“You don’t care what anyone thinks, but you really care about her opinion, don’t you?” I ask him. His jaw sets and I can tell this isn’t something he talks about. I can feel how difficult it is for him to open up at all.
“My mother and I … we’ve been through some shit. We’ve been through itall, and all she’s ever wanted is to see me with someone.”
“How do I know that someone is me?” I’m secretly afraid of the scene I’m about to walk into, picturing this woman judging my every move and whether I’m the one for her son.
“I already know enough for both of us, but if you aren’t ready to admit it yet, you can pretend. Either way, we’re going.”
He grins a real smile that reaches his eyes, and it’s so beautiful it stuns me.
“She’s harmless, just don’t piss her off, especially if she’s standing near the gun cabinet.”
I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not as he secures my helmet. I know he can’t help himself; it’s his way of making sure I have it on and it’s secure. As he climbs onto his bike before me, I try to think ofanyreason not to go meet his mother. I can’t even imagine what kind of woman it takes to raise a man like this. Thoughts of a TV show I watched as a kid,Xena: Warrior Princess, fill my mind. A strong woman, a commanding one who could take charge and be fierce when needed.
“You’re at least taking me home first so I can change. I’m already nervous enough, I don’t need to be in my work uniform.”
Sean glances back at me over his shoulder.
“I’ve got a change of clothes for you.”
Of course he fucking does.
“Come on, shehateswhen people are late.”
Oh fuck.
I climb on the bike and wrap my arms tight around him, and just as I expect, he pulls me closer. I try desperately to settle despite the nervous energy coursing through me.Gun cabinet?
Well, this should be fun.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Layla
My heart pounds in my ears and my palms sweat as the Hounds of Hell clubhouse comes into view at the end of a gravel side road off the main highway. The driveway seems to go on forever, with a wide creek running beside it. The closer we get to the clubhouse, which is really a huge barn with a black metal roof, the easier it is to see the line of Harleys parked at the edge of the drive. There are more out behind the building as well, along with a few trucks and a van. The Hounds of Hell insignia looms front and center on the building and the fierce wolf head is intricately cut from black sheet metal. It’s impressive and fierce. At the side of the clubhouse there’s a large, covered patio with an outdoor kitchen. There are a few people milling around smoking weed and talking as we park Sean’s bike in between a matte black Harley and a vintage chrome one with high, chopper-style handlebars. That heady smell of pot mixed with cigarettes hangs in the air.
Sean takes my helmet off, and tilts my face up toward his.
“Chin up, little dove. You’re with me, yeah?” he says as he takes my hand. I nod, focusing on the clubhouse as we walk.
When we approach the side of the building, I can hear Pink Floyd playing through a Bluetooth speaker sitting in the middle of the outdoor table. There are two women sitting there, both of them in barely there clothing. Little black skirts, tank tops and over-the-knee boots. It’s obvious they’re doing everything they can to keep the men’s attention. I suddenly feel a little more confident in the light jean shorts and white tank top that I changed into when Sean stopped at the gas station to get fuel. I hold my head up, toss my loose, wavy hair over my shoulders, and follow close behind him.
Six pairs of eyes turn to face us—namely me—as Sean says hello to them. One man stands up with a big smile, like he hasn’t seen Sean in a while.
“Ax, brother, looking a lot cleaner than the last time I saw you.”
Sean smiles wide at him and leans in to give him that sort of manly clasp of hands mixed with a half-hug. They both pat each other on the back.
“Yeah, a little less dirt on my boots,” Sean answers.
“And a little less blood on your hands,” the man adds. It hits me again that I have no idea what goes on in Sean’s club life.
The group laughs—particularly one woman who’s just joined them, She can’t be any older than I am, with a short blonde bob and blunt bangs. Her lips are cherry red and she wears cutoff black jean shorts and a red tank top.
She eyes me up, then looks at Sean, like she’s trying to make sense of who I am and why he was holding my hand.
“This is Layla,” he says to the group. “This here is Ron and his buddies from up north.” Sean introduces me to the man and his crew.
All the other men are surprisingly friendly and extend hands for me to shake. The women just give me fake smiles.
