by Cathryn Cade
Rocker rose too. “My suggestion? Go on home, sleep this off. Then get cleaned up—'cause you stink. Have some breakfast, and talk to Sara. She might have an idea or two.”
When Pete reached for his phone, Rocker held up a hand. “Not right now, bro. She’s got Lesa over at her place, and knowing women, they’re probably burning you in effigy about now. Let ‘em cool off, then call in the morning—Sara that is. She’s your intermediary, right?”
Pete nodded. “Right. Okay. Thanks man.”
He hoped Sara would know what to do next. Fuck, he was completely at sea. He'd never had to work for a woman before.
Rocker grinned at him. “It’s all good, bro. I like her for you, I think you make a great team.”
They could make a great team. Pete just had to get her back.
And he would get her back, if it was the last thing he did. Which it wouldn’t be, of course. He was a Flyer, goddamnit. He had decades of fun, wild-ass living to get through … with her at his side, and on the back of his bike.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
February 12th
Lesa sat on the sofa in a small, old-fashioned house, across the drive from the big, modernized farmhouse Sara lived in with Stick and his twin boys. Sara kept the little house open as a workshop for her leather-work, which was beautiful. Lesa totally wanted one of Sara’s belts, and maybe a purse someday.
But right now, Lesa was concentrating on the drink in her hand, which was kind of strong, but that was okay because right now, she needed strong. She might just stay inebriated for the next few days or even weeks. Anything to help her forget the way Pete had looked at her, his blue eyes icy with accusation.
She took another sip of the whiskey and Coke and grabbed another tissue from the box Sara had thoughtfully provided for her.
Sara sat beside her on the old-fashioned sofa, while Kit and Lindi sat across from them in chairs. All three of them were watching her sympathetically as she sniffled, wiped her eyes and sipped her drink. And talked.
She told them about the way she’d blurted out Stick’s offer of a bonus if she stayed, along with Pete’s similar offer, and how she’d accepted both because she was angry and scared. And how Pete had reacted when he found out
“He was so cold,” she wept. “It was awful. I didn’t even know he could act that way.”
The three women nodded.
“And he accused me of just wanting money.” She stopped to take another drink and then sobbed into her tissue. “That hurt so bad. I do like money—everyone does, but I work hard for mine. And, sure I want a man to take care of me. But I want to take care of him, too.”
“Of course you do,” Sara said. “And you’re fantastic at it. Pete should never have said that stuff to you. Why, he doesn’t deserve you at all.”
Lesa’s lip quivered. “You don’t think so?”
“No,” Lindi and Kit chorused.
“You should leave him in the dust,” Kit added. “And stomp him off your boots like cow shit.”
“That’s gross.” Lindi poked Kit on the arm, and Kit made a face at her.
“But he’s so hot,” Lesa moaned. “When he looks at me from under his brows … it gives me shivers.” She gave Sara an anxious look. “Is that weird?”
“No,” Sara assured her. “The Vanko men rock that look. But Kit’s right, you know. Ah, not about the manure, but the leaving him in your dust part.”
Lesa took another long drink and blew her nose. “I know I should. I totally should … but …”
Lindi and Kit leaned forward. “What?”
“I think … no, I’m pretty sure …” Lesa paused to take another sip for courage.
“What?” they chorused.
“I've gone and fallen in love with him!” For what good it would do her. She was such an idiot.
Kit gave Sara a triumphant look. “Told you.”
“No, I told you,” Sara corrected. “Not that it matters.” She took Lesa’s hand, grimacing as she shook off a soggy tissue. “If you love him, hon, then you need to go get him.”
Lesa nodded, and hiccupped. “Okay. But how?”
The three women smiled at her, and raised their glasses. “Why, honey, that’s where we come in. Think of us as your fairy godmothers.”
Kit giggled. “Or fairy biker bitches, or whatever.”
Lesa sniffled and smiled mistily at all three of them. “Fairies wish they could be like you. You’re so—so confident and stylish, in a biker babe way.”
Lindi waggled her brows. “And so will you be, when we get through.”
“What?” Lesa asked, bewildered.
