Burning Ember (12 page)

I spot Griz. The first picture I see him in is a tad blurry with a yellowish tint and rounded corners. Probably, because it was taken in the late sixties or early seventies. He has an afro and a fuller, bushier beard. He’s wearing a blue banana, bellbottom jeans, and a jean biker jacket sans shirt. His arm is around another biker who’s wearing something similar. The other guy has hideous sideburns and light brown hair, and looks a lot like Dozer, but he’s not as bulky and has a broader nose.

They remind me of my mother who never quite grew out of her hippy stage.

Griz and the other guy are in most of the other photos. Goose is also in a few. One catches my eye in particular. In it, Goose is sporting inky-black hair. And yep, he’s still good-looking; although, I’m partial to the peppery-gray hair he has now. It gives him an innate sexiness most men will never have.

Bodie and the brunet biker with the face tats are in a couple more recent photos. Maybe because they’re newer to the club?

I don’t recognize most of the other bikers. However, I’m sure with time, if I’m allowed to stay, I’ll come to know a few. Perhaps more intimately than I’d like.

I get lost in the images. I feel like I’m seeing glimpses of the club as it changes and grows, and the members as they grow older. They look happy in the photos. Smiling. Arms around each other. Beers in hands. A little teasing going on. Bunny ears and all.

I think back to my mother’s description of them. Killer bees. No matter how cozy I get with Dozer or Goose, or any of the guys, I need to remember that.

I see by the images, that to them, they’re more than just outlaws who like to ride motorcycles—they’re family. They’re a group of friends living a life that maybe society doesn’t deem acceptable, but they’re fine with that.

I squint and search for Mav. Surely, he’s in some of them.

My eyes gloss over the same gorgeous-dark-haired biker a couple of times before I see the similarities, and put two and two together. But to be fair, the contrast between the man in the photo and the man standing behind me are quite striking. Like night and day.
Hot . . . and . . . cold.
Complete opposite ends of the spectrum.

This biker in the photo is happy. Smiling. Vivacious. He has a devil may care smile. One that could singe a woman’s panties in a heartbeat.

Both of his arms are around the shoulders of the men beside him. I move from that picture to the next and find him again. Now that I know what version of him to look for, I find him more easily. Back then, he was more muscular. And in most of these, he’s clean-shaven, flaunting that impeccable bone structure of his, showing off a chiseled jaw, which frankly, should be illegal. Combined with his long, wavy, jet-black hair, he’s lethally sexy. Criminal. Maulable, if that’s even a word.

He appears to be high on life in each photo. Like nothing and nobody can touch him.

“What happened, Mav? You look so happy?” The simple questions escape my mouth in a breathy whisper.

Hands push me from behind. I crash forward into the wall. My face hits it a split second before my hands can brace me for the impact. Adrenaline coils through my body and my heart rate spikes. I’m so close to the oil smudges now I could lick them.

I knew turning my back on the rabid wolf behind me was a bad idea.

“W-what . . . what are you doing?” I stammer out. Using the wall for leverage, I attempt to push back from it. But he presses his hand between my shoulder blades and holds me where I am.

He kicks my legs apart. His breath tickles my ear as he grates out, “Don’t worry,
Doll.
This will be over before you know it.”

And suddenly, I can’t breathe. My skin feels tight all over. Possible scenarios of what he’s about to do to me flash through my mind. Without warning, calloused fingers and a palm skate across my belly, slip under the top of my shorts.

Oh, dear God, almighty.

I gasp as every muscle in my body goes tense. Flurries of pleasure burst from where his hand touches me skin to skin.

His touch is different from Warner’s. There’s not only an undercurrent of
fear
rolling around inside me . . . no . . . there’s an undercurrent of
fear
and
need
. It’s new. Tantalizing. And I’m surprisingly hungry for more.

His hand stills on my stomach. “Not what you’re thinkin’. There ain’t nothin’ you got that I want.”

Twisting my neck, I try to look over my shoulder, to see if I can tell if he’s telling me the truth. But it’s impossible to see his face like this.

“Just hold the fuck still while I check you.”

“Check me?” My voice comes out higher than usual.

“For a wire. Drugs.”

“I’m not an idiot,” I whisper. “I’m not here to spy on you.”
Not yet. Not if I don’t have to.
“And I’ve never even done drugs.” Technically, another lie. I’ve been high from inhaling what others were smoking, thanks to my mother’s choice of friends, but I’ve never done drugs myself.

“Just shut up and let me check you.”

His hand travels up my torso. He cups my breast, trails his fingers over my nipple and the damn thing pebbles against my will. My breathing turns heavy.

“Is that really necessary?” My words sound hoarse.

“What’d I tell you?”

To shut up and let him check.

Calm down,
I scold myself
. He’s not touching you because he wants to. He’s touching you because he’s trying to find a reason to toss you out on your ass.

I close my eyes and tighten my thigh muscles. Trying to douse the ache he’s started there.

His body is mere inches from mine. His scent, a mixture of tobacco, leather, and minty soap as it swirls around me. Harsh breaths caress my bared shoulder, making goosebumps spread down my arms. I roll my bottom lip under my top teeth and bite down.
Pain.
Focus on the pain.

He’s probably done this a zillion times. Searched all the new girls who have come into the club. To him, this is just a body search. Part of his job. Something he has to do to protect the club. Not foreplay. I pray
, please let this end quickly.
Then maybe he won’t notice how turned on I am. No need to add to my embarrassment. Haven’t I already been through enough for one day?

His hand leaves my breast and brushes over my cleavage before he “searches” my other breast. Seconds later his hand slides down and away. Though it’s gone, I feel an echo of it, lingering as if my skin has memorized his touch.

