Ironside

by Alexis Abbott

  But there’s something about the cops that gives me pause. I swear they seem all too familiar, like I recognize them from somewhere. And it is not a positive memory-- that much I know at least for certain. I can’t remember from where I’ve seen them. Or maybe I just don’t want to remember. Either way, I stay put. I simply watch the lights dance across the road and the field where we crouch hidden. The sirens wail and scream, making my heart race faster. My savior holds onto me, his body curving around my much smaller frame. He is protecting me, shielding me from the police. My reflexes are so muddled. Everything in me wants to run to the cops and throw myself prostrate before them, beg for forgiveness, plead to be taken home where I belong. But I have to remind myself again and again that I don’t belong anywhere anymore. Daddy hurt me. My home is no home now. Just an empty shell echoing with false memories.

  The sirens are starting to fade, the flashlight beams clicking off. The darkness is nearly uninterrupted now, and I feel my savior’s body start to relax ever so slightly. He is pleased. This is what he hoped would happen. It worked; we stayed still and silent and the cops are moving on, returning to their vehicles to continue the chase in the wrong direction. As soon as I think it’s safe to speak, I gather the courage to whisper to my captor-cum-savior.

  “Please. I just want to go somewhere safe,” I murmur, my voice barely louder than a sigh. “Will you take me away? Just to… to a motel or something. Anything. I need it.”

  “Safe is a relative term, little one,” he says grimly. “You’re naive if you think you’d be safe at a motel.”

  Tears spring to my eyes. I know he isn’t trying to be unkind. He just does not want to lie to me. I can appreciate that on some level, vaguely. At least he is telling me the truth. After a lifetime of eating up lies, I should be grateful. And I am. But I’m also terrified, and desperate for some kind of reassurance.

  “You can protect me,” I mumble. “I’ll go wherever you take me. Just… take me away from here. Please. I need to rest.”

  “Be patient,” he whispers, stroking my hair.

  I fall silent and lean into him, listening intently. The cops have moved away now and so have the other motorcycle riders. The road is free and empty, the air quiet except for the distant echo of rumbling engines. We wait for a while in the cold darkness, even longer than I expect. The sounds are gone for quite some time when we finally stand up to walk the bike back to the road. I lean on my savior’s strong, muscular arm as we make our way through the tall grass, the wheels trundling through the mud.

  “Coast is clear,” he says. “Come on.”

  He lifts me effortlessly and puts me on the motorcycle, then climbs on in front of me. By sheer instinct, my arms fall down around him. I lock my fingers together interlaced around his barrel chest. I can feel his taut, defined abdominal muscles, his bulging pectorals and biceps. He is a wall of pure strength and raw endurance, and I find myself clinging to him like the last life raft in a storm. He settled into the motorbike seat and put his hands on the handlebar, gleaming in the moonlight. I saw his knuckles going white as he revved the engine to life and we began to putter down the highway. I am completely exhausted, every muscle in my body aching and strained. But I cling to him for dear life, as though his strength is enough to support us both. I hope that’s true. I certainly don’t have enough of my own strength left intact to rely on. Every now and again, Ironside touches my hands, tracing his fingers over my locked hands, my aching wrists. Every touch feels like the hand of god on my body, and I find myself starting to calm down despite myself. What kind of magic does this man possess?

  Whatever is the source of his power, it is the very thing I have been searching for all this time. I have been floating around this world in a daze, never fully connecting with anything. I suppose that isn’t entirely my fault. My father has done a very thorough job of keeping me locked away in my ivory tower, kept innocent and naive so that I am soft and easy for the world to fold over. He made me this way. He made me weak. I’m sensitive. Every cruel touch is like fire on my flesh, burning me up into ash. But this man in front of me, revving the motorcycle down the lonely, fearful highway, is different. He is exactly what I have been hoping to find, or rather, what I hoped would find me. When I ran away from home, I dreamed of running into a guy like this. Maybe he’s not fully the old-timey prince I imagined. He’s rougher around the edges, frayed and stained with time and blood. He can take care of me, though, and his gritty experiences only make him a more formidable protector.

  He is just what I wanted, if I am to look past my modesty and admit to myself what I really need, what I really desire. I long for someone to protect and take care of me. I sure don’t know how to look after myself. My father made sure of that. He wants me frail and lost, unable to stick up for myself. He wants me utterly vulnerable. But Ironside is my armor. He treats me the way I want, not the way that horrible old man treated me. The man who was meant to be my husband. The thought alone makes me want to vomit. He is too old. Too cruel.

  But Ironside is perfect-- older and wiser than me but still close to my age. His body is broad and menacing. He’s a powerful force to be reckoned with, but he has still shown me so much tenderness. So much softness. He guards me like a sword but he touches me like silk. I have never experienced anything quite like it, and I doubt I ever will again. He’s something special, and for the night at least, he is mine. And I am his.

  We ride along the highway for some time, and my mind is too clouded with fog to know how long it has been, but after a while we slow down. The engine dulls down from a roar to a pleasant purr and we gently roll down a slope into a darkened parking lot behind what looks like a shut-down bar. But I can hear faint noises coming from within which inform me that it is not actually closed down-- it just looks that way from the outside.