“Tomorrow,” Sara told her. “We are going shopping. It’s on Stick, so no worries. We’re getting you a biker babe makeover.”
It sounded like heaven. “Oh, my God, that sounds so nice. Maybe I’ll get a tattoo.”
The three laughed. “Maybe wait on that,” Sara advised.
"Yeah, 'cause the guys like to help you pick those out," Kit said, smiling mysteriously. "And your piercings."
Lindi shuddered. "Ow, don't talk about those."
Lesa shook her head. Ink, yes. Piercings other than her ears? Um, no.
* * *
February 14th
Lesa stared at herself in the mirror in the bedroom at Sara’s place. “I sure hope this will do it,” she said, “Because I feel like a Las Vegas hooker in this dress.”
The red bodycon dress had a short skirt, a low neckline, and long sleeves. It clung to every curve and hollow—which to her surprise actually worked on her, probably because with all the turmoil in her life lately, she’d lost weight, how much she didn’t know.
Sara laughed. “Oh, believe me. This will do it. You look like a biker’s fantasy, hon.”
“She looks like any guy’s fantasy,” Lindi added, beaming at Lesa. “That figure and all that hair. I’m gonna hide Jack’s eyes when you walk in.”
“Like he can see any woman but you,” Sara said. “That man’s so gone on you, it’s funny.”
“Not as funny as Joystick Vanko actually smiling at a woman,” Kit said. “I love being there when club associates walk in—those who haven’t been around since pre-you. They get this look like they thought they were gonna see a strip show, but got a chick flick instead.”
Lesa listened to their banter with half an ear. She took another drink of the margarita Lindi had fixed her, and put a hand on her tummy, wishing the butterflies inside would calm.
She still wasn’t sure about this look for her, but she trusted the three women’s judgment when it came to what bikers liked. And after all, Pete was the one who’d said she would look hot in a low-cut red top and short skirt.
Luckily the stores were full of sexy, red outfits for Valentine’s Day wear. They’d found this dress at Macy’s, and her shoes, which thank God had been on the sale rack, because she wasn’t sure she’d ever wear nude, platform stilettos again. Although they made her legs look a mile long.
Her hair was blown out in a mass of waves, and full of product and hair-spray courtesy of Kit, her eye-makeup smoky and lips glossy courtesy of Lindi. She wore no earrings—this strangely had been advised by Sara, who looked like she was trying not to laugh—but around her throat Lesa wore what she hoped would be a private signal to Pete.
“Okay, you ready, girl?” Lindi asked, giving Lesa an encouraging smile in the mirror.
Lindi wore a snug red sweater and short black skirt with high-heeled boots, her diamond engagement ring blazing from her left hand and matching earrings dangling from her ears.
Sara wore a black, off-shoulder sweater and skinny jeans, with dramatic ebony bangles and necklace.
Kit was gorgeous and funky in a purple, bodycon tunic and yellow leggings with a silver lock pendant on a black leather cord, loads of silver bracelets, and black ankle boots.
“Yeah, let’s go,” the redhead urged, bouncing on her toes.
All three of the women were full of pent-up excitement, and Lesa felt as if she’d been
thrust into a sorority, with no mean girls, thank God.
She drained her glass. “I’m ready as I’ll ever be,” she said, and swallowed again, wishing her tummy would just settle the hell down.
“Okay, let’s go.”
They bundled up and went out to Lindi’s SUV, parked in the driveway of Sara and Stick’s house. Lindi had also driven them shopping, as she had the biggest vehicle.
If Lesa hadn’t been so miserable—hopeful one moment and certain the next that this wouldn’t work, that Pete would already be moving on to his next biker babe—she would have enjoyed the day even more. The three women were genuinely nice, fun and funny, and she was charmed to be invited to share time with them.
After she had heard each of their stories in more detail, she felt more hopeful that this scheme could work. Each of them had made dramatic gestures to let their Flyer men know they were all in. Although Lesa wasn’t sure exactly what that would mean for her and Pete. She knew how she felt, but wasn’t sure about him. Even if he did want her back, maybe after a few months, he’d get bored with ordinary her.
