“Good, because otherwise, you’re wasting your time,” she insisted.
His smile was mean, and she knew that she had pissed him off. “Sweetheart, if I was wastin’ my time, I’d already be gone.”
She got onto the back of the bike as he handed her the helmet that he had just taken off. “You’ll need this,” he insisted. She hesitated, and he shook the helmet at her as though silently telling her that there were no other options if she wanted a ride on his bike. She took it and strapped it on.
She wrapped her arms around Cyclops, and he smiled back over his shoulder at her. “You ready, sweetheart?” he asked.
“Name’s not sweetheart—it’s Trixie Lee. And I’m ready,” she lied. She wasn’t ready for any of this, but she had no other choice in the matter. She just needed to remember that Cyclops wasdangerous, and danger had a way of sticking to her like gasoline waiting for a spark.
CYCLOPS
The ride back to the clubhouse should have been simple—straight shot down Highway 9, maybe twenty minutes if he pushed it. But nothing about Trixie Lee seemed to be simple, starting with the way her arms tightened around his waist every time he took a turn, like she was expecting someone to jump out of the shadows and snatch her off the back of his bike.
He'd seen plenty of women on the run before. The club had a way of attracting trouble, and trouble usually came with a pretty face and a sob story. But Trixie was different. Those weren't amateur slash marks on her tires—they were professional. Someone wanted to strand her, not just piss her off. Someone wanted her stopped but not damaged. That meant they wanted her alive, which in his experience, was usually worse than wanting someone dead.
"You good back there?" he called over his shoulder as they hit a red light.
"Peachy," she shot back, but he could feel the tension radiating off her like heat from asphalt in August. The light turned green, and he gunned it, taking the long way around. Hisbike's mirrors stayed clear, but that didn't mean shit. If someone was really hunting her—someone with the skills to get that close to the bar without any of his brothers noticing—they wouldn't be stupid enough to follow them directly.
"Where are we going?" Trixie's voice was muffled by the helmet, but he caught the edge of suspicion in her question. She seemed like a smart girl. At least she was paying attention to the route.
"Somewhere safe," he called back.
Her grip loosened slightly, and he felt her shifting behind him like she was considering jumping off at the next light. "I didn't ask for safe. I asked for a ride to the nearest motel."
"Yeah, well, plans change." He took a sharp left, feeling her body press against his back as she compensated for the turn. Christ, she felt good back there, all curves and coiled tension. Focus, asshole. "That motel you were heading to—The Paradise,” he said. “The Russian mob owns it. They run girls through there, and a woman checking in alone, and I’m assuming that you were going to pay in cash, doesn’t last long in that place." He shook his head. "You would have disappeared before morning."
"I can take care of myself," she snapped, and there was steel in her voice that made him almost believe it.
"Never said you couldn't." He downshifted as they approached another intersection, scanning the cross streets out of habit. "But whoever slashed your tires isn't playing games. If you’re asking me, it was a professional job. People who take jobs like that have resources. You would have needed more than a locked door and harsh language to keep them out, sweetheart."
She was quiet for a moment, and he could practically feel her weighing her options. Then her arms tightened around him again, but this time she didn’t let go. It was like she was holding on to him specifically, not just staying on the bike.
“I’m going to take you back to my clubhouse. You’ll be safe there, and if things go sideways, the guys there will have our backs,” he said.
“And why would they do that for me?” she questioned. That was a simple question to answer, but one she might not understand.
“Because they’re my brothers,” he simply said. “And that’s what brothers do for each other.” He could feel her sigh against his back, and he knew that she was still weighing her options. Cyclops didn’t want to tell her that she didn’t really have any. He had a feeling that she’d figure that out for herself sooner or later.
"One night," she said finally. "I'll crash at your clubhouse for one night, and then I'm gone."
He smiled, though she couldn't see it from where she sat behind him. "Sure, sweetheart. One night, and then, you’re gone." They both knew it was a lie.
The clubhouse came into view. It was a converted warehouse on the outskirts of town, surrounded by a chain link fence and bikes. The parking lot was still half full despite the late hour. Some of his brothers never went home, and tonight, that might work in his favor. Safety in numbers and all that bullshit.
He pulled through the gate, nodding to Prospect, who was on watch duty. The kid's eyes went wide when he saw Trixie on the back, but he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. Cyclops parked his bike in his usual spot, killing the engine.
"Home sweet home," he said, pulling off his gloves.
Trixie climbed off the back of his bike stiffly, yanking the helmet off and shaking out her hair. The parking lot's security lights came on, making her dark hair gleam. She looked around, taking in the bikes and the patched members smoking by the door. The place had cameras mounted on every corner, and it was the safest place he knew. He just worried that whatever orwhoever was coming for Trixie wouldn’t stop once they saw the cameras.
"Are you sure that it’s safe here?" she asked, one eyebrow raised.
"Safest place in three counties," he said, swinging his leg off the bike. "Nobody fucks with the Road Reapers on our own turf."
"Nobody except whoever's after me," she pointed out. "You really want to bring my trouble to your club's doorstep?" There it was—the thing that had been nagging at him since he'd seen her slashed tires. She was right to worry. He was potentially bringing hell down on his brothers' heads for a woman he'd just met. His club’s Prez, Mace, would lose his shit if he were there. But Mace wasn't there, and Cyclops had learned a long time ago that sometimes doing the smart thing meant missing out on the right thing.
"Let me worry about that," he said, heading for the door.
