“I’m wondering why a beautiful woman like you is cleaning a garage owned by bikers.”
None of his business, but again, she couldn’t say this. Instead, she lied. “Because my husband is one of those bikers, I’d rather work here, close to him where I can spend time with him and our daughter.”
His eyes widened. When he recovered, he blanketed the shock from his face, smiled another predatory smile, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a card. “A woman like you could get far with just her looks. Like I said, I own several clubs. I’m always looking for beautiful women.” He slid the card toward her.
Well, she had to give him credit. He had balls of steel. She’d send him to hell. Screw the consequences. Before she got the chance, the door to the front of the office slammed open. Startled, she jumped, bringing her hand to her pounding heart.
Bryce strode in. His dead, feral eyes glued to them. He looked hot, even furious. His legs encased in a pair of jeans, a well-worn T-shirt tight across his chest. His cut over it. He’d cut his dark-blond hair, faded it on the sides, though still unruly at top. He’d done nothing to the permanent five-o’clock shadow. She was glad. Though he never had it before, it looked good and made her wonder how it’d feel if he kissed her. Of all the things about Bryce, she missed his lips the most. He did wondrous things with them. With the beard, she imagined it’d get better.
The man, Predator Rick Whatever, turned slightly to look at Bryce and didn’t cower. She supposed men with money were used to getting what they wanted and weren’t scared of much. It was stupid not to be alarmed though. No one messed with a biker from Hell Ryders, ever. The club may be clean, but that didn’t mean the brothers were law-abiding citizens. They may make good money at the garage, but Em doubted there wasn’t more going on.
In a little under a week, she’d seen the brothers take off at night and noticed they didn’t come back until early morning. A few days ago, she’d been hidden from view, cleaning the kitchen after one of the meals she prepared and overheard several brothers, one of whom she knew, Mellow, talking about a “guard” out of town. Leaving the kitchen only ten minutes later, she caught Marcus, the president, hand over an envelope to Mellow, who opened it just enough to give her a glimpse inside—money, lots of it. She didn’t know what a “guard” meant but figured it wasn’t entirely legal. No one got that amount of cash for something legal.
Posture tense, eyes glaring, Bryce closed the distance between himself and Rick, coming to a stop a foot from him. “She’s off fuckin’ limits, asshole.”
Rick, still foolishly looking unafraid, straightened and smiled smugly. “No one’s off limits.”
Shit. That one statement would finally unhinge the anger Bryce tried so hard to control. It did. He snapped, swinging his right fist so fast Rick didn’t see it coming. Bryce connected with Rick’s jaw. A smack sounded then a thump when the idiot went down.
Just as Cuss, Army, and Trig rushed through the side door into the office, she ran around the counter and looked down at what could’ve been a customer, his jaw swelling, a bruise starting to show. She didn’t feel sorry for him. He kind of deserved it.
Rick planted a hand behind him, sat up with difficulty, and spit out blood. “Are you fucking crazy?”
Bryce went at him again. If Army hadn’t stepped in front of him just in time, he would’ve landed another punch.
Cuss grabbed Rick by the arm and hauled him up. “Gotta go.”
“I came for a service.”
“And now you’re leaving without that service,” Trig said.
“What the fuck?” Rick spit out more blood. He rubbed his face then looked around the room. “I see.” Glaring at Bryce, he unwisely said, “You can’t handle a little competition.”
Bryce launched himself again. Army, standing in front of him, took the brunt of the impact. Trig grabbed Bryce around the waist and held him back.
Cuss, shoulders squared, stepped in front of Rick. “Out!”
Stupid, predator Rick said, “I’m pressing charges.”
“You aren’t pressing shit ’cause you do, you’re gonna find yourself in a real shitty situation. You don’t know who you’re messing with. No amount of money can save you from the shit storm we’ll throw your way, so take this piece of advice. Get gone. Don’t come back. Don’t cause more problems ’cause you do, you’ll fuckin’ regret it.”