The drive to the Hangar was not long, thank God, because Lesa was ready to come right out of her skin.
“What am I gonna say?” she mumbled as they pulled into the parking lot. “Oh, my God, look at all these people. The place is packed—I changed my mind. I can’t do this.”
She was going to throw up.
Lindi pulled to a fast stop in front of the ‘Motorcycles Only’ sign. She turned to Lesa. “Yes. You can,” she said firmly. “I know, because I did. And it was totally worth it, because I got my man.”
Sara leaned forward, a warm hand on Lesa’s shoulder. “Just ask yourself—is he worth a few minutes of uncertainty?”
Lesa took a deep breath. She looked through the windows of the pub at the jovial crowd, at the group of Flyers by the pool tables, at some of their women watching from the high-tops. At a tall, blond, unbelievably handsome man standing in his customary spot at one end of the bar, listening as Rocker talked, gesturing.
Her heart swelled, and everything in her yearned toward Pete. She wanted his crystalline gaze fastened on her, his scent and his big hands pulling her close. His deep voice in her ear.
She sighed. “Yes. He’s totally worth it.”
“Okay,” Kit breathed. “We’re goin’ in.”
Lindi hit the horn as she turned to move out of the drivers’ seat. Busy stepping down without breaking her neck, Lesa didn’t look up until she was at the front door of the pub.
Her hand on the big chrome door handle, she froze. “Wait—what’s going on?”
Everyone in the pub was turned her way, staring. Then they all turned away, jerking as if ordered. Behind her, Kit snickered, and Sara muttered something about ‘people who couldn’t act natural to save their lives’.
“Here,” Lindi said briskly to Lesa. “Give me your coat and purse. You won’t need them.”
Dumbly, Lesa did as she was told. Then she pushed open the inner doors, and walked into the pub.
Just as she did so, the music stopped, and then started up again. Heads turned, surreptitious gazes tracking her. More self-conscious than she’d ever been in her life, Lesa nearly turned and ran.
But Pete was there on the far side of the room, like a beacon of everything she wanted, needed.
As she walked through the crowded tables, details popped. Sylvie giving her wide eyes and a sly thumbs-up, Lindi’s man Jack giving her a grin and wink, and T-Bear nodding his approval.
Then Pete looked up and saw her, and everything in the room narrowed to his brilliant, compelling gaze. He watched her walk across the room to him. When she was nearly there, he moved from behind the bar.
He wore his hair tied back, his beard and stache were freshly trimmed. He wore a new shirt, western-cut with a fine red plaid, with black jeans and western boots.
His gaze dropped down, over her breasts, her hips, her legs, clear to her toes, then swept back up, and his jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring. But still he said nothing, and behind her, all voices had hushed, only the singer’s voice audible, singing about a devil in a red dress.
The heat of a blush swept over her cheeks, and down her throat. Someone had clearly known she was coming. Were they all in on this?
And were his brothers on her side like their women, or were they hoping he’d make her crawl, that she’d crash and burn? Most of all, what was he thinking? He’d cleaned up, and worn new clothing, so she’d have to hope that was for her, and not for some random pretty woman.
As she hesitated, Pete raised a brow in a clear challenge.
Time to find out. She moved a few steps closer, teetering a little on her heels, then steadying herself with her feet apart. This close, she caught a hint of his aftershave and clean man, and that was all it took for sheer yearning to overcome the shyness gripping her.
“I guess you’ve probably figured out by now, I—I came to say I’m sorry,” she said to him.
He tipped his head. “What for, Lesa?”
Okay, then, he was going to make her say it all.
She took a shaky breath and got on with it. “For making that deal with Stick, behind your back. I didn’t … I wasn’t trying to be sneaky, honestly. I just—I felt trapped. And I was so angry at you. But I should have told you. I just—there never seemed to be a good time, so I … I let it slide. I’m sorry.”
She smoothed her hands down the front of her dress. They were damp, but at least her stomach had settled down. Just looking into his face made her feel better … or at least it would if he would just say something, do something besides look at her with that brooding gaze, as if trying to bore into her heart.
