Ryker

by Nikki Ryker

  Ryker frowns at me. "You know you can stay longer than that. It's not a burden. I like having you around, Cleo."

  There's something behind those words. It's a rasp of frustration, and I cringe away from it. He's just lying to make me feel better. Big, overbearing Ryker is only doing this out of a sense of club duty. I'm a woman and therefore fall under rule number one. Protect your women. I doubt he'd be as eager to help if I wasn't a new mother.

  "I should probably get to bed," I say, my eyes pricking with the beginnings of shame. I'm just a freaking parasite, clinging to the next strong man who'll put up with me. I wish I didn't need the help so damn bad.

  "Cleo, don't cry," he pleads, eyes flying wide with panic. "What did I say?"

  "Nothing," I blurt, staggering to my feet. "Hormones. I'm sorry."

  He reaches for me, but I flinch away from the touch, all but sprinting for the next room. It's dimly lit, and I have to extend a hand in the gloom to keep myself from bumping into furniture or, God forbid, the bassinet. When I find the queen sized bed, I burrow under the heavy duvet and bury my face in a pillow to stifle the sobs I can feel building.

  Soon, I promise myself. Soon I'll leave him to his peace. I'll find a counselor and figure out what the hell is wrong with me.

  And until then, I'll keep my distance from Ryker. I'll keep my twitchy hands to myself. I won't make the same mistake I made with Cruz. This time, I'll let go quietly. I must be strong for Bryan.

  And someday, maybe I'll learn to be strong for me too.

  6

  Ryker

  Between work, running interference between Cruz and Trent, and the baby, I'm beat. It feels like fucking heaven to sit on my couch, Cleo tucked beneath my arm as we watch a sitcom. I'm more of a slasher film and shoot-'em-up kind of guy, but for Cleo, I'll watch paint dry on the wall. I'm not really watching the scripted comedy play out on the screen, too focused on the press of Cleo's body next to mine.

  My God is she warm. Everywhere my body touches hers, my skin burns with the need to pull her closer. She smells like fucking ambrosia too. I don't know what she uses to wash her hair, but I just want to bury my face into it and breathe it for the rest of my life. It's a warm, homey scent like cinnamon or sugar. With her, I feel like I've found home again.

  She nuzzles closer to me, head falling from my shoulder to my chest. After several sleepless nights, we're both exhausted. But it doesn't stop me from envisioning what it might be like to tip her chin up, watch her sleepy eyes flutter open, and press my lips to hers. A soft glide of the tongue across the seam of her mouth and I could taste what I've been daydreaming about for months. Would she gasp? Go still and accept it? Or would she press closer, hand tracing the line of my jaw as she returned the kiss?

  Or maybe, I thought sardonically, she'll slap me and call me an ass, like she should. I know fucking better by now. Cleo isn't mine. She will never be. This brief little interlude is just torturing me with a taste of what I'll never have.

  Still, I can't stop myself from leaning over to take another whiff of that glorious scent. She's my fucking Kryptonite. She'll probably be the death of me, and I don't even care.

  I press my lips to her hair in the ghost of a kiss. Surely no one can fault me for this little indulgence?

  "I love you, Cleo," I whisper. "God help me, but I do."

  She shifts and a small frown crosses her face. Her lips move, and the word that tumbles from them breaks my damn heart.

  "Cruz..."

  I want to punch my best friend. He's too handsome and too damn good a person. Of course, Cleo is in love with the bastard. If I was a woman, I probably would have been too. But I can't stand here and listen to her dreaming about him while she's in my arms. It's too much.

  Extricating myself from her grip, I seize my jacket from one of the pegs in the front hall, slinging my jacket over my shoulders. I produce a packet of cigarettes from one of the inside pockets and flick one out of the pack before I'm outside. It's raining and I'm forced to sit my ass down beneath the overhang over my porch to keep the rain off of the cig.

  The night is calm outside my home, aside from the ever-present patter of rain. I can barely make out the shapes of the neighboring houses through the sheets falling onto the ground just feet away. I light the cigarette with a deft flick of the Zippo I keep in my pocket. I shouldn't be doing this. It's been several days since I lit up, vowing to keep the stuff away from Cleo. But damn it, if I don't do something, I'll say something I regret. Like how none of the crummy bastards deserve her.

