Ryker

by Nikki Ryker

  I pull my hair into a French twist, my makeup looks as good as it ever has, but still I'm unhappy. I pluck at the front of my dress, sure that my stomach ruins the look. My body isn't as svelte as it once was, and I'm sure my aunt is clawing her way out of the grave to call me fat one last time. Ryker will laugh and tell me this is a waste of time. I shouldn't be trying this hard anyway. But some small part of me has a frivolous hope that maybe, for one instant, someone might find some worth in me again.

  A whistle issues from the doorway and I glance up to find Holly standing there. She's wearing an understated green blouse and a pair of slacks, and I still feel underdressed standing next to her. Between the almost permanently tousled hair, and the doe-eyes, she seems to have come from or be going to a passionate roll in the hay.

  "Look at our little hottie," she says with a broad smile.

  "Oh stop."

  "No, I'm serious. Ryker will have a hard time keeping his hands off you."

  I drop my gaze to the carpet. It's confirmed. I am trying too hard. I should just change and call this whole night a wash. Instead, I ask an important but still unrelated question.

  "How is Bryan doing?"

  "Happily staring at his mobile," Holly answers. "Cruz is getting a kick out of it. Don't worry about it, Cleo. We've got him. No way in hell is Trent getting past Cruz."

  At least that part I agree. Aside from Ryker, Cruz is one of the most dangerous men in the Spades MC. Though he's built more like a soccer player, rather than Ryker's huge NFL frame, I've still seen him do serious damage. I'll just have to trust that between the security system and Cruz's fists and his pistol, Bryan is as safe as I can make him.

  "Thank you for doing this," I say, taking her hand in mine. "It means a lot to me."

  Holly's smile softens into something less wolfish and she nods. She gives me a playful shove toward the door a second later.

  "Go on. He's waiting for you."

  Between the heels and my nerves, walking is nearly impossible. But somehow I totter my way into the living room, where Cruz and Ryker sit, locked in conversation. Seeing Cruz doesn't hurt as much as I expect it to. The usual wave of desire that I feel around him is absent. Maybe I've embraced the fact he'll never be mine. Or maybe my hopeless desire has found a new unattainable target.

  I'm shocked to find Ryker in something approaching formal wear. Aside from his work uniform, I've never seen him wear anything dressy. It's usually riding leather, or denim and a loose-fitting shirt. I've gotten the treat of seeing his ass hugged by a washed-out pair of Levi's more than once. It's a guilty pleasure I've come to love. Right now he's dressed in a pair of slacks and a shirt that's a deep red. With the top button undone it adds just enough of a handsome look that it almost undoes me. The lace panties I've donned will be soaked by the end of the night.

  His eyes finally fix on me and go wide. His eyes sweep almost involuntarily from my head down to my high-heels and he lets out a shaky breath. Even Cruz is looking at me with a hint of interest, something I never thought I'd see.

  "God, Cleo you look..." Ryker breathes.

  "Amazing," Cruz concludes with a nod. "I think that's the word Ryker is searching for."

  "Fucking incredible," Ryker corrects him.

  Heat floods my face at his praise. My guilt can't mitigate the pleasure I feel at being noticed. Ryker stands, slinging his leather jacket over the whole thing. He offers me another, and I recognize it as my own, stored away in my locker at Rapture for months now. It hadn't felt right to wear it after the debacle with Damian. He made it pretty damn clear that I didn't belong and that no one would help me. He'd been proven wrong, but some part of me still clung to the notion.

  "Take it," Ryker urged. "Your dress will get soaked otherwise. I planned to take the bike."

  My stomach does a nervous flip. I haven't been on the back of a bike since Damian. Call it a stereotype, but there had always been something about a man straddling a bike that made my heart thump and my panties wet. The rugged image of a man on a bike had always appealed to me, and when I'd been introduced to the Spades, it had been a buffet of them. I'd gone for the worst of the bunch. Damian was sweet at first, at least until I moved in. Then the terror had begun.

  I should have chosen someone like Ryker or Cruz from the start. How different would my life be now, if I hadn't thrown myself into Damian's arms?

  The thought of being on the back of a bike again makes me feel vulnerable. It's an unthinking reaction, tied to Damian.

