by Kati Wilde
And Jenny…Lord, I love her, but she’ll bend over backward to help someone, to reassure them. She’ll pretend she’s okay until she breaks—and she’ll especially pretend for Saxon’s sake, because she won’t want him to worry.
But he’ll worry anyway. So it was best just to nip that in the bud, so he never asks a question that will force her to pretend.
His voice sounds a little rougher when he abruptly asks, “Is she all right?”
“No,” I tell him and when despair suddenly wipes the steel from his eyes, leaving misery in its wake, I rush to add, “But she will be.”
And look at me. Just like Jenny, reassuring him. But, God. Seeing that expression was like watching him take a slow dive into Hell.
I bump his arm with my shoulder, so I know he’s listening to me instead of wallowing in a lake of fire. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. Be there for her. Don’t try to keep her from working”—no matter how much he probably wants to roll her up in a blanket and prevent anything from touching her until she stops grieving—“because keeping busy is how she copes when she’s hurting. And don’t ask her if she needs help with anything, because our girl will feel bad if you do things for her. So frame any help like, ‘I’d love to do this thing for you,’ because then it’s about what you want to do, and it’ll make her feel good because she’s helping you.”
Slowly he nods again. “I’ll do that.”
I know he will. If Jenny needed him to, Saxon would find a way to rip a hole in the sky. Even if it killed him.
It’s all kind of…incredible. To be loved like that. I mean, I am loved like that. My parents, Stone, Jenny—I know they’d do anything for me, too.
That’s not the same, though. I don’t know why, but it’s not. And, Lord help me—I want that kind of love for myself.
I don’t know if I deserve it. But I want it.
And screw that kind of thinking, anyway. I do deserve it. I deserve someone who will cross every line, simply because he loves me. Because he needs me.
That’s never going to happen with Gunner. He’s never going to give me more. That’s why I have to quit.
But I’ll never be able to quit if I can’t take a step forward. So I take it. Then I take another. Soon I’m halfway across the room, and each step is harder than the last, but that’s not the point. This doesn’t have to be easy. New roads usually aren’t. There are usually mountains that have to be climbed and deserts that have to be survived and rivers that have to be forded.
And I’m on my way to cut my heart out. So it’s not like any of this is easy. It hurts so much.
Maybe Jenny sees it, despite my attempt not to show anything. Or maybe she’s just being Jenny when she grips my hands in hers, her green eyes taking an inventory of my expression.
Her forehead creases with concern. “You okay?” she asks and I give a watery laugh, because really. She’s the last person who should be caring about how anyone else feels right now.
Yet of course she does. So I squeeze her hands and nod. “I’m good,” I tell her, and it’s not even a lie. This pain is necessary—the surgical cut that has to be made so I can begin to heal. So I can get better.
But I can’t even look at Gunner yet and the knife in my chest keeps slicing deeper.
“Anna.” My mom links her fingers with mine, draws me close. Her tone is light but that touch isn’t. She can see I’m hurting and is giving me all the comfort she can. “Zach found me in the kitchen, and told me Aaron had to stay in Arizona.”
“Really?” They didn’t travel to Arizona for fun. Instead they’ve been trying to track down information about some crazy underground fighting ring. But this is more club business I’m not supposed to know. I’m curious what explanation he gave, though. “Why?”
There’s a pause, and I realize Mom’s waiting for Gunner to tell it. But he’s quiet as usual. Because I’m here.
Smoothly, my mom fills in the silence with an amused, “There was a girl.”
Oh god. My facepalm can’t begin to convey the embarrassment I’m feeling on my brother’s behalf. Always playing the hero, as if female helplessness acts as an irresistible pheromone, and he can’t stop himself from rushing in to save them. It would be awesome if it wasn’t so sad. “Is she in trouble?”
“Apparently,” Mom says and although she’s still wearing her soft smile, her tone is a little cooler now—the counselor side kicking in. “It might behoove him to seek professional help for this woman instead of trying to solve her problems for her.”
“I’ll point that out to him,” Gunner says.
