Resilient

by Gillian Archer

  Until it didn’t.

  I couldn’t bring myself to look at Tank. I knew my face must be a mess of streaked makeup and tears. But I didn’t sob. That tendency had been shamed out of me. I flinched when Tank’s voice sounded closer than I remembered him being.

  “Well, we hadn’t gotten far enough into Sons of Anarchy for you to make me cry, so I’m gonna go with no.”

  Stubbornly I didn’t look up. Wiping my face with the overlong robe sleeves, I mumbled, “What?”

  “I was just answering your question. It’s all a hell no. I can’t even imagine—come here, baby girl.”

  Before I could get my bearings, Tank folded me into his arms and I found myself cuddled up to his impressive and naked chest.

  “That sounds like a seriously fucked-up childhood. I’m sorry you had to go through it.”

  Something brushed against the top of my head. His lips, no doubt. And there, nestled in the arms of this strong, capable but wounded biker, I found a sense of safety and security that I’d never felt before.

  “It wasn’t all bad. When we left my dad behind in California and moved to Reno, things got a lot better. I had friends and got my family back.”

  “When you were—what? Ten? Eleven?”

  “Thirteen. Middle school.”

  Tank’s arms tightened around me. “Still too fucking long if you ask me, sweetheart. You deserved better.”

  I didn’t say anything. I was content just to lie in the circle of Tank’s arms and pretend that made everything better.

  The rest of the night was a blur of tender smiles from Tank, silly laughter over an old cartoon, and amazing calories consumed from room service desserts.

  Then in the early hours of the morning, he made love to me slowly. Sweetly. His face concentrated on mine. His eyes so exquisitely gentle. In that moment it felt like anything was possible. That we were possible.

  I fell asleep with a smile on my face as Tank took care of the condom in the bathroom.

  The next morning I woke up alone, with no sign that Tank had ever been in the suite except for his scent still lingering on the pillow I held clutched to my face.

  Chapter 13

  Tank

  SEPTEMBER 20

  Somewhere in the room, the telltale guitar riff and cowbell of Nazareth’s “Hair of the Dog,” my ringtone, woke me. I jackknifed up and blinked furiously to get my bearings. Where the fuck was I? The room was so pitch-black, I couldn’t see shit. Then the faint aroma of sugar and sex came to me. Nicole. As my eyes adjusted, I could make out her shapely curves hidden beneath a sheet on the other side of the bed. That Nicole wasn’t a cuddler didn’t surprise me.

  The fact that I slept with her again did. Hell, I practically begged her last night. All the couple-y wedding bullshit had clearly affected my brain. I knew better. I’d told myself as much, anyhow. It couldn’t happen again. I had to steer clear of the gorgeous, prickly, foul-mouthed brunette.

  Why the hell was I awake?

  I scrubbed at my eyes and took stock. My heart wasn’t racing, so it wasn’t a nightmare. Nicole was still asleep and on the other side of the bed, so it wasn’t because of her. What the fuck?

  Then my ringtone started again. Dammit. I eased off the bed, then searched the floor for my pants and phone. I grabbed them off the floor just before my phone stopped ringing. When I finally got the phone unlocked, I saw I’d missed three calls from Hatchet in as many minutes.

  Son of a bitch.

  I pulled my pants on while I called him back.

  “Tank. Where have you been, man?”

  “Where the fuck do you think? It’s three a.m. after Zag’s wedding. You and everyone else saw me take a bridesmaid back to my room. What the fuck didja think we were doing? Needlepoint?” Hatchet might be a fully patched member, but that sure as fuck didn’t give him the right to bust my balls before the sun even came up. Even though the kid was ten fucking years younger than me, he should’ve been smart enough to know better than to bait a scary fucker like me. Was I losing my touch?

  “N-N-N-No. I didn’t. I mean, I thought…I just wanted…”

  Fuck, now I felt lower than horseshit. Rolling my eyes to the dim ceiling, I took a deep breath and reminded myself of all the shit the kid had gone through in the past year and a half. I shouldn’t give him such a hard time. “What’s up, Bobby? I mean, Hatchet. Is it club business or personal?”