  To be fair, I don't deserve her either. But it doesn't stop me from wanting and waiting like a fool.

  I'm so absorbed in my brooding thoughts that at first, I don't notice the bike parked across the road, or the man standing very near it. But when it catches my notice, fear slips down my back like an icy bout of rain. I know that dusky red Harley Road King is as familiar to me as the back of my own hand. I've ridden beside or behind its owner many times.

  Trent. What the fuck is Trent doing here?

  I know the answer to that question just as soon as it's formed in the back of my head. Cleo. Trent is here to harass Cleo again. But how he knew she was at my place is anyone's guess. A hot flare of anger chases away the initial shock of fear. Cleo is losing enough sleep as it is. I am not going to let Trent steal any more away from her.

  He's just standing there, getting soaked to the skin. Even the dark rain slicker and the leather jacket he's no doubt wearing beneath will keep the stuff off of him. I can feel his eyes boring a hole in me from across the street, but I don't walk to him. In all likelihood, he's got a few of Damian's favorite boys stashed away, just hoping for a chance to jump me. Normally something like that wouldn't have bothered me. But Cleo and Bryan are in the house, and like hell am I going to leave them unprotected.

  The burning tip of my cigarette almost touches my fingers when Trent moves. I keep a close eye on his hands, just in case he's toting a gun or a knife. My own piece is still in the house, but I feel pretty confident in my ability to take him down without it. Trent is big and beefy, but he's older than I am, and has gained a bit of a paunch in recent years. I can beat him, if it comes down to that.

  He stops just shy of my stairs, shoving the hood of his slicker back, revealing his face in all its grisled glory. His dark eyes regard me with dislike. I can't say I'm thrilled to see him either, but I wait. He'll get to the point or he'll leave.

  "Ryker," he said.

  "Trent," I say with forced cheer. "What brings you out on this balmy evening?"

  If he catches the sardonic note in my voice, he doesn't show it. I nearly roll my eyes. Sourpuss.

  "Sutton is in there." It isn't a question. I wonder where he's getting his information. Has he been sending people to spy on Cleo, or was he just making an educated guess, based on what he knew of me? It's been pretty damn obvious what I feel to everyone but Cleo.

  Either way, I don't like it. Either I'm predictable or he's sneaky. Neither bodes well for the pair inside of my house. I flick the cigarette at Trent's feet, and he grinds it out on reflex, his scowl deepened.

  "I'm here to see Sutton. Let me in, Ryker."

  "Not a chance in hell," I snarl. "She's asleep, and I wouldn't let you see her even if she was awake. She's got enough on her plate without you terrorizing her."

  "She deserves it," Trent hisses back with equal venom. "I know that little bitch was involved somehow."

  I rise to my full height and step closer to Trent. I'm six feet and change, and taller than Trent by almost half a foot. He doesn't back down, just lifts his chin to fix his glare once more on my face.

  "Piss off, Trent. Iwill not let you do this. Not now, not ever. What happened to Damian was tragic, and Cleo had nothing to do with it."

  A lie, on at least one count. Damian had gotten what he'd deserved for killing Cruz's uncle and nearly ending his wife. But Cleo had been nowhere near the scene of the crime when things went down.

  "She deserves whatever
happens to her," Trent mutters. "It'll teach her to keep her cunt mouth shut."

  I shove Trent hard enough to land him on his ass on the soaked pavement. I should beat his face in for what he's saying. But again, I'm not sure how many men might be in the dark, how many men might aim guns at my house.

  "Fuck off," I say, hands clenching into fists at my sides. If he says so much as another word about Cleo, I won't be able to stop myself. "You know the rules, Trent. We don't hurt women. Rule number one."

  "Maybe it's time for the rules to change," he says, eyes glittering with malice. "Maybe some women have what's coming to them."

  I take another step closer and Trent dodges the punch I level at him, barely. He laughs.

  "Easy. I'm not doing anything tonight but delivering a message."

  "And what's that?"