Lord, his voice. It slides right into me, sweet and painful—a low sexy rumble with a rasping edge, as if he doesn’t talk much. But he does talk. Just not to me.
Except now, when he adds, “Don’t worry, Anna. I’m going back tomorrow morning. I’ll help him keep his head.”
Everything in my chest clenches, a tight burning ache. He’ll expect a response. I can’t avoid looking at him now.
My fingers fall away from my eyes. Gunner’s watching me, his pale gaze steady on mine, and it hurts so much to see him. Not because he’s beautiful but because when he looks back at me, his eyes aren’t empty or guarded. He looks tired, his features drawn—but those eyes are filled with warmth, as if there’s more between us than just a brother. There’s humor, because he likes poking fun at my brother as much as I do. There’s expectation, because on a few occasions we’ve teamed up to make fun of Stone.
And—maybe for Jenny’s sake—he’s waiting for me to join in again now, with no idea how the warmth in his eyes rips at my heart. With no idea how a single word from him affects me. With no idea how much I want to hear his voice, rough and demanding against my ear, his skin hot against mine.
I should run away. Just get out of here. Because I love this. His silences hurt, but I feel so alive when he does talk to me—and that feeling is why I held onto hope for so long.
Hope isn’t enough. But Gunner’s look makes me hope all over again. And my heart can’t survive this any more.
Only Jenny’s face stops me from bolting. Because she’s smiling, her eyes bright. Knowing Stone went into hero mode amuses her, too. And heaven knows, she needs that amusement.
So I swallow the lump in my throat. “You’ll help him keep his head? Are you saying my brother is occasionally brainless when it comes to women?”
Gunner responds with a solemn nod. “Around a certain type.”
“So what’s his type?” I ask like I don’t know. “Let me guess. Stray puppy?”
Amusement gleams in his pale eyes. “I would have said ‘lost lamb.’”
“No lambs. The girls he hooks up with are rarely innocent. What about a sad monkey?”
“Monkeys are smarter than his usual type.”
God, that’s true. I catch my breath on a laugh. Jenny quietly giggles behind her hand while my mom just nods and heaves a deep sigh.
“Hey, at least a monkey’s easier to nail than Picasso’s type,” Spiral throws in.
Jenny’s eyebrows arch. “Which is?”
“Uh…” Picasso glances at my mom.
She pins him with her impassive stare. “One never quite escapes the high school counselor’s office, does one?”
“Who is ‘one?’” Picasso looks hunted. “Are you meaning me or you?”
“Which of us do you think I mean?”
It takes him a long second to answer, and as if he isn’t certain whether it’s a test. “Maybe…me?”
I hide my smile behind my free hand. She’s not testing him. She’s teasing him. But she still pulled something out of him he probably didn’t want to reveal.
My elegant mother apparently intimidates the hell out of the big, tattooed biker.
“I see.” Done torturing the poor guy, she slips her fingers from mine. “Well, I’ll leave you young ones to discuss your types.”
A brief silence falls as she moves away. As soon as she’s out of earshot, Picasso declares, “A goddess typ
e. Like this one woman we ran into a few months ago. Blonde, long legs, tits out to here.”
He cups his hands in front of his chest to illustrate. I look down at my chest, then over at Jenny, who has a little more than me but is definitely not in the range he’s suggesting. She catches my gaze.
“I think we’re lowly mortals,” she tells me.
Picasso shakes his head. “Everyone is lowly in comparison. This was one of those women who is everyone’s type. Am I right?” He looks to Spiral, who’s nodding, then to Gunner. “You remember. At the Pendleton rally. She came up to you first.”
Gunner narrows his eyes, as if thinking about that. Abruptly he nods. “I remember. And you’re right.”
So she was ridiculously gorgeous. Like he is.
But Gunner’s thinking of someone else. “She was like Zoomie,” he adds.
Our friend Lily Burns—the only female member of the Hellfire Riders. And, yeah. That makes sense. Lily is stunning. Like, crazily so. Not just because she’s tall and blonde with cheekbones that could cut glass and lips that could sell collagen injections by the thousands, but because she looks at the world like she’s going to own it. That attitude is sexy as hell.