Rick exhaled. His stare hit hers. “You change your mind. I guarantee you’ll—”
The idiot barely got the last word out before Bryce slammed into him, knocking him to the floor. Trig, who’d released Bryce, allowed this. Bryce landed three punches before Army, Trig, and Cuss hauled him off. By this point, Emelia realized belatedly Strike had walked in and was now helping a bloodied and bruised Rick to his feet. After Strike pulled Rick out the door, she felt it. The air around the room went static making it hard to breathe. She met Bryce’s gaze, that strange blue-green piercing, feral, and dead. She didn’t know why it shocked her. Maybe a part of her hoped since he defended her, he cared about her a tiny bit. A part of her hoped he would’ve asked her if she was okay. Instead, she got that fury, that coldness no different from any other time he looked at her.
“Out!”
Army, Trig, and Cuss hesitated only a moment before they left, leaving them alone. She held his stare, waited, watching him breathe in and out quickly.
Finally, he walked toward her, closing the distance in two strides. He grabbed her arm, hauled her toward him, and released her. “I’m protecting you. That means your ass depends on me. That means what I say, goes, and I’m saying you’re off limits so that fuckin’ means you’re off limits.”
“I wasn’t—”
“I don’t wanna hear your bullshit. I’m protecting you means you belong to me. You’re mine. No one’s getting a piece of you. Do not tempt me. Do not rile me.”
She didn’t say a word but waited for what seemed like endless moments. The entire time that rage in him strengthening.
“No! Daddy! Don’t be mad at Mommy!”
He froze, eyes horrified, face turning into a mask of anguish.
Watching him, knowing he thought he just lost his daughter, the daughter he’d just begun to get to know, her chest tightened. She couldn’t stand to see that look, so she tore her gaze away. Her head snapped to her daughter just as Bree barreled into her legs. She wrapped an arm around Bree’s shoulders and squatted down to her level. Bree’s eyes wide and filling with tears.
“Shh…shh…honey.” She pulled Bree in for a hug. When she drew away, she met her daughter’s stare. “Daddy wasn’t mad at me.”
“I…I saw…” Her tears fell.
Tugging her daughter’s blonde hair behind her ear, she said softly, “Bree, Daddy wasn’t mad at me. He’s just angry because someone wasn’t very nice to me, so he’s angry at the situation.”
Bree peered at Bryce. Emelia followed her daughter’s gaze. He was still frozen in place, that same anguished look marring his face.
“Daddy?”
Finally, Bryce met his daughter’s eyes.
Knowing he hadn’t heard what she said, Em repeated it. “Isn’t that right, Bryce? You weren’t mad at me. You were angry someone wasn’t nice to me?”
His face changed, eyes widening. Then his stare hit hers, and for a brief moment, she saw something shine in his eyes, something not dead, something that looked a lot like gratitude.
He cleared his throat. “I wasn’t angry at your mom, baby.”
She peered at Bree. “See, Bree? Your dad wants to protect us all the time. He wasn’t here when someone wasn’t nice so he couldn’t protect me, and that made him angry. Do you understand?”
Bree hesitated then looked to her dad. “Did you make it better, Daddy?”
His brows quirked. “Huh?”
“Did you make Mommy feel better?”
“He did.” She answered, knowing he wouldn’t. Needing to change the subject, she asked, “Did you have lunch?”
Bre
e nodded. “Daddy and me had pizza.”
Bryce often took their daughter out for lunch, usually at a restaurant where they could get a good meal. On a Friday, though, she wouldn’t harp on Bryce feeding Bree pizza for lunch. Sparing a glance at her watch, she realized the day had flown by.
The door to the front of the office parted. At the threshold, Strike appeared. “Gotta talk, Rip.”
That meant business, her cue to get Bree and go. She hadn’t finished cleaning the office, but it looked a lot better than it had. She’d finish the rest tomorrow, a Saturday, but she didn’t have much to do anyway.
She stood and grabbed Bree’s hand. “Come on, baby. Your dad needs to get some work done.”
About to reach the door leading into the garage, Strike said, “Office looks good, Em.”
