“I don’t like Dash, but I’ll do my job there too.”
Killer nodded. “That’s why I recommended you.”
They stood in a heavy silence filled with the kind of topics that neither man really discussed comfortably until Alamo wondered what was left on Killer’s mind. After several moments, he had his answer. Killer added, “I count you as a friend, but that doesn’t change things. Ellie’s good people. She’s got no father or brother to do this, and I didn’t do it with Dash when he started sniffing around her . . . but I’m doing it now.” He met Alamo’s gaze and said, “Don’t hurt her. If you do, I’ll be paying you a less friendly visit.”
“Not a whole lot of Wolves stupid enough to issue me threats.”
Killer nodded again. “Not a lot who would be able to take you down. Don’t forget that I’m one of those that can. I should’ve put Dash into a wall years ago for how he treated her, but . . . I let myself think they could sort it out. That was a mistake, but I’m not making another one where she’s concerned. Think of her as my sister. You hurt my sister, and I’ll be paying you a visit.”
There were a lot of things that could be said, and maybe if they were different people, some of those things would need saying. Neither of them was big on explaining the details—nor did they need to. Killer had stood up for Ellen, but not in the territorial way Dash had done. He’d simply pointed out that there was someone who would take up for her if needs be. Alamo respected him for it.
“We going to paint each other’s nails next or you want to see if there’s any races on the television? I have an hour or so.”
Killer flipped him off and grabbed the television remote.
Chapter 20
I WAS ALL BUT READY TO START PACING LIKE A CAGED BEAST as I waited for Alamo to pull up outside. I was ready, and I’d never succeeded at patience. I examined my outfit again, fussing and reconsidering for what felt like the eighteenth time. I’d found a shirt that was layers. Underneath was a soft black camisole. On top of that was a deep crisscross V-neck in a sheer fabric that felt like I’d imagine clouds must, soft and almost intangible. I’d gone with mauve for that layer, and then I’d embroidered button tabs that gathered and pinched the fabric up slightly at mid-biceps. I’d made it myself, like most of my favorites. The unexpected benefit of being poor was that I’d had to find a way to create clothes with less. I repurposed things, shopped the bargain bins at the fabric store, and haunted thrift stores. It resulted in an eclectic style that was often both practical and varied.
Tonight, admittedly, my style was a little swayed by my audience. I wanted Alamo to want me badly enough that he couldn’t see straight, so I was straddling a line between biker babe and girlie girl. Hopefully it would work.
It had been years since I’d gone riding for the sake of riding. Sure, Noah had given me a lift, and sometimes we’d gone riding, but with him there were strings. I hadn’t realized how many until today. Even with him, it had been a good eighteen months since we’d gone for a relaxed ride. It had become an issue. We’d meet up and go where there was no chance of being seen, no risk of our status as friends with benefits being found out . . . at least that was what I thought. He’d obviously been a little less concerned since he’d put me under his protection.
The older bikers acted a lot like I was a little sister or a favored niece. It was always a joy to even get a ten-minute lift to class or home, but it wasn’t quite the same as a long ride with no goal other than enjoying the machine and the biker. With the older bikers, I kept my distance as much as I could on the back of the machine. You’d never guess it by the way a lot of women were on bikes, but it wasn’t technically necessary to wrap around a biker like a barnacle clinging to a cliff. Riding was an excuse to be close, but it wasn’t actually necessary . . . just fun.
So I kept my distance from the older bikers, especially the one memorable time Echo himself gave me a ride to school. I felt like the queen of badasses that day. The club president let me on his Harley.
The younger bikers were mostly hands-off with me, and I now understood why. The renewed thought of Noah’s meddling made me want to scream, but I had a much better plan for all that emotion. Now that there was no obstacle, I could simply be with Alamo, and that was exactly what I was looking for today. It wasn’t a casual decision—or one I made often. I could count my bed partners without needing all my fingers, but I wanted to add one more to the list.
