Hearing his approach, she forced her shoulders down and swiveled her head to meet his gaze.
Looking into her amethyst eyes was like taking a sucker punch to his gut. Whatever he planned to say died on his lips.
Just who the hell was she?
She stood motionless, breathless, while the world stopped turning around them. Equally puzzled by their reaction to each other, she tore her gaze away, put a hand over her solar plexus and shook herself, breaking the connection. Dipping her head, she looked under the hood at her radiator, her brow furrowed with unspoken questions.
The drone advanced on the passenger side, focused on their interaction.
“Problems?” he asked.
“You could say that,” she drawled, her words open to interpretation. Her obscure response made him wonder if she was talking about what just happened. “I blew a hose.”
There was a hint of the South in her voice. Oklahoma? Southern Missouri, maybe. She wasn’t native to Washington State, that was for certain.
When she turned her gaze back to meet his, he felt the pull like a tide, threatening to draw him in and pull him under.
“I’m hoping like hell the duct tape will get me to a garage. You don’t happen to know where I can find one, do you?”
Ignoring the drone, Book eyed the repair and looked at the woman who’d done it, searching her purple eyes for answers to the questions spiraling in his head. Who was she? What was she? Where had he known her before? She felt too familiar for this to be the first lifetime their paths had crossed.
Another drone came into view, putting John Kerrigan’s eyes on them, too. The threat the baron posed was tangible, even if Book wasn’t hearing it. Consumed by the need to protect her, he considered pulling the gun from the back of his waist and shooting it down.
Except that would piss off Kerrigan and scare her worse than she already was.
She might try to look tough and act self-sufficient, but she was as vulnerable as any woman stranded in the middle of nowhere. He cast a dark look at Kerrigan’s drone. It was asking for trouble, but he was determined to not throw her to the Alpha wolf or let the hyenas have her.
“Tate’s Auto Repair is about fifteen miles,” he said, registering the flare of disappointment and hint of panic that flashed in her eyes, “but my club— Lost Creek— has a garage for our bikes and cages. Mack can fix anything and he’ll cut you a deal on labor. Putting on a hose shouldn’t be too much.”
He quirked a questioning brow. The loss of his telepathic gift left him no choice but to pry the old-fashioned way, with hints and innuendo.
She bit her lip, perfectly aware of what he was asking. Taking a breath, she looked at him and told him what he was hoping to hear. “I can pay, or I can get more if I need to. It’s not safe to travel with too much cash.”
Sweet relief swept through him. She had some money and had access to more— hopefully enough to pay the mandated tap fee. In a perfect world, she’d be able to pay it all in gold coins rather than AFS dollars. The legal tender printed by the American Federation of States was the western version of the Euro, available in denominations from one to a thousand. But there were other forms of trade. Other means of payment, especially for someone as young and pretty as she was.
The world was full of men who’d have demanded it.
She was taking a chance that he wasn’t one of them. But she wasn’t put off by the sight of his cut. He took that as a good sign.
“True enough,” he agreed smoothly. “I’ll need you to follow me. If your van won’t make it, we’ll get Mack to tow it in.”
“Jesus Christ,” she groaned, a sound that made his dick take notice. “I hope the fuck not. My dads are gonna shit a brick if I have to call them.”
He arched a brow at her comment but said nothing. Two dads were becoming more common these days. So were ménages. Hell, the President of The New Republic of Texas shared his wife with his twin brother.
Times, they are a-changing. At least some good things had come along with the bad after the world fell apart. Old dividing lines were blurred or broken. Racially mixed marriages were becoming the new norm, and multiple partners were legal in most places, mixed gender or same gender, didn’t matter. For some polys, it was a way to survive. For others, it was an option that didn’t exist ten years ago.
“I’m hoping you won’t have to,” he said, trying to sound positive when doubt loomed large in his mind. “We’ll see. Our lodge is close as the crow flies but it’s two-and-a-half miles by road. Let me get my bike. I’ll wait until you get started before heading out.”
When he pulled up even with her side window, she started her engine, checked her gauges, and gave him a thumb’s up. Putting her transmission in gear, she followed in his wake, leaving enough distance between them to allow plenty of time for an emergency stop. A lot of people would have ridden his ass, ignorant of the danger. But she was mindful.
Polite.
Accepting of his cut.
It wouldn’t surprise him to learn her fathers were in a club. If that were the case, they’d need to treat her right or deal with the consequences, and nobody wanted a war.
Half the members must have been waiting outside when they pulled into the compound. Book felt his hackles rise and his protective urges mushroom. He preceded her into the garage, veering to the side so she could pull into the bay before shutting off the engine.
Loki was waiting by his designated parking spot, panting softly, his lupine eyes focused on the stranger in their midst.
The opened overhead doorway quickly filled with a dozen bikers wearing Lost Creek MC cuts. The sight of them blocking the way must look as menacing as his dog to her.
When their President stepped out from the pack, Book intercepted him.
“She can pay,” he assured him quietly, signaling Loki to sit. “Or thinks she can. If what she has on her isn’t enough, she says she can get more.”