Then she remembered, and tossed her head. As her hair settled behind her shoulders, baring her throat and chest, she lifted a hand to her throat, and the string of cheap, round pearls she’d grabbed from the clearance jewelry rack at Macy’s.
Then she smiled at him. It stretched, trembling on her lips as she waited for his reaction.
His gaze fell to her throat and bare chest, long lashes veiling his eyes. Then his lips twitched, and his handsome face relaxed a little. “You wear that for me?” he drawled.
“Yes. I did … although I’d rather wear yours,” she said, then blushed again as one of the guys nearby laughed.
“You got the wrong music on, Brews,” hollered a deep voice. “Need some ZZ Top.”
Several of the brothers roared their approval at this, and Lesa’s face burned. God, no privacy when a woman was trying to make up with a Flyer.
Pete chuckled, but his gaze never left hers. Then he shook his head, and her heart plummeted. “I can’t accept your apology,” he said.
“What?” she breathed, hurt slicing deep. “But ... why?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Behind Lesa, a woman gasped. Lesa would have done the same, if her breath hadn't been frozen in her throat, her heart sinking. Tears pressed painfully at the back of her eyes, and she pulled her lower lip between her teeth to still its trembling, wrecking her lip gloss and not caring.
“What the fuck?” muttered one of the guys. “Thought we had this set.”
Pete took in her expression, and his face softened, his gaze deepening. “I can’t accept your apology, milaya moye, because I owe you one first.”
As she stared, tears trembling on her lower lids, he stepped closer, and reached to take her hands in his, enclosing them in his big, warm grasp. His deep voice wrapped around her just as strongly as he went on, speaking only to her, as if all the others surrounding them weren’t even there.
“I’m the one who’s sorry,” he told her. “Since we met, I’ve given you nothing but a hard time. I strong-armed you into doing what I wanted. Didn’t give you choices, or room to maneuver. But every time, you came out with your chin up. You did your best for the Hangar, and you gave me your body and a lot more sweetness than I deserved.”
She leaned toward him, hanging onto his warm, strong hands like a l
ifeline, one she never planned to let go.
“Oh, Pete,” she breathed.
“Not finished, moye,” he murmured, tipping his head down to her. “You were right. When I blew up, wasn’t you I was most angry at. I was dumping old shit on you, stuff that’s between Ivan and me. Couldn’t stand that he was interfering with you and me. Took me some hard drinkin’ to figure it out, but I did. He can jump in when it comes to the club, or this place, or anything else. But you—you’re mine alone. Or at least, I want you to be.’
He let go one of her hands and slid his arm around her, pulling her in tight.
“You gonna accept my apology, so I can accept yours, and then kiss you? Then, maybe show you how much I like your outfit?”
She gave a little laugh that was half sob, and nodded. “Uh-huh, I am.”
Then she rose on tip-toe and met him half-way in a hot, slow, sweet kiss. His mouth was warm and whiskey flavored, and tasted of him, as necessary as the air she breathed. She pulled her hands from his and slid them around his neck, his arms closed around her, one hand on her ass, pulling her in tight against his hard warmth and strength. The kiss deepened, his tongue claiming hers, and his lips covering hers, showing her everything she needed to know.
“Well, it’s about fuckin’ time!” T-Bear roared behind them, and the pub erupted in cheers, cat-calls and whistles, drowning the music.
Then someone turned up the sound system and ZZ Top’s distinctive opening riff filled the room, and the Devil’s Flyers began to sing—some of them with surprisingly good voices—about a woman who was high-class but loved her pearl necklace.
Pete lifted his head, gave Lesa a look so filled with heat her knees melted, and opened his mouth. “You gonna wear my pearl necklace, moye?”
“If you want me to,” she answered, so intoxicated by his kisses she would probably have done so right then and there.
But Rocker appeared at their elbow, gave Lesa wicked smile, and handed Pete a flat, black velvet box.
Pete let go of her with one arm, took the box, and held it out to her. “Oh, I do want you to. Open this up and see how much.”
