I pull up on the forecourt where several bikes are already parked. As I dismount I give the nod to a couple of my brothers and stroll toward them. Joel, who’s been hanging around the club for the last year hoping to make prospect, joins us, and because I’m feeling all mellow and shit, I give him the nod, too.
He grins like a fucking puppy, and I snort with laughter before returning my attention to the others.
“Sounds like I should’ve gone to Odin’s last night.” Ty grins, and it’s obvious he and Cade have both heard about Grace from Joel.
“Fuck you,” Cade says. “If I’d been there, neither of you would’ve stood a chance.”
I smirk but don’t say anything, and that’s enough to let them know this chick isn’t up for discussion.
“The bitch was real hot,” Joel says. I whip round, and my fist smashes his face before I even think. He drops like a stone, and I’m only distantly aware that both Ty and Cade step back.
“Fuck.” Joel spits blood and staggers to his knees. “Didn’t mean any disrespect, Zach. I—”
“Did I say you could get up?” My voice is deadly calm, and I claw back the urge to grind my boot in the mouthy bastard’s face.
He freezes on his hands and knees, real fear in his eyes now. Fucker doesn’t know what fear is. I turn my back on him, and my brothers flank me as we make our way inside the club.
It’s been my second home since I made prospect nine years ago, but even before I hit eighteen I used to frequently hang out here with my old man. He was Sergeant-at-Arms before he was jailed, and died inside defending the Bastards’ honor.
The clubhouse is nothing fancy, but the display of framed photos over by the bar—some of them dating back fifty years to when this Charter was first formed—always fills me with purpose and a strange sense of peace.
Not today, though. No one trashes my girl. Prick’s gonna wish he never set foot inside Odin’s last night.
We enter a room at the back of the club where a solid wood table in the center dominates the space. Everyone but our president is already there, including my brother Gage, who gives me the nod. I sit next to him, and when Jett strolls in and takes his place at the head of the table, I push Grace from my mind and focus.
Church is usually held on Tuesday evenings, but Jett and a couple of others are heading to Florida in the morning for talks with our chapter there. Finally, Jett gets to the last item on the agenda.
“Joel Gray. Any objections to bringing him in as a prospect?”
Seven brothers indicate they have no objections. Jett looks right at me. “Zach?”
Too right, I do. “He’s not ready.”
Jett leans back in his chair. “Is that right.”
“Shithead needs to learn some respect.”
Our president shrugs. “Motion to bring Gray in as prospect denied.”
…
Grace
I fuss with my hair until it looks just right, then frown at my reflection in the small mirror above the en suite sink. The pale green dress with the cute matching jacket is something I bought to wear over the Thanksgiving weekend, but if this is my last day with Zach then I want to make sure he remembers me for looking good and not bedraggled the way I was when I walked into Odin’s.
Ifthis is my last day with him? What’s that supposed to mean? Of course it is. First thing in the morning, assuming he can fix my car, I’ll be out of here, never to return.
I dab perfume on my wrists, but the thought won’t shift, even though it’s completely crazy. I should’ve left early this morning, instead of dozing in Zach’s arms, enjoying the feel of his strong arms around me. Then he wouldn’t have had the chance to ask me to stay, and I wouldn’t be standing here agonizing over whether I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life.
Last night I’d known he was big, bad, and dangerous. But when he crawled across the bed earlier and I saw his back, I nearly died. “Viking Bastards” was tattooed above the image of a Viking head, complete with horned battle helmet and raven. In case that wasn’t enough evidence, when he left the room I saw a replica of the tattoo on the back of his leather vest, except “California” was also emblazoned along the bottom.
He’s not just a tough guy who’s into motorcycles. He’s a member of a club.
A shiver chases over my arms and I’ve no idea whether it’s because I can’t believe I had the best sex of my life with a possible criminal, or whether it’s simply the sheer thrill that a tattooed rebel has given me so many orgasms that I’ve lost count.
If I had any sense I’d leave now, while he’s out. He doesn’t know anything about me—doesn’t even know my last name, which can only be a good thing, since if the press got hold of this story they’d have a field day.
Zach wouldn’t sell the story to the press.