Deacon smiled wryly. “Of that, I have no doubt. I’m guessing she didn’t introduce herself or you’d know.”
Book blinked at him, confused. “Know what?”
Deacon nodded to the woman he’d saved from Kerrigan’s retribution. “Spider traced her plates and ran her picture through a facial recognition program. That’s Adrienne James. Daughter of President Jackson Thomason, his wife Anna James, and his twin Jacob Thomason. Book, she’s the fucking First Daughter of Texas.”
2
Adrienne stayed where she was, silently assessing. She trusted her instincts enough to not feel overtly threatened but she wasn’t infallible. No, that would be her mother’s best friend and their family’s spiritual advisor.
Aunt Grace was never wrong.
Never.
She’s the one who had told her to come to Kansas, warning her to stay off the grid as much as she could and sleep with a loaded gun when she couldn’t.
She hadn’t warned her about body cavity searches at The Great State of Kansas border or the bribe she’d have to pay to avoid one.
She hadn’t warned her about her radiator hose or that she’d be rescued by a biker with the most incredible sapphire blue eyes. Not that any of it would have mattered. With the rise in gang violence and an increase in armed home invasions, staying in Seattle wasn’t an option. Accepting a quest in the Land of Oz had seemed like a fine as fuck idea at the time.
Surrounded by a sea of tee-shirts, jeans, and leather vests, she was glad she’d dressed down today. The leather skirt might not be a good call, judging from the looks of masculine interest, but she wasn’t going to panic just because they were in a club. Her Uncle Cord had been in one. Despite his felony weapons conviction and four years in the pen, he was one of the nicest, most down-to-earth people you’d ever want to meet.
Because of Cordell Colson, she was reserving judgment on the Lost Creek MC members, offering them the benefit of the doubt until they proved her wrong. Besides, if these guys had surveillance drones, chances were they knew who she was.
Yo
u don’t mess with Texas.
Shouldering her conceal-and-carry purse, she left the keys in the van and approached the man wearing a President’s patch on his chest. Like his Vice President, he had dark hair, a fit physique, and an impressive brush of beard. A massive wolf-dog sat on its haunches beside her rescuer, nudging his denim-covered thigh, begging for a scratch.
It was the biggest dog she’d seen in her life. She’d have been scared shitless if the thing hadn’t smiled at her.
“Hi,” she greeted the President, reaching for the arm that he extended. A positive vibe and a firm handshake were crucial when dealing with people, regardless of rank or gender.
The President nodded, shaking her hand as deftly as a dignitary at a state dinner. “I’m Deacon, President of our lodge. Welcome to the Lost Creek MC.”
“I’m Adrienne James.”
Her name failed to shock him. He knew who she was.
She’d guessed as much. Aunt Grace would be proud.
“Sorry to be a bother,” she apologized, striving to be diplomatic, “but my radiator’s having issues. I was taking the scenic route to Wamego when the hose started leaking.”
“You’re a long way from Texas,” he observed.
“Farther yet from Seattle, which is where I’ve been the last year. I left when things got bad.”
His dark brow furrowed. “We’ve heard rumors.”
She didn’t doubt that some of them were true. “It’s no place to go right now— not until they get the gangs under control. Except for your border police, The Great State of Kansas has been much more inviting.”
She turned to the club’s Vice President, tilting her head so she could meet his sapphire gaze. For a moment, she let herself get lost in it. “Thank you for stopping to check on me,” she said when she managed to speak again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t get your name.”
He cleared his throat, the muscles of his neck making his Adam’s apple do an appealing vertical slide. When he spoke, his voice was rougher than it had been when it was just the two of them.
“David Reynolds,” he rasped. “Better known as Book.”
“Book?”
She blinked, wondering if she’d heard him right.
“Book,” he repeated like he was reading her goddamn mind. “That’s my road name. What they call me in the club.”
“Road name. Yeah, I know,” she quipped, wondering what the hell her godmother was up to.
God bless it, Grace.
She’d told her there was a book in Kansas that she needed to find. She didn’t say a goddamn word about it being a man.
Those beautiful sapphire eyes went hooded and his body stiffened at the sharpness of her tone. The look he gave her was pure Dom and full of censure.
“Sorry, Sir,” she apologized, cringing at how harsh she’d sounded and taking heart in the way that he responded to the honorific. The man was a Dom. He had to be.
Please let him be a Dom.
“I was just thinking about my uncle,” she lied. “He was in a club back in the day. The Midnight Raiders in Mt. Sterling, Minnesota.”
Scanning the garage, she saw that most of these men rode Hogs. Cordell Colson had taught her to ride a Harley. Aunt Grace’s two husbands had taught her to ride horses. With all the testosterone in the room, chances were good that she’d be riding a biker tonight.
She hoped it would be Book. She’d always had a thing for mature men who were older, wiser, well-practiced, and patient. Ideally, knowledgeable enough to give her multiple orgasms and determined enough to make her squirt.
He looked like he could handle the job.
The man’s hands intrigued her. His left one was adorned with Escher-esque blocks on his wrist that transformed into a flower covering the back of his hand.
On the inside of his forearm was a fucking moth.
