For a big, burly man, the place is very well decorated. A feminine touch wouldn’t hurt to help soften the sharp edges a bit, but it fits him.
And so not what I expected.
He followed me to my one-bedroom apartment to get a few things to stay at his house for a few days, but he’s said almost nothing to me since the bakery.
“Yeah, thanks,” Tucker says gruffly.
He’s a very confusing man to read. Perpetually grumpy. Exactly the type of person I make it my mission to brighten their day when I meet them.
“Tell me about yourself.”
He turns and glares at me with bright blue eyes that stun me. I’ve never seen such gorgeous eyes on a man before, and I’m not sure how I missed the way they shine when I first met him. “No.”
Okay, he’s obviously not going to make this easy. “Okay, I’ll tell you a little about myself,” I say, running a hand gently over the spines of various books I can tell were strategically placed.
This really is a nicely decorated house. A little dark and very masculine, but it’s not filled with thrift store furniture like I imagine most bachelor pads consist of.
I don’t know much about bikers, but I’m also impressed with how pristine this place is. So organized, and everything has a place. There’s nothing that looks like clutter, and there’s almost no dust.
Personality. That’s what’s missing. This looks like it popped right off the page of a magazine. Staged. Cold.
“I really wish you wouldn’t do that—”
“I’m twenty-nine, and as you can probably tell, I love to bake. I’m a cancer, so take that as you will.”
“And you’re just going to do it,” he mutters.
“Originally, I’m from the Midwest, but I moved to Nevada with my grandma when I was twelve.”
Tucker rolls his eyes. “That’s… nice.”
Usually, this would be a perfect opening for the other person to offer up something about themself. Keep the conversation flowing. But not Tucker.
“Can I ask how you got your scar?”
“No.”
Most people would probably give up, but that’s just not in my nature. Something about Tucker sucks me in, and I want to know everything I can. Or, at least, everything he’ll allow me to.
“Then I can’t call you Pacino. I don’t know much about motorcycle gangs. What does being sergeant at arms mean?”
This must be a safe subject because he visibly relaxes. His shoulders drop slightly, and his neck muscles no longer show the vein. I have a strong suspicion that he’s never fully relaxed, though. He seems like the type to be high strung. All the time.
“First of all, it’s a motorcycleclub. We’re not a gang.”
Holding my hands up, I nod. “Sorry. Motorcycle club. Got it.”
“And my role is to make sure my men are safe and that the rules are followed. I’m also the club enforcer.”
“Two questions: Are there a lot of rules? And what does being the club enforcer mean?”
Even as annoyed as he looks, he still answers. This gives me hope.
“We have laws and bylaws, but I don’t know what you’d consider a lot. And being the enforcer basically means I’m the big guns. I handle the shit others can’t or don’t want to. Brute force. That type of thing.”
This intrigues me. Makes sense why he looks like he lives in the gym. “You have your own little nation of sorts. That’s cool. I was never allowed in clubs.”
“You don’t say.”