  “Club.”

  I could hear him take a deep breath before he continued.

  “Shit’s gone tits up in town while most of the club is up here for the wedding. Reb’s calling in the troops. Wants everyone at the clubhouse. Except for Zag, since—”

  “It’s his wedding night. Gotcha. I’ll be ready in five. Are you still here?” I knew better than to ask over the phone for details. Reb was a paranoid son of a bitch and would never tell anyone shit unless it was in person. Which meant none of us would say shit over the phone, either.

  “Yeah. I got a few more guys to call. We’re meeting in the parking lot in twenty if you want to ride with the rest of the club.”

  “I’m gonna head down early. I’ll meet you guys there.” I ended the call without waiting for an answer from Hatchet. Grabbing my duffel, I pulled on a new T-shirt and socks, then shrugged into my leather jacket and club vest. I hadn’t spent much time in the room, so there was nothing else to pack aside from the clothes I’d worn to the wedding.

  I hesitated a few feet from the door. If it’d been anyone else, I would’ve left without saying shit. But Nicole was different. She deserved more.

  Spying her purse lying in the middle of the floor, I grabbed it and searched until I found her cellphone. After pushing a few buttons, I shook my head at her lack of security passcode. A gorgeous, smart chick like her should know better. She could get her phone stolen, or some perv could spy on her phone without her knowing. Like me. I quickly typed my info into her contacts then called my phone from hers so I’d have her number, too. Then I typed out a quick text to her:

  Sorry. Club business. Catch you later.

  Short and sweet and the closest I’d ever come to writing a love note in my life.

  Still holding her phone, I walking into the dim bedroom and stopped next to her sleeping form on the bed. She looked so sweet and innocent when she wasn’t spitting fire. She would’ve been the perfect girl for me if I was looking. Or wasn’t so fucked up.

  Without thinking about it, I bent down and brushed my lips over her forehead.

  She deserved so much more than my mostly dead and battle-scarred heart. She’d seen firsthand last night how fucked up I am—and that was after ten years of therapy and distance from my traumatic head injury. The fact that she’d stuck with me, wanted to make sure that I was okay, meant more to me than I was comfortable with. Especially after all that shit she’d laid out to me last night. She, more than anyone, deserved better. I tucked her phone under her hand, then got the hell out of there.

  When I got down to the parking lot, I saw Hatchet, Bumper, and Stitch standing next to their bikes.

  “Hey guys.” I walked over to them and greeted each with a handshake or backslap like we hadn’t just seen each other a few hours ago. “Anyone know what’s going on?”

  “Some shit in town is all I know,” Hatchet answered while the other guys just shook their heads.

  I looked over the lot full of bikes but didn’t see Reb’s or Axle’s, or their cars. Apparently the guys with all the answers were already in town. Fuck, I couldn’t stand around with my thumb up my ass waiting for the other guys to get outta bed. I wanted answers. “I’m heading out now if anyone wants to come along.”

  Bumper and Stitch nodded while Hatchet said something about rounding up the rest. They got on their bikes while I climbed into my pickup, and seconds later we tore out of the parking lot in a thunder of engines and squealing tires. Bumper and Stitch rode in front of me and the sight of my two friends straddling their bikes had me wishing that I’d ridden my own up yesterday.
>
  I tried to put my mind on club business, wondering what the issue could’ve been that got us all out of bed at three a.m., but inevitably my mind kept returning to Nicole. How she bit her lip when she focused on her orgasm. That whimpering sound she made when she came. The heartbreak in her eyes when she talked about her dad.

  I hadn’t had the benefit of a father growing up, and it sounded like neither had she. My childhood hadn’t been that bad—mostly just neglectful. My mom had been either working or sleeping. So it was just me and Christy trying to figure out life on our own. And Christy was an awesome older sister, watchful but not oppressive—she let me figure shit out on my own when I wanted. Nothing nearly as abusive as Nicole had described. How could anyone treat such a little girl like that? If anyone had treated Christy that way I would’ve kicked their ass. That was what family did. Where was her mom? Why didn’t she protect Nicole?

