell, she wasn’t even about to carry on the conversation if he was about to pound a few biker heads into the floor. What – he’d beat the crap out of some guys, then wander on back to the table, expect her to pick up things right where they’d left off?