A small voice whispered that what I really wanted was for it to be the last one I added to the list.
I heard Alamo before I saw him. I watched as he roared down the street and felt a bit like a child about to open a present. In the street outside my house was a beautiful Wide Glide, chromed-out hot-red detailing on the tank. Astride that beautiful Harley was Alamo. He looked up at my window as if he knew I was there.
I waved. I wasn’t about to start playing coy. He already knew I wanted him.
After I checked my lipstick and hair one last time, I grabbed my jacket and helmet, and then I headed downstairs.
“Going now,” I called out to Mama as I walked past her and opened the door. I stepped out and pulled the door shut behind me before she could reply.
Alamo was still astride his bike, and it occurred to me briefly that he was preening just a little too. I thought back over seeing him at the bar, and I had to wonder if this was something bigger for him too.
“How long?” I blurted out.
“How long what?” he asked.
“How long have you wanted me?”
Alamo took a breath before making an approving sound and saying, “You’re something else, Ellen.”
“Yeah?”
He reached out and pulled me closer. I went willingly. There was always something intoxicating in being grabbed by a man I wanted. I liked it, the possessiveness and impatience of it. Being wanted was a powerful feeling. The only way to get closer was if I straddled his leg or tried to slide onto the bike in front of him. I ended up with his knee between my thighs, and one of my arms around his neck. The other hung at my side so I didn’t drop my helmet.
I tilted my chin up and kissed him.
It was everything I could want, as good as our kiss in front of his tub. He might be quiet, but he applied that same sort of attention to listening to my body, responding to every cue I didn’t even realize I’d offered. He kissed like I was an exam he wanted to pass—and I was pretty sure that there wasn’t much that would curl my toes quite like his kisses.
I wanted to find out, though, enough that I wasn’t sure I wanted to take the time to ride. I loved riding as much as any woman who has experienced the freedom and bliss of being on a Harley with a beautiful man. After a couple of kisses, however, I was willing to bet my voice that I’d enjoy sex with Alamo even more than a ride.
When he pulled back, he answered my almost-forgotten question. “Since I met you, Ellen. I wanted you the day I met you. You were fierce even though I knew you were hurting, and you were bold, and God help, you have a body that would make a saint want to sin.” His hand was splayed across my low back. He slid it down over the curve of my ass. “And I got to tell you that I’ve never been mistaken for a saint.”
I lowered my hand from his neck, trailing it down his chest and to his very defined abs. I stopped at his belt buckle. “Good.”
He smiled. “Climb on the back, woman, or we’re going to end up missing the ride part of this date.”
“Date?” I didn’t squeak the word, but it was a close thing.
“Date.” He cupped the side of my face with one hand. “I heard you on the no strings, but I want to get to know you better, so this is a date. I want you, but not just in my bed.”
“So . . . what does that mean?” I was feeling vaguely panicked at the idea of losing Alamo before I even had him, but I didn’t want any confusion on what this was.
“It means that I want to talk to you too. It means that if you’re riding with me, you’re going to have to tolerate being with me in
public. Is that a problem?”
“No . . . but I’m not looking for anything heavy. I mean—”
“How about we start with a ride like you said earlier?”
I stepped back a little further and put my helmet on. “We could talk in bed . . . just ride to your place.”
Alamo shook his head. “Let me take you out. We can ride down toward Memphis, grab a bite, and talk.”
It struck me as funny that the last man in my life wanted me only in private, and I had hated it. But right now I wanted to be alone with Alamo more than I wanted a date. “Oh . . . right.”
Obviously, he could tell that I was a little confused because he said, “Ellen?”
I looked at him, thinking back to the day we met.
He obviously misunderstood my silence, though, because he said, “I want you, darlin’. Told you that already.” He gave me a wry smile. “Wanted you these past months, and learned to cope with it. I can cope for a few more hours so I can take you out first. You deserve that: being treated like a lady. Let me do it.”