  Ryker scrutinizes my reaction with a frown. "We don't have to, Cleo."

  "No, it's fine," I say. It's a stupid reaction. I'm with the Spades. Trying to avoid bikes in the Spades is like standing in the ocean and expecting not to get wet. This is a part of who Ryker is. He's a Spade through and through.

  I take the jacket from him and shove my arms through. The jacket is oversized, made so by Damian's father, Trent. It had always made me feel small and dainty to wear it. Now, with the extra pregnancy weight, I'm glad for that. I smile sheepishly up at Ryker.

  "How do I look?"

  "Fucking incredible," he says again. There's something deep and unreadable in his eyes. I try not to examine it too closely, lest I read more into it than there is. He offers me his arm and I take it, pressing my fingers into the cool leather eagerly.

  When we step outside, I'm surprised to find it's only a light drizzle. I can't expect it to last for long, but I'm grateful for it nonetheless. A light mist touches my face, cool and refreshing while Ryker slings his leg over the bike. It's an Iron 883 and just the sight of it makes my heart thump faster. Before Ryker can spot my panic, I hobble down his steps and across the sidewalk, slinging one leg over the space that remains on the seat. It isn't much, and I'll have to cling like a vine to Ryker's back to stay on. Somehow, the thought doesn't bother me.

  He hands me a helmet, and I slot it over my head at once before he can read the emotions playing out on my face. Then I nestle my head in the space between his shoulder blades, lifting my legs to clutch the sides of the bike for dear life. The metal is cold, but Ryker's body is blazing hot against my flesh.

  "Hold on tight," he warns, just before gunning down the street. The wind feels like cold fingers on what little flesh is exposed and I huddle even further down Ryker's back to avoid the worst of it.

  With my heart thundering in my chest, and my arms braced around his waist, I can't deny it any longer. I have to say it now, while I lose my words to the wind and the confining space of my helmet.

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

  Ryker doesn't respond, too busy racing down the drab streets of South Hollens to hear me. And for once, I'm grateful to be ignored.

  It's stupid, it's selfish, and it will probably break my heart into a million pieces when it ends. But I love Ryker Fenton.

  And the sad truth is, he'll never love me in return.

  8

  Ryker

  By the time we reach the Black Spade Hotel and Casino, my cock is straining against my fly. The feel of her pressed against me, every curve of her body molding into mine makes me so dizzy with pleasure I can barely think. It's almost disappointing to park the bike in the lot reserved for Spade members and dismount. I adjust discreetly and vow to take care of the problem later.

  I've been doing a lot of that, late at night when Cleo and Bryan are asleep in the master bedroom. I know this image will be fuel enough for the next few weeks. Cleo decked out in a skimpy black dress that does little to hide her curves and the long, tawny expanse of her legs. If it were up to me, I would sling the long, slender appendages around my shoulders and hoist her against the nearest wall, licking a trail up to her sweet pussy.

  "Fuck," I mutter, my balls tightening almost painfully at that mental image.

  "What?" Cleo mutters, removing the helmet and setting it aside. Her hair is slightly mussed, and the urge to fist a hand in it is so potent I have to ball my fists hard to keep from touching her.

  "N
othing," I say with a forced smile.

  "The Black Spade," she notes, glancing up at the sign above the hotel. It's decked out in lights, a flashing neon sign to gamblers everywhere. "I'm kind of relieved. I was afraid you were taking me to a five-star restaurant."

  I eye her, wondering if there's disappointment in her tone. But no, she seems sincere.

  "Would that have been so bad?"

  A tinge of pink dusts her cheeks. "I just don't want you spending too much money, Ryker. It's not worth that."

  I feel like dragging her inside, finding a quiet place and confessing just how much she means to me. But it would make things fucking awkward between us for the remainder of her stay. She doesn't feel the same, and I have to accept that.

  "I'll decide what I want to spend, Cleo. C'mon."

  I seize her hand and pull her forward toward the casino. When we reach the entryway, the doorman takes our coats, noting with a somber nod just who we are. His bosses, and not people to be crossed.

  The interior of the place is warm and decked out in shades of red and gold. I lead her past the slot machines, the many card tables and to the dining area where a hostess waits.