  "Tell Cleo I'll be seeing her around. I'm court-ordering a paternity Test. That kid is Damian's, which makes him my grandson. I have legal rights to visit him, if I so choose."

  Fucking hell. The thought of Trent having anything to do with Cleo's kid knocks the wind out of me. Could Trent cut the kid up just for the crime of being Cleo's baby? I have a sinking feeling that the fact they're blood means anything to him. To Trent, Bryan is just a tool he can use to hurt Cleo. Worse? He'll probably get away with it.

  "Fuck off," I growl. "I'm not kidding, Trent. I will knock your head in if you spend another second on my property."

  Trent chuckles again and turns on his heel, checking the streets before crossing over to the Road King. He slings one leg over the side before pulling out of his space, gunning the throttle down the streets until he was just a blur of red headlights in my periphery. Another curse tumbles out of my lips and I reach for another cigarette.

  I want to keep this from Cleo. If there was a way to hide it from her, I would. But it has to be better coming from me than from a legal aid serving her papers. We had to be ready to fight this fresh hell if we could thwart Trent. For one solitary moment I wish the kid is anyone else's. Hell, I'll even be all right if it turned out to belong to Cruz. He's a damn sight better than Damian, though I'll be jealous as hell.

  With a sinking feeling in my stomach I shove the pack back into my jacket and head inside. The sitcom is still running, and I find Cleo leaning halfway across the couch, head slumped into a pile of throw pillows. Her face is serene, her glossy eyelids tinged lightly purple with shadow, her full mouth slightly parted. She's a tangle of tawny limbs, and for an instant, I consider just letting her sleep. This news will steal that ability for several nights to come.

  But she'd strangle me with my own belt if I kept something like this from her. So, with a sigh, I kneel beside the couch and lightly shake her. She comes alive with a soft cry of panic, trying to struggle in the direction of the makeshift nursery.

  "What is it? Is Bryan awake?"

  "No, no. He's still asleep."

  Her sleepy, half-lidded eyes flutter once before they focus on my face, a soft frown curving those lush lips.

  "Then what's wrong, Ryker?"

  I feel like punching myself in the balls before I tell her news like this. But she wants the truth from me, above all else, and I know it. So I take her hand in mine and draw her into a quasi-embrace.

  "Cleo, honey, we need to talk..."

  7

  Cleo

  I clutch my baby tight to my chest, running as fast as my burning legs will allow. The cold air slices at my lungs, but I can't let up. They'll gain, and then everything I've ever loved will be lost.

  Bryan squirms and struggles, and the shrill wail of despair makes tears prick in my eyes. Oh God, I've failed him. I've failed everyone.

  A solid weight hits me in the back, and I pitch forward with a scream, turning with only seconds to spare. My back his hard-packed earth, and I turn just enough time to keep from crushing Bryan. He's red-faced and squalling now, but there's no time to comfort him.

  A boot lodges in my stomach and I curl around it with a gurgle of pain. Through a haze of tears I can see Trent above me, a dark looming shadow clad in leather and staring down at me with enough hate to scald.

  "You can't take him," I cry. But he's already reaching down, meaty fingers digging into Bryan's pudgy arms. I'm too exhausted, too weak to do anything as Bryan screams anew, and the rough man plucks him from my grasp. He hoists Bryan up and hands him off to another shadow, whose face I can't see.

  "Give him back," I plead, sobbing now. "Please, please, please. I need my baby."

  Trent withdraws a .45, and my vision narrows to a pinpoint, staring at the business end of his gun. Then the muzzle flashes, pain slams into me and--

  "Cleo!"

  I'm jarred awake, and the feeling of strong hands on me makes me shriek again as my eyes fly open. The moment they do, I see I've overreacted. The face staring back at me is not rough-hewn or filled with hate.

  Ryker releases me at once, and I fall back into the couch cushions with a half-sob. I've been having the same nightmare for a week and waking isn't even a reassurance. Trent is coming for my baby. And he has enough clout and money to buy a judge. If he takes my little Bryan, I don't know what I'll do.

  "I'm sorry," he mutters. "I didn't mean to scare you."

  I catch his hand before he can withdraw it. "It's not you. It's these damn nightmares again. I'm sorry. I probably kept you up all night."