Yet she’s not quite like the woman Picasso described.
“Lily doesn’t have tits out to here.” I hold my hands out in front of me like I’m carrying two giant watermelons, then give them a bounce for good measure.
Gunner’s grin sends my heart bouncing, too. Up, so far up.
But it’ll come down. It always does.
And shatters when it lands.
His smile fades as I drop my imaginary breasts and wrap my arms around my stomach, trying to hold in the ache. His pale gaze searches my face but I force myself to look away, to pay attention to Picasso.
“Not like Zoomie physically,” he’s saying. “She wasn’t quite that tall and probably couldn’t kick ass. By ‘everyone’s type,’ I mean she was the kind of woman who could tempt gay men for a night and make straight girls cross over.”
All at once, Jenny’s pale cheeks have a little pink in them. Probably because she did cross over with Lily. Kind of.
The rasp in Gunner’s voice is more pronounced when he adds quietly, “But the question with this woman was: Would two straight guys cross over for her?”
I blink, trying to work that one out. “What?”
Spiral’s laughing at Gunner. “So you do remember her.”
“I remember you telling me how it crashed and burned.”
“How?” Jenny asks.
Picasso’s wearing his cheesy grin, a lopsided smile that almost evens out his features. “She comes up to Spiral and then looks over at me when she asks him, ‘So are you together?’ And I’m thanking God, because even though Spiral’s prettier than me, my dick’s bigger than his so I’ll come out ahead—”
“What the— The hell it is!” Spiral sputters, trying to edge in, but Picasso’s still going.
“—so I tell her ‘Yes’ before he can get a word in. The she says to me, ‘I want to watch you guys go at it.’”
That wasn’t what I expected. On a startled laugh, I glance at Gunner. He’s smiling again, though it’s more subdued. Just a slight curve of his firm lips, and a brooding weight to his gaze as he watches me.
Picasso’s still going. “So I look to Spiral and I think, ‘If she stays around after, doing him might be worth it.’ Then I slam my beer down on the table and tell him, ‘C’mon, man. Let’s go for it! Right here!’”
Oh my god. My hand flies up to cover my mouth when my laugh shoots out. I have zero doubt he really did say that. Jenny’s giggling and wiping her eyes. Probably because she can imagine Picasso saying it, too.
Though he’s been shaking his head since the comment regarding his dick size, Spiral adds now, “So I tell him that I’d have to be a lot more drunk, or he’d have to be a lot prettier. Like SA here.” He gestures to Gunner.
“Prettier?” Picasso scoffs. “Let me point out—again—that if I’m drilling your ass, you don’t have to see my face. And thank fuck I wouldn’t have to see yours.”
“And I told you I’d be giving, not receiving, because I’m a generous man.” Spiral looks to Jenny again. “So that’s why the goddess moved on and he struck out. She left while we were arguing over who gets to be on top.”
I can’t even answer that because I’m imagining them wrestling for the top spot, then desperately trying not to imagine it, and giggling helplessly all the way through.
“Generous, my ass.” Picasso manages to sound both haughty and offended. “When I said you should always cover my back, I didn’t mean that.”
“If that’s what covering each other’s backs meant, we’d have an entirely different sort of club,” Gunner says.
“Or not so different. A lot of you guys already wear leather chaps,” I point out, and Jenny covers her face, her shoulders shaking. Gunner grins at me, sending my heart spinning dizzily upward again, but Spiral holds up his hands as if to stop us right there.
Smirk firmly in place, he looks to Gunner. “If you were in that club, it’d answer a hell of a lot of questions about your type.”
Gunner tilts his head as if considering that, then nods. “I guess it would.” He glances at me. “But it might raise new questions about Stone.”
I snicker and shake my head. No, there’s no question about my brother. Or Gunner, really. But it is funny watching these guys try to figure him out.
At least I’m not the only one trying to.