She looked over her shoulder, met his gaze, and nodded, giving him a small smile. Then she and Bree walked out the door.
****
Ripper watched Emelia, her hand in Bree’s, stride out of sight, wondering why she lied to their daughter, why she lied for him. She had the perfect chance to do what she’d done once before—tear his daughter away from him. Yet she hadn’t.
She was a beautiful woman, a mother but still single regardless of the fact he was protecting her. It’d only be natural for a man to hit on her, and she had the right to flirt with whoever she wanted, except he couldn’t allow it. Even after all she did to him, he wanted her. He may never have her again, but it didn’t make a difference. He was a dick, an asshole, a bastard, and it meant if he couldn’t have her, no one would.
He hadn’t planned on attacking the rich douche. Obviously, if he thought it through, he wouldn’t’ve shown how much he still cared, the reason he took it out on her too. He hated he still cared so much. He despised he showed her just how much. All of it made him angry, furious in a way he lost all self-preservation and control, forgetting Emelia didn’t belong to him, forgetting his daughter stood just outside the door.
All was said and done now though, and still, he wondered why Emelia had done what she had. Since he found her, he’d done nothing but treat her like shit. Maybe she deserved it, yet it didn’t mean he didn’t deserve her treating him like shit right back.
“Rip, gotta show you something.”
Snapped out of his thoughts, he shifted and met Strike’s eyes, standing at the threshold leading from the outside lot into the office. Strike didn’t wait for him to respond. He strode away, the door slamming shut on his way out.
Ripper followed him into the compound, down two long hallways until they reached the surveillance room, in between the conference room where they held club meetings and Prez’s office. A large desk with different pedestals sat in the middle of the room. On those platforms, twenty plus monitors, one larger positioned in the center to review camera angles and video then smaller ones set beside and around it displaying real-time footage of various parts of the compound, garage, and both lots, front and back.
Strike typed on the keyboard. Rip waited. Then without turning his way, Strike stood aside as a video played.
She came to view, bent at the waist in those tiny-ass shorts cleaning the door leading into the garage. What a great view. She had a nice ass, always had. Just one look on a monitor got him hard.
Damn it. He shifted to glare at Strike. Thank God, his brother hadn’t been looking at the screen but at him.
“Watch.”
He wanted to punch Strike too but knew nothing good would come of it. He held it together by telling himself Strike wouldn’t piss him off on purpose. Finally, he focused on the screen just in time to see the bastard walk into the office, blatantly checking her out. He watched the whole thing and watching it made him feel like a bigger dick than he was.
Emelia hadn’t been flirting. She didn’t want shit to do with the bastard even if the guy had money. The first chance she had, she put distance between them, and then, she lied to him, told him she was married. The jerk just continued to insist. It was irrational, but he was glad he snapped. The man disrespected her. It wasn’t Rip’s job to defend her from rich assholes, from anyone, but he still felt the need, as if she never left, as if she still belonged to him.
That was fucked. More fucked, he was undoubtedly a bigger dick than the rich asshole and deserved to get his ass handed to him too. Maybe it’s why Strike showed him the video, to make him realize he needed to stop being a dick all the time, especially to her. What was done was done even if she never apologized, and the way he treated her wasn’t helping because nothing would ever change the fact that he lost years with Bree.
For whatever messed up reason Emelia left, she made sure his daughter knew who her father was, which didn’t make any sense. Why take Bree away then tell her stories about him? Who knew? But he had Bree now. He needed to leave the past behind and move on—for Bree. She deserved parents who didn’t hate each other’s living guts, a father who didn’t treat her mother like shit. Most importantly, he couldn’t afford to have Bree catch him being a dick to her mother again.
Past a certain point, Emelia wouldn’t continue to lie for him, and Bree, his smart girl, would eventually realize no matter what her mom said, he was a dick, the reason he didn’t need Strike to show him the video. Bree walking in on him being cruel to her mother was deterrent enough.
It could never happen again. It could cost him Bree, and he couldn’t lose her. Ever.
Guilt clogging his throat, he glared at Strike then without a word, walked away.