  "Fenton, party of two," I say.

  The hostess is a short, stubby little woman with gray threading through her hair. Her name is Beatrice, I think. Leo would probably know. My fellow club member is nowhere to be found, though, probably dealing at the blackjack table.

  "Follow me, please."

  She winds her way through the tables and stops at one near the wide windows. There isn't much to see outside of them except for the rain, and sitting outside them makes me a little apprehensive. It would be easy for Trent or one of his lackeys to shoot through the glass at Cleo. I take the seat closest to the window and rearrange her chair so she's sitting next to me, rather than across from me. This way she has her back to the wall, out of sight. She gives me an odd look but doesn't argue.

  Cleo orders a virgin Piña Colada, and I order a bourbon. Normally I'm more of a beer sort of man, but I have a feeling I will need the hard stuff tonight. I give her a look when she tries to order a salad.

  "Don't do that. You're not on call to impress anyone, Cleo." She's already impressive as it is. She'd been almost painfully thin before her pregnancy. The aftermath had left her full and soft in all the right places, and they begged for my touch. I wanted to trace the curve of her ass, the swell of her breasts so badly it hurt.

  "It's healthier," she argued.

  "I'm ordering a steak so raw it will still make noise," I say with a laugh. "Does it look like I give a damn about my health?"

  The edges of her full mouth twitch upward and the light, tinkling laugh that escapes her is so damn beautiful. I want to capture it and play it over and over, just to know that for one second I'd made her happy.

  "Okay, fine. I'll take the margarita grilled chicken."

  The time after that seemed too short, the minutes slipping by in a blur. The conversation is light but most of my attention is diverted by her glossed lips, and the dainty way she eats. I can't help but wonder if they'd feel as soft and pliant on my cock.

  When our plates are cleared away, she smiles at me. "You're quiet, Ryker. Penny for your thoughts?"

  Oh, there's no way in hell I'm confessing that. She'll bolt right out the door if she finds out I'm thinking of hiking that slip of fabric around her hips and toying with her perfect pussy beneath the table.

  "Just wondering if you'd like to dance. There's a spot just over there."

  I jerk my thumb at the small dance floor. It's a shallow impression in the otherwise carpeted floor. Most of the patrons who frequent this place aren't after dancing, but there are enough that the MC had finally relented and installed a small place for couples to sway to the music. The song on now is a slow beat, and the image of having her in my arms is so intoxicating I can't breathe.

  Cleo's cheeks are a dusky pink when she nods. "I'd like that. I can't remember the last time I danced with anyone."

  We abandon the table and make our way to the dance floor, dodging other patrons as we go. By the time we reach the dance floor, I'm so hard that I'm sure she won't be able to miss it when we're dancing. Still, I take her hand and spin her once. She ducks beneath my arm in a sensual sway of hips and a Cheshire grin stretches her lips. Between the perfect white teeth, those glossed lips, and her soft skin, I'm fighting not to pull her in for a kiss.

  "This was fun," she says, the smile slipping just a little. "You didn't have to do it, you know. I know I'm not exactly living up to my former glory here."

  I raise an eyebrow. Is she fucking kidding me right now? She was always beautiful, but she's especially stunning. The words slip out before I can stop them.

  "Cleo, I would happily peel that dress off you with my teeth."

  Her eyes fly wide and she takes a step away from me, cheeks coloring even further.

  "Ryker that's...you can't say things like that."

  "Why not? It's true."

  "Because Eden won't be happy to hear it. I'm not some sort of homewrecker, Ryker. I won't come between you and whoever you're seeing."

  I just stare down at her, stunned into silence. That's what this has been about? She thinks I've been visiting Rapture so often to see Eden? She's beautiful, no doubt about it. With a fall of auburn hair and jewel-toned eyes. It's not a mystery why she's a crowd favorite. But I haven't fucked her. I don't chase after Cruz's sloppy seconds and I've only had eyes for Cleo for years now. Is this what's been standing between me and the only person I've wanted for so long? A simple misunderstanding? It's so unfair that I can't form words.

  "You really think I'm with Eden?" I finally force out.