His fingers dip beneath the top of my shorts again. “Am I gonna find anything down here I’m not gonna like?”

What?
I can’t find my voice to reply. There seems to be something blocking my throat.

His fingers descend.

He wouldn’t . . .

Oh, my heavens . . . he would . . .

The tips of his fingers caress the ridge of my panties first. They slide under the edge. Go down. Brush over my mound. I dig my fingernails into the wall, hoping it will help me hold on to my sanity. Now heavy with desire, my breath rebounds off the wall in front of me. Angry wasps beat their wings wildly in my chest.

I swallow the massive thickness in my throat. “I’m not hiding anything down there, I swear.”

He stops before he can feel what he’s done to me.

Thank god.

“I guess I’ll find out soon enough then, huh?”

My core clenches tightly at his words and what he means to do.

He slides his fingers over my tender folds and glides smoothly to the core of me, where I’m warm and wet, and aching for him.

I bang my head against the wall, making a
thunk
sound.

His breathing stops.

Heat rushes into my cheeks.

Coming back to my senses, I realize I’m not supposed to be enjoying this. If I was the innocent girl he thinks I am, I should be upset, right? Indignant? Pissed off he thinks he can touch me how and where he wants?

I latch on to his wrist. Frantically, pull his hand from my shorts. “There. Happy? No drugs. If you still don’t believe me, check my arms, or give me a drug test.”

He grips my arms tightly. Roughly spins me around. Because of the high heels, I wobble as I try to stay on my feet. I grab on to him to steady myself.

We’re so close. Too close. All I see is him. His scent engulfs me completely. We both stand there. Motionless. My vision is filled with him, his neck, the small wrinkles in his leather jacket, the silver chain circling just above his collar. A muscle in his jaw begins to tick. My gaze shifts to a four-inch scar running along the line of his jaw, partially hidden by his five o’clock shadow. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. It’s then I notice how erratic his breathing is. How the pulse in his neck beats wildly. But why?

I slowly lift my eyes to his face. His irises are liquid gold again.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say there’s lust in his gaze, but that doesn’t make any sense. Maybe I’m mistaking desire for hatred.

He lowers his face. The coarse hairs of his stubble scratch across my temple. He breathes into my ear. “Remove. The. Claws. Doll.”

Huh?
I blink up at him.

Then he looks down.

I follow his gaze to my hands gripping his biceps.

Oh. Oops.

A tingling sensation shoots through me. I pry my hands off him and as I do, I see that my nails have left half-moon marks on his skin.

“Hold out your arms.” His accent, usually slight, comes out thicker. It sounds like he’s from somewhere on the east coast, New York maybe.

I hold out my arms and take a step back so I don’t touch him.

He reaches forward, inspects my inner elbows.

“Never been a fan of needles. I have a low tolerance for pain.” Another reason why Warner and I weren’t meant for each other.

He grunts. “These what I think they are?” He rubs his thumbs over the scars at my wrists. Prickles of desire shoot up my arms like sparkler sparks.

Nope. Not going there.

I’ve already made up my mind about those scars. Let people believe what they want. As far as I’m concerned, I’d rather have them think I tried to kill myself than tell another living soul about the nightmare I lived through.

“Did you bring me in here to learn my deepest, darkest secrets or search for a wire and drugs?”

His eyes flash with anger instantly. He jabs me in the chest with his finger. “Watch your mouth.”

Not physically possible.
But I’m not about to tell him that.

“Sit.” The chilling glare is back.

“You know, I’m not a dog,” I say under my breath.
Or a cat for that matter
.

He growls, “You’re whatever the fuck I say you are. Sit. The. Fuck. Down.”

I sit, without meaning to, because . . .
oh shit
. . . I think I just lit his fuse.

In viewing the world through our perceptions, we can miss the truth of reality, causing us to wage unnecessary wars.

EMBER

Luce makes his way around the desk to his chair, shaking his head the entire time. “I can already tell you’re gonna have a problem keeping that mouth in line.” He pulls a pack of smokes from his jacket pocket and lights up. The cherry on the end of the cigarette blazes red. His cheeks hollow, and I get distracted by his full lips.

His lips are fascinating. Kissable. Way too damn sexy.

Dammit! Look away.

Too late. He raises an eyebrow. I quickly drop my eyes to my hands as I wait for the interrogation I sense coming. He takes his time. I glance up now and then, but realize he’s going to make me suffer in uncomfortable silence while he smokes the entire cigarette.

When he finally reaches forward to put it out, he asks gruffly, “Why are you really here?”

I decide to go with the truth. “Everything I own was stolen today. My money. My clothes. I had nowhere else to go.”

“I think we both know this isn’t where you need to be. You got family? Why not ask them for help?”

I shift in my chair. “They can’t help me.”

He examines my face. Probably to see if I’m lying or not. “Why not?”

I consider my answer for a few seconds. A few seconds too long it turns out.

“Answer the question,
Doll
.” He
sneers
the word doll as if he’s making fun of my height. Nothing new.

“My mother took off six years ago, and she’s been MIA ever since. I have a sister, but she couldn’t help me even if she wanted to. She can barely hold down a job and support herself.”

I’m not going to tell him about Will. He’ll probably use my love for her against me, if he found himself in need of leverage over me.

“What about your father?”

I snort sullenly. “Don’t know. Just some guy my mom had a fling with. I know his name, but that’s about it.” The name’s just common enough to make tracking him difficult. I wouldn’t even know where to start.

“What about friends, boyfriends?”

I flinch. An image of Warner flashes through my mind. Every muscle in my body goes rigid.

Mav sits forward in his chair. His eyes narrow and roam over me. “So that’s what you’re running from then? Your man?”

What can I say in my defense? That Warner is a psycho? Abusive? Controlling? Beyond crazy?