****
Friday nights at the compound were party nights. Granted, for some of them, it was a party every day, but Fridays, in particular, all the brothers got together, drank, smoked, and fucked.
He always loved Friday nights. That love started when he was just a prospect running errands. He loved them more when the club made him an official member. When he met Emelia, they got even better. His nights included her, always. He drank, smoked, and partied with her. Because he only wanted her, he never missed the random fucks. That changed when she left.
He didn’t party like he used to, didn’t have it in him because he couldn’t get any fun out of anything anymore. He drank and smoked alone in his room, watching some bullshit on TV. It took him months before he could even look at another woman. No matter how hot, stacked, easy…all he saw—Emelia’s face.
He got over that in time then started enjoying his Friday nights a little more. In the sense that he drank and smoked with his brothers and fucked everything in sight, always taps. The average woman was afraid of him. He knew it and figured it was because he wore anger like a shield. He didn’t care. Taps were better anyway. He didn’t have to try, and they expected nothing. A man like him had nothing to give anyway.
A Friday night, another in the many, and once again, things had changed. He could have a drink or two or ten. He could smoke a blunt to take the edge off, but he wouldn’t do any of that because, quite frankly, he didn’t feel like it. He wanted to spend time with his daughter, but after what happened that afternoon, he needed to burn off some steam, so he went for a ride.
The ride didn’t soothe him, so he went to the gym and worked out his frustration, his guilt on the treadmill. That had been hours ago; now, he knew the truth. He didn’t need to burn off steam. He just needed to find the strength to face her—his beautiful baby girl, Bree. A part of him feared she’d figured it out on her own—he wasn’t worth her devotion. A part of him thought maybe her mother had finally snapped and taken away what he didn’t deserve—a daughter.
Sitting on his bed, his hands in his freshly cut hair, he took a deep breath, stood, strode out his bedroom door, and across the hall. Turning the knob, he walked in closing the door behind him. He hadn’t bothered to look up until then, catching sight of her. Not who he’d come for, but his gaze naturally gravitated there. Emelia exited the steam-filled bathroom. Her hair knotted at the top of her head. A towel wrapped around her. His body responded like it always did, tenfold.
She loo
ked stunning, flawless. She didn’t even realize it, never had. At least that hadn’t changed.
Stare glued to her, body begging for her, he just stood there…like a zombie. He couldn’t move, couldn’t manage a word. It was too easy to picture her naked, just too hard to stop staring, imagining she was there for him like he’d done so many times over the years.
It was fucked.
He was fucked.
Luckily, in no time, that beautiful face of hers turned his way. The minute she did, his body locked.
“Bryce?”
He didn’t respond. Instead, his gaze trailed down her body then back up again coming to a stop on the bruises marring her arm. Had he done that when he grabbed her? So wrong, so messed up.
He knew it, felt the guilt eating him alive. God knew she deserved some pain for what she’d done, but she didn’t deserve that, not from a man, especially from him. He’d lost it, but it wasn’t an excuse. In fact, to him, the fact that he lost it made it inexcusable. He’d been so out of his mind with rage he hadn’t realized how he’d hurt her. It could’ve been worse. He could’ve done real damage.
“Bryce?”
His stare shifted to her face. He knew what he had to do, but doing it meant closing the distance between them, and that, considering she wore a small-ass towel, was a bad idea.
“She’s asleep.”
He turned his head. On the bed, Bree, her thick, blonde curls sprawled on the pillow. Then he remembered why he’d come—to see Bree. It seemed he’d lost track of time. He messed that up too, hadn’t been there to say goodnight. Striding toward the bed, he sat on the edge and pressed a kiss to Bree’s forehead whispering “goodnight” as he did.
Then before he thought better of it, he stood and walked toward Emelia. He didn’t meet her eyes until he stopped a couple of feet away, close enough she heard what he had to say, far enough he wouldn’t smell the scent of her. Still tempting, she had that power over him, probably always would, but then all he had to do was remember what he’d done. He needed that reminder. His gaze went to the bruises on her arm.
Riding Blind Page 11