  Her chin jerks up. "Well, aren't you?"

  "No. It's fucking obvious to anyone with eyes that I love someone else."

  Her face falls and the expression there is heartbreaking. She still doesn't get it. How is it possible for one person to be so blind to their own self-worth?

  "Well I hope you're happy with her," she grinds out from between her teeth. She jerks her hand out of mine. "I'm sure you and she will get a real laugh out of this, huh? Take poor Cleo out on a pity date. Well I don't need your damn charity, Ryker."

  Anger bubbles up inside me. The mere fact she thinks I could do such a thing after all she's been through just pisses me off. It's clear she doesn't know me at all, if she thinks I'm capable of being cruel to her. The words escape me, lashing out at her with all the frustration that's been mounting for weeks.

  "And what about you and Cruz, huh? It's pretty clear you're still in love with him."

  She jerks back as if she's been slapped, and her dark eyes fill with tears. My heart squeezes in my chest. Great. Just fucking brilliant. Now you've hurt her.

  She takes several steps back from me, turning her head so I can't see the tears that stream down her face. With a distinct sniff she turns on her heel and stalks off the dance floor.

  "Where are you going?" I call after her. I should drag her back and apologize for being an ass. The jealousy is misplaced and I took it out on the wrong target.

  "To the bathroom," she snaps. "I need some freaking air."

  I watch her go with a mixture of sorrow and frustration, wondering just how badly I've fucked things up this time.

  9

  Cleo

  The sob doesn't escape me until I've reached the bathroom. I want to blame it on the hormones still rioting through my body, but I know better. I'm heartbroken. I knew I would be, in time. But I didn't expect it to be so soon. After my fruitless confession on the bike, I held out just a sliver of hope that maybe he might be able to love me back. I lean my face against the

  His words echo in my ears, a taunt.

  "It's fucking obvious to anyone with eyes that I love someone else."

  In love with someone else. So maybe it's not Cherry or Eden, but it is someone. Some nameless, faceless woman has caught his attention. The desire to pull her hair out by the roots seizes me and shocks
me into stillness. I'm not a violent person. The feeling doesn't fade, though. The God's honest truth is that I want to keep him with me. Ryker has been a steadfast rock for me in these trying times. The thought of some hussy stealing that support right out from under me is terrifying. The image planted in my head fades away and is replaced by another. Some new woman in his home, sharing his bed. That tender look of concern turning to someone else.

  I bang a hand onto the sink, succeeding in only sending pain streaking through my knuckles and up into my wrist. Hot tears streak down my face and land in the basin. Stupid. I'm so stupid.

  And I'm still furious. How dare he throw Cruz back in my face, as if the situations are exactly the same? I'm not delusional. I've known for a while that Cruz isn't interested in me. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't remove myself from the platonic role he set for me. Holly had been the final nail in the coffin. The moment he set eyes on her, I knew. Something crackled between them, something I'll never be able to replicate. I've made my peace with that.

  I'm afraid I've pissed Ryker off. Would he leave me here? Ride back to his place to cool off and let me find my own ride home? No. No matter how much of an ass he's being, there's no way he'd do that to me, right?

  I splash my cheeks, wiping away the blotchy evidence of my tears, also slopping some onto my eyes. The mascara runs. Yes, just perfect. I've made myself look like a racoon, on top of everything else.

  The lights above me flicker and then dip, sending the room into shadow. I jump when a toilet flushes. I hadn't been aware there was anyone else in the room with me. I must sound like a nutcase. I swivel around as the lights come up, ready to apologize to the unknown woman for my rudeness. The door swings inward and I pause, fear sliding like a block of ice into my stomach.

  The woman is familiar. I've seen her at club meetings, on the back of a bike, and at Damian's home many times. She's average height, thin in that heroin-chic style so in vogue in the nineties. Her legs are clad in leather that shows them to their best advantage. Her hair has been bleached so often it's nearly white. She's pulled it back into a no-nonsense tail at the base of her neck. Her skin is almost leathery after years of tanning. A Spade is inked onto her right hand, outlined in red, just the same as Trent's. Talk about a permanent way to show solidarity with your boyfriend. I never inked my hand with the Spade, even when I was with Damian.