Riding Blind

by J. L. Sheppard

  At the back of the garage near the door leading into the compound, Bree, butt planted on the greasy floor, cradled her knee. Bryce knelt in front of her, his expression a mixture of horror, concern, and something else she’d never seen and didn’t have time to decipher.

  Relieved beyond reason since for a brief moment she thought the worst, she rushed to Bree. By the time Em reached Bree, Cuss, Blaze, Army, and several other brothers were huddled around her, making it so that Em couldn’t get through. Excusing herself, they made way for her. She immediately knelt beside Bree. Her gaze went to Bree’s knee, her little hands covering it.

  “Shh…Bree, it’s okay,” she soothed softly and simultaneously tugged Bree’s hands away to get a better look. A pretty bad scrape, bloody, but nowhere near as bad as she’d seen.

  “Mommy!” Bree cried. “It huuuurts!”

  “It’s going to be okay, honey.”

  She wrapped one arm under Bree’s knees, the other around her back, getting ready to lift her when she felt him. Bryce’s arms touched hers reaching for Bree. He lifted Bree before she could. She met his gaze. Brows furrowed, grimace in place.

  “First aid kit?”

  His brows shot up.

  “Downstairs bathroom next to the office, under the sink.”

  She turned and spotted Strike then thanked him and followed Bryce and Bree inside, Bree still crying, her sobs muffled against Bryce’s chest.

  Reaching the bathroom, Bryce sat Bree on the counter. She searched under the sink. It took her several minutes to find the first aid kit in the mess. Nabbing it, she looked for disinfectant wipes, ripped the package open, and lifted Bree’s knee. “This is going to sting.”

  “No, Mommy, no!”

  Bryce wrapped his arm around Bree’s shoulders, cupped her cheek, and pressed her against his chest. Leaning into her, his lips on her forehead, he said, “It’s okay, baby. Hold on to me. It’s gonna be okay.”

  The way he said it, so soft, trying to comfort her, and so anguished too, like he felt her pain, made Emelia stop what she meant to do to look his way. His eyes weren’t dead but pained. Lost in that look, when Bree wailed again and he shifted his attention her, she realized she’d been staring.

  Looking away quickly, she said, “It’ll be over soon.” She wiped the scrape as carefully as possible.

  Bree, her face still pressed against Bryce’s chest, sobbed louder.

  Done, she whispered, “The worst is over now.” She bandaged it then threaded her fingers through Bree’s hair. “All better. Now, some ice cream?”

  Bree drew her face away from her father’s chest, wiped her tears, and nodded. Bryce carried Bree into the living room. She headed into the kitchen and served Bree a bowl of chocolate ice cream, her favorite.

  “You can say it. I fucked up.”

  Her back toward him, but from his voice, she knew he stood a few feet behind her. She faced him, seeing that same look, the one she hadn’t been able to put a name to before, guilt. As a new parent, Bryce wouldn’t know that guilt was a common feeling. Parents worried. They second-guessed themselves, and when their child got hurt, physically or emotionally, parents felt guilt.

  “When Bree was one and a half, she started trying to climb out of her crib. I bought her a toddler bed. It had a rail to keep her from rolling off the bed. Well, she fell any way and bumped her head pretty hard. The sound of her head hitting the floor woke me. It was three in the morning. I was terrified and rushed her to the hospital. She was fine, thank God, but I felt responsible. I still think of that night sometimes. I think about what I could’ve done to prevent it, and I still remember how scared I was, and I still feel responsible.”

  His eyes widened as his brows wrinkled.

  “This isn’t the first time she’s fallen. It won’t be the last.”

  His expression changed then. Eyes glowing, he nodded. “I’m leaving town tomorrow night. Won’t be back for several days.”

  “I’ll let Bree know.”

  He shook his head. “Already told her. Now, I’m telling you. While I’m gone, Strike’ll take her to school and pick her up.”

  She nodded, thinking it made sense Strike drop Bree off and pick her up. Bree had grown fond of the tatted biker, and it was mutual.