A moth. Seriously? What kind of man adorned his body with moths? It obviously held significance for him. Maybe it was a totem. She knew a little about spirit animals. Crows were keepers of ancient wisdom while falcons protected it. Eagles were messengers of the gods. Bears brought knowledge of herbs and healing, elk carried dream medicine, and fairies rode dragonflies.
She knew fuck all about moths.
The man had more ink. Some of it might explain the mystery he presented. His shirt was opened just enough, the tattoo peeking from his neckline begged to be explored. Maybe she should offer a trade.
I’ll show you mine if you show me yours . . .
The idea had merit. He was the most attractive man she’d seen in a while and by far the most intriguing. She liked that Book was quiet. You had to watch the quiet ones. Some of them were beasts in bed.
It didn’t hurt that he was easy on the eyes. From the looks he’d given her when he stopped to help, she’d say her attraction was mutual. After that unintended slight, she’d love to show him just how sorry she was . . . let him spank the sass out of her for the night. Hell, she could probably talk the bearded President and VP into a threesome if she was looking for a ménage— which she wasn’t. Unlike her parents and brothers, she embraced the idea of exclusivity, knowing she was someone’s one and only.
Book shook his dark head, making the light catch in the strands of his beard. Her fingers itched to pet it and discover if it was as soft as it looked.
The President nodded at her van. “It’ll take Mack a little while to get her done. Book, why don’t you take Miss James to the lounge? Show her some Lost Creek hospitality.”
The VP accepted the assignment without a word. Dipping his head in acknowledgment, he turned toward her. “This way, Texas.”
Spoken like a Dom. Perfect.
“Loki?” Using a language she didn’t recognize, he commanded the dog to heel.
She followed the pair through a side door that opened into a locker room. Another door led to a long hall that had the look and feel of a dormitory. “Is one of these rooms yours?” she asked, increasing her pace to match his longer stride.
He didn’t answer her question. Stopping when he reached the next door down, he turned the knob and pushed it open. Crossing his arms, he sliced a glance into the space beyond. “Your choice,” he said. “The lounge or in here. Public or private . . . it’s up to you.”
There was a strange energy about him. Not bad, just . . . different. Like he’d shifted his focus entirely on her and was trying to figure her out, which was exactly what she intended to do with him. The man intrigued her, making her lady bits take notice and sparking her interest in him beyond the possibility of a zipless fuck.
In this, he had the advantage, starting with a base of information. Chances were, he knew her parents. Knew her background. He had public knowledge about who she was.
Book was an enigma.
But not dangerous. At least her early warning system wasn’t blaring an alarm. If anything, it was telling her to be careful with him. Like she’d be any kind of a threat to a big, tatted biker with a cover model’s beard and a monstrous wolf-dog who adored him.
She shook her head, confused by the feelings he engendered and at a loss to explain why he was affecting her this way. Hopefully, she could get him to open up about himself, his club, his dog, and tattoos. The privacy that his room afforded would let them do a whole lot more than talk, but it was early on.
She wasn’t feeling lucky just yet.
“I’m fine with whatever pleases you, Sir,” she said, answering like a good subbie.
The Dom in him responded. Those sapphire blue eyes darkened and the nostrils of his sharp nose flared. “In here, Texas. Welcome to my world.”
Book’s studio apartment had a small eat-in kitchen, a private bath, leather furniture, and a king-sized bed to fit a man his height. The walls were adorned with Native American art and hung with instruments— courting flutes, rattles, and drums.
“I’m part Comanche,” she reminded him, thanks to whichever Thomason twin had fathered her. Her mother had had Chance with Jacob and Chase with Jackson. By the time s
he came along, paternity wasn’t an issue. She had two dads and loved them equally. Why ruin things with test results that didn’t matter?
“Our President, Deacon, is part Comanche,” he told her. “He knows their songs and speaks their language. If there’s anything you want to learn while you’re here, he’d be happy to teach you.”
“My dads taught me,” she told him. They’d insisted she learn their people’s history, mythology, music, legends, and language, understanding the need to keep their heritage alive.
It’s a legacy she planned to give her children, if and when she had them.
She stopped in front of a frame drum. Her fingers curled, itching to play. Music was as much a part of her heritage as the blood of chiefs— maybe more, coming from her mother as well. Anna James had been a starving artist gamer girl co-writing music with Native American flutist Nico White when she’d met the triple-platinum Thomason twins. The brothers were about to go indie with a Native-inspired project and wanted to collaborate.
They got their music and got the girl.
They’d been a threesome ever since.
“Do you play?” she asked.
“Some,” he shrugged and stroked that luscious beard of his. “Mostly drumming. I’m a shaman.”
She looked at him, processing that information. Book was getting more interesting by the minute. “Cool. So’s my Uncle Nico. One time— I think I was five or so— I took my toys and played house in his sweat lodge when the grownups were busy inside writing music. The next time he went to use it, he couldn’t figure out why the energy was off. His wife finally told him. Aunt Grace is a psychic medium and an empath. I learned early on, there’s no keeping secrets from her. Uncle Nico, yeah, but not Aunt Grace.”
Twisted Steel: An MC Romance Anthology Page 16