  "I don't mind," he assures me in an undertone. Bryan is still sleeping in the bassinet feet away. I'm shocked all my thrashing and whining didn't wake him.

  "I should sleep in your bed," I say with a weak chuckle. "Only you seem to be able to calm me down after."

  Something crosses Ryker's face, but it's gone before I can read it.

  “If you like.” His voice is strained.

  Heat floods my cheeks and I drop my eyes down to the heavy duvet I'm curled beneath. This is Eden's boyfriend, for Heaven's sake. I couldn't just say things like a little cocktease and expect him not to react.

  "Sorry," I mutter. "Sometimes things just fly out of my mouth."

  "I don't mind," he repeats, this time with a dry chuckle. "C'mon. You're shaking. Let's get something in you, Cleo. How's coffee? Or do you want something stronger?"

  I chuckle at the thought. I'm not supposed to be drinking while breastfeeding Bryan.

  "Coffee is fine."

  Ryker leads me past the bassinet, through the living room and into his kitchen. I've been jealous of his home since stepping foot in it, but no room makes me as green with envy as this one. The countertops are clean, the stainless steel sparkles in the light coming in from the windows. It's the sort of place that I've always dreamed of, but never imagined myself ever having. I have the tantalizing image of fixing myself here, abandoning my shitty job so that I could stay with this man, making dinner for our family. It wouldn't be such a bad life, would it?

  Then reality smacks me in the face. This isn't my place. In a few short weeks I'll be returning to the dingy, rat-trap apartment I left behind. My dog, my baby, and I will all pack ourselves like sardines into the place. And that's how it will be for the foreseeable future. The thought is depressing enough that my eyes prick again.

  Ryker stops scooping coffee into the filter for a moment, watching the emotion play out on my face. My hands tremble on the table, and I can't stop them. I probably look like a basket case. It's a damn shame he's chosen to pity me, when there are plenty of other uses for his time.

  "Cleo, you can talk to me," he says in a low, wheedling tone. "Whatever is bothering you, we can fix it. Trent hasn't got a chance of taking custody. I've talked with people. The only fucking chance he has is to claim you're unfit as a parent. And again, that would mean you were negligent, unable to care for yourself or him, or had unacceptable living conditions."

  He spreads his arms wide, showing the apartment I've been eyeing with discreet envy. "My place is far from unacceptable, Cleo. You and Bryan can stay here however long you like. Once I've gotten the security system set up, it'll be p
retty damn impregnable."

  "That's not fair to you," I argue. "You have a life too, Ryker. I can't keep intruding on it."

  "I like my life with you in it," he insists, the frustration creeping back into his voice. He's lying, trying to appease me. I stare at my hands, folded on the table, still shaking, rather than answer.

  When I don't respond, Ryker heaves a sigh. "You're trembling like a leaf, Cleo. You need a break from all of this. You've been at home with Bryan for fourteen days straight. At least let someone else take a turn. Holly and Cruz could use the practice. I'll take you out for a proper meal tonight. No more Chinese takeout."

  The offer sounds incredible. I should tell him no. I'm treading a thin line already, and going out with him on what we could perceive as a date might push things right over the edge where Eden is concerned. But I've never been strong, and under his earnest gaze I crumble.

  "Okay," I whisper.

  A delighted smile spreads across his face, as if I've just handed him a Christmas present early.

  "Great. I'll tell Holly and Cruz we've got the green light."

  I raise an eyebrow at him. "You've been planning this?"

  "For a while," he admits. His smile is unrepentant. "You've got a few hours to get ready while I call and confirm a reservation."

  The guilt slams into me again. He's made reservations? God, I really am turning into a homewrecker. There's no way that this won't look like a date. Eden will be furious with me. But under Ryker's expectant stare, I can't muster the courage to say no.

  "Okay," I mutter again.

  Then I scurry from the room, and back into the bedroom, trying to find something to wear.

  In the end, I find that none of my pre-pregnancy dresses fit me, and am forced to call in reinforcements. Vicky is a size bigger than I was, and loans me a skimpy cocktail dress. The black dress is overlaid with some kind of shimmering fabric, and the result is a ripple of shining color every time I step into the light.