  Bryce didn’t say where he planned to go, what he had to do, or when he’d be back. He just walked away. Then again, she hadn’t expected him to tell her.

  Before he left the following night, he gave her a cell phone. Only one number programmed in it, his.

  ****

  Ripper had been gone for three days, but it felt like an eternity.

  He’d known Bree for a little more than three weeks, and he missed her something awful. He couldn’t explain it, didn’t understand it, but he felt it. For a man who hadn’t known love, he loved her more than anything in the world, a different type of love, love from first glimpse, unconditional love.

  How could he not? His own flesh and blood, she was sweet, smart, beautiful, and his—his and Emelia’s. All of it made him realize what low lives his parents were. More than ever, he couldn’t understand how his father walked out, how his mother dropped him off at his grandmother’s and disappeared. Granted, he wasn’t the best man, father, or role model, but he loved his girl, so he’d turn himself inside out if he had to, to be better for Bree.

  Before he left, he knew he’d miss Bree but had no choice but to go. He agreed to the guard job months ago and couldn’t back down when the club had already taken the money. Some of the guard jobs the club provided weren’t legal. They got paid to guard, and sometimes, it included beating up assholes who deserved it. The club made sure of it. This one had been an easy one, some dick who wouldn’t leave his ex-girlfriend alone and had been borderline stalking her. Her new man had money and paid them to rough up the ex. It took three days. They always stayed behind to make sure they tied up loose ends. He’d made a decent amount of money, enough he could afford to install the high-tech security system he had his eye on and buy some furniture for his home. But he was glad the job was over and done with. He wanted to see Bree, bad. Honest, he wanted to see Emelia too. He called her twice a day to talk to Bree. Also, Strike kept tabs on her and called him daily to report back, so he knew she hadn’t bailed with Bree again, but deep down, he wouldn’t believe it until he saw her with his own eyes.

  The minute he got to the compound, he rushed upstairs, dropped his duffle in front of his door, and headed to their room. He meant to open the door without knocking then thought better of it. The last thing he needed—catch Emelia in a towel again. He knocked twice, lightly. She opened the door. His gaze locked with hers and because a part of him swore she’d be gone, he held it for longer than he cared to admit. Finally, he tore his stare away but only to trail it down her torso. He meant to continue looking down the length of her, but he froze on the oversized black tee with the word “Harley” written in freehand cursive across her chest.

  He knew that tee. He remembered it well because it was his. Not much different than most of his tees, black and it read, “Harley,” but he remembered it because he missed it. He missed it because it was his favorite, and it was his favorite because all those years ago, she wore it to bed.

  The first time he had her, she found it on the floor and put it on. From that night on, she slept with him in that tee. The only nights she didn’t wear it to bed, the nights he dealt with club business, and she fell asleep without him. On those nights, he stole it back and wore it laced with her scent, so with every breath he took, he smelled her. He did this every time. After she left, he realized he did it because she wasn’t around, and he wanted her to be.

  When she left, she took everything with her, all her clothes, even pictures like she’d been trying to erase the memory of her from him. She was gone, and he didn’t know why, and he didn’t want her to be. He needed something, anything. He thought he had at least that shirt, so he looked, tearing his room apart, but he never found it, and now, he knew why.

 
She took it.

  She took his favorite tee.

  She stole it and left with his daughter.

  He couldn’t lose it like he wanted to, like he should.

  The next moment, Bree’s little body hit him, her arms circled his thighs, hugging him tightly. “Daddy! I missed you so much.”

  His arms went around Bree. He tried his hardest to tamp down the too familiar anger. The instant his gaze landed on her beautiful little face and the smile lighting it, the one that made his whole life worth every fucked minute, his rage faded fast. He smiled. “Hey, baby. How’s my favorite girl?”

  “I’m good, Daddy. Mommy let me stay up because I told her you were coming home.”

  He spared a glance at the clock on the bedside table, an hour past her bedtime. Emelia was strict about that shit. It was for Bree’s own good, so he said nothing. Yet Emelia let it go this one time, giving Bree the chance to see him and give him that smile. Too bad it didn’t erase everything she’d done to him.