I melted a little at his words and thought back to his words this morning. He’d accused me of holding out everything he could want, but I was fairly sure that he could be accused of the exact same thing. I kept that truth to myself and climbed onto the back of his bike.
He glanced over his shoulder at me. “Comfortable?”
“More than,” I admitted. “I’ve a helluva bike and you between my thighs. It’s a good day.”
“Yeah? Well, then how about you pretend you’re a Harley virgin and move a little closer? You’re way back there like this isn’t your first ride.”
I laughed, but I eased forward. This time, for the very first time, I slid so close that I looked like one of those nervous girls who were half sure they’d go flying off the back. I twined my arms around him and pressed my chest to his back. It felt good not only to be allowed to be this close to him but to know he wanted me there. “Like that?”
“Just like that.”
“Remember that later when we’re stopped and do this face-to-face,” I suggested.
He laughed. “I’m sure I can think of more than a few ways we can do this, and with a sight fewer clothes.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” I said lightly.
The bike roared to life under us, and I sighed happily. I knew Harleys were machines, but there was something primal in the roar of a bike’s engine. The rumble felt like I imagined a lion’s roar echoing across the miles would, like there was something here to be in awe of and feared, and the sort of man who could handle that sort of raw power was the sort of man I wanted by my side and in my bed. I’d dated men who didn’t ride, but I felt they were all missing something. It was, to me, a lot like the difference between a tiny little dog who wore outfits and a wolf. Little dogs were cute, but if I needed to be protected, I’d pick the wolf every damn time.
Alamo was all wolf. I leaned my cheek against his shoulder, extra grateful that he wanted me close. This was how it was meant to be, intimate and natural, not hidden, not all tense and awkward, not rolling in self-doubt. I felt vaguely sad for the people who’d never experience the thrill of riding and angry that Dash had stolen this joy from me by falsely marking me as his.
Alamo had given me back a pleasure that words couldn’t begin to explain, and he’d done it without realizing it. I squeezed him and said, “Thank you!”
He didn’t reply in any way other than speeding up a little, but that was answer enough for me. Much like sex, the best rides weren’t about a lot of words. A few instructions here and there weren’t amiss, but it was the action that mattered. I laughed aloud, both in joy and at my inability to be around him for more than a few minutes without my brain ending up focusing on sex.
Once we hit one of the smaller roads that would take us to I-40 eventually, I leaned forward as much as I could and said, “Open it up.”
A few moments later, we were cruising at speeds that made me want to whoop in joy. The throttle wasn’t wide open, but there was a limit to how fast we could ride safely, even on a nearly empty road like this. This much speed made the engine switch from a low rumble to full-out growling. There was no other motorcycle that could compare with a Harley for sheer attitude, and that roar was the sound of bliss. Any woman worth her salt answered only one way to the not entirely joking question of “ass, gas, or grass” to pay for a ride. Much like a man who could fight, dance, or drum, a man who rode a Harley well was usually a man worth bedding. Alamo was a confident and masterful rider, and it made my entire body hum with pleasure. I wanted to have that same confidence focused on me.
The next hour was spent enjoying this little bit of heaven, but we eventually slowed as we started to come up on people. This far from Williamsville was still Wolves territory, but it was a little less remote, so there were state police to contend with instead of just our town sheriff. With stateys, there was a bit more probability of being hassled just for being on a bike. Add in the colors visible on Alamo’s jacket, and the odds of getting pulled over in some random town increased further. There was nothing illegal on either of us. I knew that without asking, so it would be most likely only a speeding ticket. I was still glad that Alamo wasn’t one of those bikers who had more attitude than sense.
Now that he’d slowed, we could speak a little, but I was still content with the silence.
A few minutes later, Alamo rolled up to a red light.