  Thinking about it got me pissed off all over again.

  I’d thought Nicole had led the regular middle-class life that I’d dreamed of when I was little, with the loving mother and father and brother in their perfect house with a huge backyard. But it sounded like the opposite.

  Nicole was just as scarred and fucked up as me. Maybe more so.

  All thought fled when we turned the corner onto Chism Street. The guys coasted to a stop in front of the clubhouse and I parked behind them. But it wasn’t the clubhouse that held our attention, it was the smoking relic down the street. I barreled out of my pickup and stood in shocked silence next to my friends as we watched two fire trucks sitting idle in the street as men coiled fire hoses in front of the smoking shell of Dirty Side Down Mechanics. The club motorcycle shop.

  “Fuck!” Bumper fisted his hands on his hips as he looked at the shell that’d been either a job or hangout place for so many of us. Reb had torn down the previous building on the property and built the shop long before he ever became club president. It’d been his pet project for so long, and now it was just…gone.

  The guys parked their bikes at the club compound, then walked over to stand across the street from the club shop—or what had been the club shop.

  “Damn,” I whispered as I surveyed the scene. The fire had already been put out, but one truck continued to spray the smoldering mess—I guess to protect against future flare-ups. Not that there was much to protect. The shop sign was long gone, and only a brick shell of the building remained. From here it was impossible to tell what inventory had survived the fire, but between the flames, fire retardant, and water, I wasn’t optimistic.

  Our silent vigil grew as more Brothers showed up over the next hour. The anger in the crowd was intense. Someone had come into our territory and fucked with what was ours. We didn’t attempt to cross the tape to inspect the damage, and none of the investigators or firefighters crossed the street to talk to us. We let them do their job.

  Soon enough it’d be time for us to do ours.

  —

  Hours later it was standing room only in the meeting room of the True Brothers clubhouse. Reb, Axel, and the rest of the executive board were still huddled in Reb’s office. Hopefully coming up with a plan to kick some Saddletramp ass. Rage still flowed through my veins. I needed an outlet and a few Saddletramp skulls would be the perfect place to get it.

  We all knew the Saddletramps were the culprits. After they trashed Reb’s house a few months back, we had gotten our revenge by torching their safe house, which had been full of their contraband delivery of guns for the Sicilian Mafia in California. And we’d also taken out a few of their members in the process. Plus their vice president, Joker, when he’d kidnapped Emily a few weeks ago with Rhonda’s help. Hell, the bad blood between the clubs went back more than three years, when Digs and Oiler were killed at a biker rally in Sacramento. Those fucking Saddletramps, along with the one-percenter club they supported, the Wild Riders MC, had started a war that night.

  A war we’d win.

  I leaned against the back wall next to Hatchet. He’d finally shown up an hour ago with the last group from Tahoe. Neither of us said anything, but we along with everyone else in the room vibrated with tension. I’d asked around and no one had any info on Bam Bam, our prospect who’d been the only one on guard duty last night. Since it was Zag’s wedding, most of the guys had been up in Tahoe partying and celebrating. One prospect on guard duty had been a stupid fucking idea, considering we’d been the last ones to strike out against the Saddletramps. We should’ve been better protected.

  Finally Reb entered the meeting room and everyone came to attention. The nervous, jittery energy in the room was apparent. Like we were all just waiting for Reb to give the battle cry so we could charge.

  While Axle and the other board members took their seats, Reb stood and looked over the men.

  “Here’s what we know. Around one a.m. this morning a fire was started at the shop. Bam Bam was the lone man on duty and didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. He was the one to call the fire in—first to the authorities, then to me. Investigators are treating the fire as arson—”

  “That’s because those fucking Tramps started it,” Bumper cut in. “Eye for an eye. We all know it, Reb!”

  Reb shook his head. “Not necessarily.”

  Guys immediately started grumbling.

  “Bullshit!” Bumper fired back.