  “Guess that means it’s bedtime then?”

  Bree looked to Emelia. He refused to look at her, knowing no good would come of it. But he knew she must’ve nodded since Bree peered at him next and asked, “Can you tuck me in and stay until I fall asleep, Daddy?”

  He couldn’t say no to that voice, those eyes, soft and pleading. Besides the fact, he wanted to even though he shouldn’t. It was just plain stupid to be in such close proximity to her mother, wearing a tee she stole and nothing else. “’Course, Bree.”

  She grabbed his hand, tugging him toward the bed, where she lay.

  He sat on the bedside, tucked her in like he’d seen Emelia do, leaned in, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Night, baby.” Not knowing what else to do, he pulled away but stayed seated on the mattress.

  “You must be tired. You should lay with me, but you have to take off your shoes, so you won’t dirty the bed.” She made room beside her and in the process undid the sheet he’d so dutifully tucked around her.

  He smiled, waited until she situated herself before he tucked her in again. “I am tired. Didn’t realize how tired until I got here.” He then kicked off his boots, lay on his side facing her, and wrapped his arm over her head.

  She burrowed close, placing her cheek against his chest, her little hands under her face.

  It felt good. His little girl seeking comfort in him. Then it got better.

  She pulled away from him and tilted her head up. “I love you, Daddy.”

  In that single moment, he knew why he was still alive—for her. Rip couldn’t disguise the feeling, the warmth spreading through him, the emotion welling inside, and he didn’t try to. When he whispered, it could be heard in his voice. “I love you more, Bree, and don’t you ever forget it.”

  She smiled wide and tucked her face back onto his chest. In seconds, she fell asleep, and he was left staring at her wondering what he ever did to deserve such beauty.

  Chapter Nine

  Ripper fell asleep. In fact, it was possible he was still asleep or in an alternate universe. The second his lids parted, he felt it—the heat of a body cuddled close. He saw long blonde hair in his face. Lying flat on his back, he turned his head. That blonde hair fell away, and he came face to face with her, with the beautiful woman he hadn’t been able to erase from his mind, not for a single day, not for a single hour. She lay on her side facing him, her head on his shoulder, her arm resting on his stomach.

  Just like before.

  Except she wasn’t pressed against him, no, that was Bree, still burrowed on her side between her mother and him. A dream come true. Crazy, but it felt like heaven. He, her, and their baby girl… Perfect. Except it was a lie.

  Emelia hadn’t been his for more than five years, and it was possible she’d never been his.

  So why had she cuddled beside him? Because he fell asleep, and she had nowhere else to sleep? Because her body had naturally drifted toward body heat no matter who it belonged to? Because she meant to cuddle with Bree not him?

  He glanced at the bedside table and realized he slept for five hours straight. Mystifying, it’d been years since he got that much sleep. He hated to admit it, but he knew the reason was her. The last time he slept so long, so peacefully—the last night she spent with him.

  And there she was, the woman he couldn’t have, taunting him with something else he couldn’t have. Another something he’d have if she’d never left—sleep, peace. He didn’t know if she meant to fuck with him, but it didn’t matter. It felt like it because he wanted her, couldn’t have her, and had to live with her. Torture of the worst kind.

  He tore his gaze from her too beautiful face. Then he slowly extricated himself from the bed. Turning back, he peered at Bree. For Bree, the torture was worth it. Shifting, he took a step before he heard a whisper.

  “Bryce?”

  He held still for endless moments. Without turning to look, he swallowed. “Yeah?”

  “H-how was your trip?”

  Small talk? He turned so fast it was a wonder he didn’t get whiplash. She sat, her hair a mess around her face, making him wish he never left her bed.

  “Fine.”

  “Glad you’re back.” The blanket she held at her chest fell away.

  He darted his gaze down to her chest, that “Harley” inscription blaring, reminding him why he’d been so pissed. “Out. Side. Now.”