I used the pegs to stand and lean forward. It wasn’t a move I’d try with just anyone, but despite the massive weight of the bike, I knew Alamo held us steady. So I twisted around his side and bent down to kiss him. It was an awkward position, and it drew a few honks from other cars. One person hollered, “You go, girl.”
When I pulled back from kissing him and sat down, I was grinning like an idiot. It was just a quick kiss, but it was exciting to be able to do it, to kiss him and not care who could see us.
“What was that?” he asked.
“Just checking,” I said.
“On?”
“Whether it really was that good to kiss you or my memory was faulty,” I said cheekily.
He shook his head. “You’re something else, Ellen.”
“I am.” It was liberating to be treated like my audaciousness wasn’t off-putting.
The light turned green, and we took off again with the delicious roar made only by a Harley. I let out a whoop of joy, and in short order we were on the freeway, sliding in and out of traffic, faster even that we’d been on the side roads.
Riding like this, with speed and curves, was a rush that I’d missed more than I’d realized. You can try to explain it, try to call up the memories, but that was akin to taking photos at an air show. Still images capture the blink of the dynamic aeronautic tricks, but they don’t make you gasp the way the experience does. Riding was like that. No matter how much the memory was anchored, it was nothing compared to the experience itself.
We didn’t speak another word until Alamo was parking the bike outside BB King’s Blues Club. He cut off the engine and waited for me to slide off the Harley. I did so, pretending not to see the inevitable glances of passersby.
I took off my helmet and waited for him to stand.
He watched me curiously.
“What?”
“Gorgeous. Smart. Likes the blues. Attitude. Takes what she wants.” He looked me up and down. “Gorgeous.”
“You said that one already.”
“It deserves repeating,” he said.
I laughed.
“Tell me you’re not one of those salad-and-water women now that this is a date, and I may just drop to my knees and praise Jesus,” he said as he stood.
“You’ve seen me eat,” I reminded him. “And I’m not exactly a waif either.” I patted one of my hips with my free hand. “Real women have enough curves to be comfortable for long rides.”
He grabbed me by both hips and jerked me toward him. “I like your curves.”
“Good.
You can explore them as much as you want after this,” I offered.
“Count on it,” he promised.
And I was. I was counting on a whole host of things that I hadn’t even dared to admit to wanting to anyone but myself. Admitting them to him was invigorating. Knowing he wanted them too was even better.
Chapter 21
I WOULDN’T SAY THAT WE HAD A ROUTINE, BUT THIS WASN’T the first time we’d been to a club where I’d inevitably end up singing. This time, though, I was well aware that the attraction I felt wasn’t one-sided. It made me bold enough to step up on the stage with a bounce that I hadn’t felt in far too long. The man I wanted, the Wolf who had filled my daydreams, the person who made me feel like I deserved more out of life—he was watching me with a mix of approval and interest. It was a powerful feeling.
When the band beckoned me up, I stood like I normally would, but this time I bent down and brushed my lips over Alamo’s. Then, satisfied that he was watching, I sashayed across the bar and held up my hand to the singer.
With a quirk of the lips, he took my hand and I stepped up. As soon as I was at his side, I told the band, “Etta James’ ‘I Just Want to Make Love to You.’”
It was a song I’d sung on this very stage, but never with such intent—or a public proclamation of it. The truth was that I wasn’t going to even pretend to be meek or mild. It was as if all the ballsy impulses of the past few months were writhing under the surface, just begging to get free and announce themselves.
Once Alamo realized what song I was singing, he whistled like he was at a raucous concert.
I pointed at him and sang the chorus.
Most of the patrons laughed or cheered. That was the nature of a good blues bar: people were real, and they appreciated life. I felt increasingly alive every time I took the stage, and singing to the man I had every intent of enjoying only added to it. As much as I had wanted to stay in and get to know Alamo in the most fundamental way, I was glad he’d insisted on a date, not just because I was having fun but because the more we flirted, the more the anticipation built. It added a layer of new desire on the already powerful yearning.
Unruly Page 16