  Maverick stood up, waving his arm over his head. “Who else have we pissed off lately? It’s gotta be those fucking Tramps!”

  Reb crossed his arms over his chest. “How about the Wild Riders MC? Or La famigghia for starters?”

  The room quieted as the impact of Reb’s suggestions sank in.

  “We fucked the Mafia over with their gun shipment,” Reb continued. “Sure as shit, they’re gonna come after us when they learn what really happened—if they haven’t already. And we can only screw around with the Tramps for so long before they turn to the Wild Riders for backup. We’re up shit creek, boys. We can’t just go out guns blazing. That’s how we got in this fucking mess to start with.”

  “So, what the fuck are you suggesting we do?” Stitch piped up. “We can’t just sit here like fucking lame ducks waiting for the next firebomb to take out another one of our club businesses or God forbid, one of our homes. Some of us got women and children to worry about.”

  The guys murmured their support.

  “I’m saying we all watch our backs.” Reb said quietly. “We’ll double up on guard duties at all club-owned properties and gather info on the fire tonight—find out who’s in town and fucking with us. We can’t just strike out in anger. We need to do this right, so it doesn’t all blow up in our faces.”

  “Literally,” Axle muttered.

  “So we’re not gonna go off half-cocked against the Tramps. We clear?” Reb surveyed the room, making eye contact with the guys. “I don’t wanna hear any bullshit about you hotheads starting shit. We do this right, and we strike out against the fuckers who fucked us. We can’t afford more than one war at a time. Everyone needs to check in with me or Axle and get your revised schedules.”

  There were a few mutters, but for the most part everyone seemed to agree with Reb’s assessment. We were going to lie low until we knew more. Rage still simmered beneath the surface. No one really wanted to wait, but we’d have to find other outlets in the meantime.

  “Where’s Bam Bam?” Bumper asked. “I wanna know what happened this morning.”

  “Bam Bam is with the arson investigator. He’ll give us all a full account at the next meeting. But he says he didn’t hear any motorcycles or anything out of the ordinary. The first sign of trouble was the fucking fire eating up the shop down the street.”

  Sounded shady as hell to me, but I kept my mouth shut. I’d learned it was best to swallow my suspicions until I had something concrete to back them up. Especially when surrounded by hotheads charged with emotion.

  “I call bullshit,” Hatchet murmured beside me as Reb droned on about guard duty schedules. “This neighborhood is a fuck
ing cemetery after hours if we don’t have a party going on. I bet you dollars to doughnuts that fucker was either asleep or lying about what he saw.”

  I silently agreed. Shit was suspicious, but I still kept my mouth shut. We could talk about it later when there were fewer ears to eavesdrop.

  Reb’s voice grabbed my attention. “And I don’t want anyone saying shit to Zag. Him and Jessica got five more days in Hawaii, and there ain’t shit he could do, anyhow. No point in riling him up when he’s so fucking far away. The guys who’d been working at the shop will be spread out through our other businesses. We’ve always taken care of our own and that’s not stopping now. In the meantime, let’s toast the best fucking motorcycle shop to grace this god-awful neighborhood.”

  Reb adjourned the meeting. Most of the guys got up and moved toward the bar, eager to drown their sorrows and shoot the shit about their suspicions and possible suspects. I stayed where I was at the back of the room, holding up the wall with Hatchet. After a minute, Stitch and Bumper moseyed over to our corner.

  “What do you think?” Stitch asked the group but looked directly at me.

  I kept my answer short, still holding my cards close to my chest. “Shit doesn’t add up.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” Hatchet tossed in.

  “So, what are we gonna do?” Bumper asked.

  I jerked my chin at Reb as he passed by and answered Bump. “Follow orders.”

  I waited until Reb left the room for the bar. When we were the only four guys left, I turned back to my Brothers and said what was really on my mind. “We go to every dive bar in Reno and Sparks and fucking Tahoe if we need to and find out what really happened last night. We also gotta look into Bam Bam’s background. Who the fuck is his sponsor?”