  Her eyes widened. She stood and neared. He followed her out the door and closed it on his way out. Glancing around, a few feet away, he spotted Hash with a couple of taps. One kissing his neck, already topless, the other knelt in front of him unfastening his jeans.

  Clenching his jaw, he strode to Hash and hauled the tap kissing his neck away.

  “What—” the tap began.

  Hash’s eyes cracked open. He parted his mouth, no doubt about to protest.

  Ripper spoke over the tap. “What the fuck, brother?” His arm shot out. “You realize I got a five-year-old sleeping feet away?”

  “She’s sleep—”

  “Shut. It. Brother.” He grasped the tap kneeling in front of Hash by the elbow and yanked her to her feet. She stumbled.

  Taking a step toward Hash, inches from his face, he sniped, “She wakes for whatever reason and comes out here and catches you getting a blowjob, I’ll have to cut off your dick to make sure it doesn’t happen again. What the fuck do you think we got rooms for?”

  Hash’s jaw hardened. Despite this, he nodded.

  Ripper turned, strode toward Emelia, grabbed her hand, and pulled her into his room behind him. He forced himself not to slam the door shut and took a series of steps toward her. She stepped back several times until her back hit the side of the dresser beside the door and behind her.

  “Thank you for—”

  He shook his head. “Didn’t do it for you.”

  She nodded. “Well, thank you anyway. I was worried about Bree seeing the guys with—”

  “Listen.” He waited for her to say anything. When she didn’t, his gaze snapped down to the tee she stole. After a long pause, he met her stare again. “Take. It. Off.” His voice low, deadly.

  Her lips parted. “W-what?”

  “My tee. You stole it. I want it back.”

  She looked down at herself as if she hadn’t realized what she wore. When she met his gaze again, her cheeks had a rosy tint to them. “You gave it to me.”

  Yeah, he had, but that was before. “You gave me plenty then took it all away.”

  Fuck. Rip shouldn’t have said that. He should pretend he didn’t care. He just couldn’t help it, like he couldn’t help what came out next.

  “You took something else too, something I didn’t even know I had.”

  The color faded from her cheeks as she bit the side of her lip and closed her eyes tightly.

  “Take. It. Off.”

  Parting her eyes, she swallowed. “I-I can’t. I’m not wearing…any—”

  “Not my problem.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “Bryce
…p-please…please, don’t.”

  A fantastic act from an amazing actress, the meekness, the hurt, the tears, all of it took his anger to new heights.

  Fisting his hands, he leaned into her. “Seen it before. Wasn’t impressed.”

  Brutal. Strike to the heart. No, she didn’t have one in regards to him, anyway.

  She wobbled. Without even blinking, tears fell, staining her beautiful face. And still, she made no retort, made no move.

  “Off!”

  Gripping the hem of the shirt, she tugged it over her head. He drew away slightly, giving her room. She extended her hand to give him the tee.

  His gaze raked her, except for a thong she was naked underneath. His dick hardened to a painful degree. Stare glued to her chest, her beautiful, plump breasts. She’d never been big, not like he liked them. A B-cup, but the prettiest he’d ever seen, probably because they were hers.

  He wanted her, always wanted her. Dreamed of having her again so many times, and there she was nearly naked, and he couldn’t have her. He disguised his groan with a growl, realizing then the mistake he made by asking for the shirt.

  Like he wanted to continue torturing himself, his gaze drifted down her stomach then traveled to her rounded hips. He wished for a moment she’d turn to give him a view of her perfect ass. Fuck. He hissed. The hiss died on his lips when he spotted a horizontal scar a few inches under her belly button.

  He looked at her face. Streaks of tears lined her too pale cheeks, and she hadn’t made a sound. Crying silent tears, why? Wasn’t the point to make him feel bad, manipulate him?

  “What the fuck is that?”

  She shook her head. “P-please…just let me go,” she whispered. “I know I deserve it, but please…”

  He studied her, watching for moments too long as those silent tears continued to trail down her face, down her neck. Her expression a mixture of anguish, torment, and shame. As the seconds ticked, his chest constricted making it hard to breathe. It took a while, but finally, he realized it.