  “Where are we?” I ask softly as we roll to a stop and he cuts the engine.

  “Somewhere safe. Just for a moment,” he replies. “But you are going to stay here and wait for me, okay?”

  I hold on even tighter, fear flaring up inside me. “I don’t want to be alone. Please take me with you,” I plead.

  “I won’t be long,” Ironside assures me.

  He detaches from my desperate grip and slides off the motorcycle seat. I watch him walk away, stalking toward the back door of the building while I tremble and quake alone in the dark. But I can’t stand it. I hate being out here alone. I feel so vulnerable. So I do something I have been taught absolutely never to do: I disobey a direct command from a man.

  I slip off the motorcycle and start creeping my way across the parking lot, careful to keep my steps so soft they make almost no sound at all. Once I reach the door, I slowly push it open bit by bit, seeing the wash of light from within. I slither inside, sighing with the onslaught of warmth that rolls over my body. There is a positive, wholesome feel to this place. It is filled with love and light and hope, and I am immediately hit with the desire to lie down and rest. But not yet. I am on a mission. I have to find Ironside so I won’t be alone anymore. I never want to be alone anymore, not after what I’ve gone through.

  I creep along a hallway, keeping close to the walls. I follow the sound of uplifting voices, people just casually chatting and cracking jokes as though everything was okay. It’s an enticing noise that draws me out deeper into the building. I know it’s a risk, but I just want to be safe. I want to be where the bright voices shine. I want to be around smiling people again. I peer around a corner and see a broad room with yellowish lighting-- a bar. There’s a long, glossy mahogany counter where several bar stools are aligned, occupied by smiling faces and hands gripping cold beers. My mouth waters at the smell of booze in the air. I don’t drink-- it’s against the rules. But I’m so thirsty and desperate that it actually smells good to me. At the bar, I am distracted by four people in particular: two women and two men. Ironside walks up to them and the breath catches in my throat.

  One of the men is speaking in a conspiratorial tone, tr
ying to convince the others of something, though I don’t know what at first. I strain my ears to listen.

  “Okay, now, don’t get me wrong: I’m a man of my word. But I’m just saying, maybe this time you could cut me some slack,” the man says, grinning from ear to ear as he talks to Ironside.

  “You do this every time, you know,” quips another of the men.

  “No, I don’t!” the first guy says, clearly offended. “It’s just that--”

  “You suck at pool but you never turn down a game,” interjects one of the women.

  “Or a bet,” adds the other woman.

  “Sounds like you brought this upon yourself, eh?” the second man says.

  “Will you all just let me speak?” the exasperated guy says.

  “Go on, then. What’s your logic for not paying out this time?” Ironside asks gruffly.

  “I’m just saying, I am singlehandedly responsible for that last shipment of bourbon,” the guy retorts, holding up one finger for emphasis. “And since Ironside goes through that shit like it’s water, I think it just about evens out, you know?”

  The others seem very much not convinced. I stick to the shadows as I watch them talk and debate among themselves. The ground floor of this place appears to be a regular biker bar, though I get the sense that there’s something much more involved going on here. I watch as Ironside pulls the second guy aside to chat with him more privately. He lowers his voice and looks very serious. I strain to hear what he says, but I only catch bits and pieces here and there.

  “Found the girl.”

  “What’s the situation?”

  “Not good.”

  “They follow you?”

  “Tried to.”

  The man turns and looks at one of the pretty women at the bar for a long, heavy moment. Then he looks back at Ironside with an expression of resolve. “Well, you know the drill. Whatever it is you need, you got it in spades, my friend,” the guy tells him.

  Ironside claps the guy on the back and turns back to walk out of the bar. My heart starts to pound as I realize he’s coming to collect me-- but he doesn’t seem to expect to find me outside. In fact, his black eyes are locked on me. I realize with a jolt of fear that he’s known all along where I’ve been, just hiding in the shadows. How stupid could I have been to assume he wouldn’t notice me? He still has the generosity to pretend to be surprised as he saunters over to me. Even so, I can’t help but flinch in expectation of pain or punishment as he approaches.

  But to my even deeper surprise, he doesn’t punish me. He doesn’t raise his hand against me. In fact, he gives me a soft smile and says, “I have a place for you to stay. And clean clothes.”

  I see both of the women from the bar get up and walk past us to head out. They each offer me a cautious smile as they pass. The other two men stay at the bar, whispering in low voices to one another, looking serious. Meanwhile, Ironside takes me by the hand and leads me upstairs to a small private room. By this point I am so exhausted the rest of the events happen in a blur. I sit down dazed on the edge of a bed. Ironside walks around, setting things up for me. One of the women comes upstairs to offer me some clothes that clearly belong to her. I think she says her name is Kate. Then, the other woman, who calls herself Lauren, brings me some food. I’m too tired to even fully register what it is, other than edible. I pick at it halfheartedly.

  “Okay,” Ironside says, jolting me and getting my attention as he stands in the doorway. “You’re all set up here for the night. I’ll be just down the hall.”

  I look at him with wide, pleading eyes.

  “Please. Don’t leave,” I beg him. “Stay with me.”