“Sheeeit, man,” Picasso drawls. “You ain’t fooling anyone. We know your type and she doesn’t have a dick. She’s brown haired, sassy, and can pour a dozen shots faster than—”
Abruptly Picasso goes quiet. My cheeks hot, I lock eyes with Jenny, who’s stopped laughing. She’s absolutely still now, watching my face, waiting for a cue from me—to shrug it off, to turn it into a joke, or to pretend we have no clue who he’s talking about. But I don’t know what cue to give. I hear this a lot—that Gunner’s hung up on me. Usually I let whoever says it continue thinking it because A) it’s not so terrible if people believe a big, sexy biker is crazy about me and B) what else am I supposed to do? Point out that I threw myself at him a couple of times and he turned me down? Not to mention, C) on the occasions when I have said that Gunner isn’t into me, they don’t believe it, anyway.
But they never say anything to me in front of him. This is the first time. And, Jesus. I have no idea what to do or say now.
I steal a glance at Gunner. He’s not looking at me. Eyes glacial, he’s staring Picasso down.
The other biker backs up a step. “Hold up, SA. You know I don’t—”
“So you’re spreading the old ladies’ gossip about your brothers instead of dealing in facts?” Gunner’s voice is soft. Dangerous. “Because I’ve never said a fucking word about being interested in anyone.”
Especially me. That’s what I want to add, tossing the response out with a careless shrug and a flip of my hair, but a painful lump blocks my throat and I’m frozen in place.
“True. You never said a word,” Spiral says and the lift of his brows suggests that Gunner didn’t need to say a word because his actions have been talking for him.
If he’d seen Gunner shoot me down, he’d have seen words and actions.
Jaw clenched, Gunner turns that lethal gaze on Spiral. “You got something to say, brother?”
Spiral holds that gaze for a long second before flicking a glance at me. “I guess I don’t.”
“Good thing. Because I do and you’d best fucking listen. The next time it crosses your minds to shoot your mouths off, just consider who the fuck you’re talking about. Consider whose sister she is, and how you’re disrespecting her by talking about me climbing between her legs and by making bets about when I’m going to do it.” Each word snaps like ice, his face a rigid mask. “You hear that shit going around again, you better put a stop to it.”
“Will do,” Spiral promises and reaches
out to bump Gunner’s fist. Picasso does the same. Just like that, buddy buddies again.
And me, I’m praying for a meteor to hit the house. Because, Jesus. That shit going around is Gunner being hung up on me. It’s him getting between my legs. That shit is what I wanted for years. That shit.
Shit sums up how that feels.
I know Jenny’s looking at me in concern but I can’t crawl away now. I can’t hide. The only thing I can do is suck it up and keep my chin high when Gunner looks to me and says,
“Just don’t pay attention to these fuckers.”
Suck it up. Don’t show a goddamn thing. “I won’t.”
Not glacial now but warm, his crystalline gaze searches my face. “You all right? You don’t let this shit get to you?”
This shit. “Of course not. We both know it’s all nothing,” I say and add a shrug, as if it really doesn’t matter.
Gunner frowns at me, studying my expression for so long that I’m sure he realized how fake my shrug was. But if he was going to call me out on it, he loses his chance.
One of the Riders’ prospects comes up on his left—Bottlecap, who was assigned to help manage parking. With dark hair plastered to his skull and his black shirt soaked, he looks like a drowned puppy. A thin, lanky drowned puppy.
Only his kutte is dry, but I’m guessing he probably took care to wipe down the leather as soon as he came inside. Now he hesitates slightly, looking from me to Jenny. Not because he’s worried about talking club business in front of us, I realize—but because he’s torn between acknowledging the ladies first or greeting Gunner, a club officer. Politeness versus the risk of having his ass kicked.
He opts for politeness, and considering where we are—and Jenny’s relationship to the club’s president—that probably saved him an ass kicking from another direction.
“Miss Jenny,” he says, “I’m real sorry about Red. You know he brought me in”—he gestures to his kutte—“and gave me a chance. I’ll never forget that. Or let him down.”
At the mention of her dad, Jenny’s eyes dim a little but she still has a smile for him. “He thought you were worth that chance. And thank you.”
