First of all, app designer or not, Trevor wasn’t nerdy or boring. No one with a mind like his could be called boring. The man was smart. Really smart. And even the glasses couldn’t make him look nerdy. In fact, they were…well, sexy. He had dark brown longish hair. Most of the time he had a dark stubble that suited him, and he had pale blue eyes that could either be laser sharp or unfocused, depending on whether he was thinking about a design or not. His nose was straight with an intriguing bump in it, which kept his face from being too pretty. In fact, he was way hotter than she’d have preferred. I mean, she worked for the guy. She sure didn’t want to start thinking about him in a nonplatonic way. Or God forbid, fantasizing about him.
Crap, she already had. Not constantly but more than she wanted. But if he was part of a motorcycle gang, she didn’t think she could even work for him. Logically, she knew that every gang, or motorcycle club as they liked to call themselves, wasn’t criminal like the gang she and her partner had infiltrated. But emotionally, all she could think about was her partner’s death at the hands of the gang and her own very narrow escape.
She tried her best to put the whole problem out of her mind. She couldn’t condemn someone without evidence. And even if Trevor was a part of a criminal gang, he could be taking part in some kind of sting, just like she had been.
She wanted to snoop. To see if she could find something to indicate whether he really was part of a gang and, if so, what kind. But she wasn’t undercover anymore and she had no right or reason to search her employer’s belongings. He’d trusted her enough to leave her alone in his house, even though he didn’t know her that well. It wouldn’t be right to pry. So she wouldn’t. But that didn’t stop her from wanting to.
*
The first thingJedidiah saw when she got to work the next day was Trevor’s leather jacket hanging on a hook by the back door. On the back was a large round patch with the letters BFK in the middle and ‘Bikers For Kids’ in a half circle above it. She was still puzzling over what in the world that meant when Trevor walked into the kitchen.
“Hey. Everything go okay yesterday?”
“Yes.” She tried to think of a subtle way to ask him what she needed to know but she couldn’t. “Trevor?”
“Hmm. Want some coffee?” he asked as he poured himself a cup. “Black, right?”
“Yes. Thanks.”
He poured her a cup and handed it to her.
“What’s the leather jacket for?”
“What?”
“Your leather jacket.”
“Oh, I ride.” He sipped coffee and added, “You know, a motorcycle.”
“Are you in a motorcycle gang?”
“A gang?” He looked a little confused, then laughed. “More of a motorcycle club. Why?”
“I saw the patch on your jacket and wondered. What is Bikers For Kids?”
“Oh, that. Yeah, we’re a club. A group of people who ride who help abused children.”
That wasn’t what she’d expected to hear. “Help them how? And what does riding motorcycles have to do with it?”
“Different ways. For instance, yesterday we escorted a child to court. There were about two hundred of us, all on bikes. We come from all over the state, even though there are local chapters all over Texas and in some other states. The kid was testifying against his abuser, and we went to provide moral support and make him feel safer. We do that for any kid who needs us. We also pack the courtroom so the child can see us and know there are people who care and who have their backs. Assuming the judge allows it and most of them do.” His expression hardened. “It’s damn traumatic for those kids to have to face their abusers in court. Most of them are scared to death.”
“I can imagine.” What he was saying made her feel a whole lot better. “Do you work with the police, or child protective services?”
“Both. We’re nonprofit and have tax exempt status.” He laughed. “Most of us—those who can afford it, anyway—wind up spending some of our own money. Our nonprofit status enables us to raise more money and do more to help these kids.” He drank more coffee, then added, “Sorry. I tend to give way more information than is needed. But BFK is important to me.”
She mulled that over. It sounded like an admirable organization. “Two hundred bikers. Are there always that many people who come?”
“No. Sometimes less, sometimes more.”
“Isn’t it dangerous?”
He looked surprised. “Dangerous? No, why would it be?”
“Maybe the abuser does something. Causes trouble somehow.”
He rubbed the side of his nose. “I guess it could be. I’ve never had any problems, though. Most of them think twice before messing with two or three hundred bikers.”
“Don’t the bikers fight among themselves?”