  Ironside

  I’m hesitant, but damned if that offer isn’t tempting.

  She’s looking up at me with those doe eyes I spent all damn day keeping safe, and now she won’t leave my side. I can’t deny that she’s been through more than enough to warrant a pair of eyes watching her for the night, and I trust myself to do that better than anyone else. But still, she’s as vulnerable as she is fragile right now--at least, she seems to be.

  I can’t pretend I know this girl, but she needs a friendly hand tonight.

  “Come on,” I finally say after some thought. “I’ll show you downstairs.”

  Her tired face grows into a smile, and I hear her footsteps behind me as I turn and head to the stairs. We have rooms down there where some of the officers stay--mostly the core bunch of us who’ve been with the club so long we were here when Breaker first bought out this basement and Kate started sprucing it up.

  Now, it’s a nice little speakeasy tucked away under a biker bar. It’s perfect for us.

  Justine seems to appreciate it on the way down, too. At least, she looks happier with it than the last bar where she was being kept, so it’s an improvement.

  “Do you own this place?” she asks.

  “Down here? No,” I say. “I rent a place in town, but there’s a room for me here when I need it.”

  That was kind of an exaggeration. I’m here about half the time, truth be told, and the room I’m leading her toward is mine, plain and simple. Anyone in the MC would say so. I don’t want her to think I’m posting her up in my own place so I can keep her under lock and key. Sure, that’s part of why I’m putting her there for the night, but all I want is to keep her safe.

  ...even if the thought of her in my bed makes something stir deep inside me.

  I can’t let my mind wander down that road, but she makes it hard not to. I can’t deny that I’m attracted to her. It would be impossible not to be. Despite her smaller frame and her youth, she has held up through more than a lot of men I know can’t. And there’s something about her stride that keeps drawing my eyes, and I can’t put my finger on it.

  You don’t make it as far as she has without a little fire in you, and she has that in spades. The copper undertone of her hair is proof of that, I think with an amused smile.

  I open the door and show her what looks like a humble, very clean room with a simple but spacious bed and a wardrobe. There’s also a footlocker containing some of my old military things, but I keep that locked and out of the way. “It’s not exactly a five-star hotel,” I say, “but it’s comfortable. And it’s safe,” I add, nodding down to her. “That much I can promise you.”

  To my surprise, she has a smile on her face when she steps in. She surveys the room, and I suddenly become much more conscious of my living space. Her eyes seem to linger on the faint imprint of my head on the pillow, the tattered old book on my nightstand, and the folded and organized clothes on top of the wardrobe waiting to be put away.

  She’s taking in the room and learning things about me in ways I’d never have thought of. She has sharp eyes. Whatever her impression of everything is, she seems more at ease in here than anywhere we’ve been to so far, and that brings a smile to my face.

  “Think it’ll do?” I ask.

  “Thank you, so much,” she says with a tired smile. “Is...there a bathroom down here where I could get cleaned up?”

  “Yeah, of course,” I say, nodding and jabbing a thumb out the door. “Use the private bathroom just two doors down on the left. Oh, and here,” I say, walking to the drawer to take out the most comfortable shirt I own, shaking it out and holding it up for her. “I don’t exactly have pajamas here, but if you want something to sleep in besides what you’ve got…”

  I trailed off as her eyes widened--the thing looked absolutely massive in comparison to her. When her lips smiled and a pink blush came over her cheeks before she laughed, my heart melted. Still, she took it from my hands and clutched it.

  “Thank you--again,” she says.

  I give her a silent nod as she hurries down the hall, and I run a hand through my hair.

  “Shit,” I murmur under my breath. I don’t know where that little lady has been, but she’s had it rough.

  While she washes up, I run to another bathroom to do the same for the grime on my face and hands. She isn't back wh
en I return, so I take the time to change into a clean set of clothes. I kick off my boots and change pants and socks, but when I pull my shirt off, I’m reminded of my injury with a painful twinge. It’s been aching all night, but I’m used to pushing pain to the back of my mind.

  With Justine around, that’s even less of a problem than usual.

  I sit down on the bed with my first aid kit (an essential, for any MC clubhouse) and remove my shirt to start removing my bandages and cleaning the wound properly. My face is stony at the sight of the hole in my bare shoulder, and I start to take out a little bottle of alcohol when I hear a gasp at the door.

  Justine is standing there wearing my comically oversized t-shirt...and not much else, by the looks of it. After a quick rinse, what was already a stunning face looks fresh and even warmer than before. I’m struck to silence at the sight of her. Her curvy body looks delicious in my shirt, where those hips will be rolling around in my own bed before long.

  Damn, that’s too far. I can’t think like that about her.

  The surprise on her delicate features turns to worry a second later, and she glances out the door before coming in and shutting the door. “Oh my gosh, I forgot about that! Are- are you okay?!”

  I chuckle and glance down at the hole. “This? I’ve slept off worse.”

  She doesn’t look convinced, so I beckon her forward with a hand. Her cheeks turn a faint pink for some reason, but she obeys and pads over to my side.

  “I hate to ask,” I say, “but I need to know if you see one or two bullet holes on me.”