Page 44 of Magnum, Volume 2

“You know I can hear what ya’ll get up to at night in your room. She’s yours in every way.”

I ran my hand through my hair. “Being my property behind closed doors and proclaiming it to the world are two completely different things.”

“You need to talk to her, then.”

“Has she asked you about your vest?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t suppose you’ll tell me what was said?”

I didn’t figure she would because the ol’ladies are a pretty tight group, so she surprised me by saying, “You’re an idiot, Magnum. She acts like it’s fine that she doesn’t have one when we’re all wearing ours, but I can smell her… it isn’t grief, exactly, but it clearly bothers her.”

“She’s never…” I sighed. “Okay, she’s never let me scent that, but I believe you. Thanks.”

I needn’t have been worried about asking the club for a vote. Most of them gave some version of “It’s about damned time you got off your ass about this,” when they gave their yes vote.

The lady who makes our vests takes for-fucking-ever, and she’ll go even slower if you rush her, so it was April before I had it in my hands. We were close to the Thunder Rally in Milledgeville, which it looked like she was actually going to attend, so I decided to wait until the morning before we left, when the entire club would be there — so she’d ride into the rally wearing it.

Assuming she accepted it.

- - - ❖ - - -

Storm

Breakfast at the clubhouse is always loud, but on the morning before we left for a rally, the excitement was palpable.

I finished my breakfast and was going through my head to make sure I hadn’t forgotten to pack something important when one of the prospects brought a wrapped box to Magnum, who gave me a weighted look before he moved my plate and drink out from in front of me and settled the box where they’d been.

I frowned at him, wondering what he was up to.

“Did I miss my own birthday?”

He looked at the box, then up to my face. The silent order to stop joking around and just open it was clear.

So I tore the wrapping off, pulled the top of the box off, and then just stared — and breathed in the scent of new leather.

It was a black vest, folded so I could see the top front of it, and I could see my embroidered name. My fingers traced the stitching. Storm perfectly written with a needle and thread.

There wasn’t a doubt in my mind what this was, and I stood so I could lift it and see the whole thing. My arms trembled and my heart slammed so hard in my chest, I could feel it in my throat.

The leather was stiff and new, the embroidery was perfect, and across the back were the words that made my stomach somersault and my throat close at the same time: Property of Magnum

I stared at it. The room had gone quieter, or maybe the blood rushing in my ears just drowned everything else out.

I’d thought he was never going to offer this, or that maybe someone in the club hadn’t voted that he could. I hadn’t known if he wanted to give it to me or not, but it isn’t the kind of thing you can ask for. I mean, if I wanted to marry him, I could propose, or at least bring it up as a hypothetical. I didn’t think I would, but the option was there.

But that option isn’t available for this. He had to offer it. He had to want to claim me publicly.

And he finally fucking had.

At first, I’d been kind of relieved, because I had genuine issues with being seen wearing it. What if someone got video of me in it and posted it online? My career, my brand, the careful walls I’d built around my public face — I work hard to report the story, not be the story.

And then I’d decided it didn’t matter. This is who I am. I’d known he was a biker from the start. I’m not ashamed of him in private, so it was ridiculous to be ashamed of him in public. He’s a good man, and maybe he isn’t exactly a law-abiding citizen, but he follows his own moral code. He draws lines and he doesn’t cross them.

Much as I do. I break the law for some of the snooping I do, but only when I can substantiate it to myself. When the results actually do justify the means.

I’d felt… less than, during the days I met them for Daytona Bike Week. I was the only girlfriend without a vest proclaiming who I belonged to, and I hadn’t liked it. Being on his arm without a vest made me look like a temporary, disposable sweetbutt, and that’d bothered me way-the-fuck more than a vest would’ve. I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter, that what we did behind closed doors was enough, and I didn’t need the public claim.