Hard Case (Hard as Nails #2) (9 page)

He hands me a helmet. Knowing that he’s been involved with bikers for a good bit of his life, he makes a little more sense to me. Despite all his charm and sophistication, he’s got a dangerous, unpredictable side. One that would resist authority no matter how well he plays within the system now. One that enables him to carry a gun and whip it out when he needs it without even breaking a sweat.

“Have you ever ridden a motorcycle?” he asks.

“Nope.” I shake my head.

“Good. I’m glad this will be your first ride and I get the opportunity to take you out.”

Just when I think I’ve got him figured out, he throws me another curve ball. Slate Rawlings is full of surprises.

* * *

Slate

I know I’m taking a risk leaving the house with Rose. What if King’s associates shoot at us again? But I refuse to hide inside out of fear. That’s not a life I can bear, not even for a week or a month, and after all her talk about never trusting a man again, I want to send Rose an undeniable message—a life worth living will always have risks, but you take them all the same.

It’s the perfect day to communicate that message by taking Rose for her first ride on a motorcycle. It’s also a great chance to let her see a different side of me.

When I slide the old Nailed MC vest over my shoulders, it feels like I’m right back in the good old days. I feel young and free again, and I’ve got my new old lady with me.

I put on my helmet and slide over the seat, feeling the bike’s power underneath me. We’ve been through a lot together. We’ve seen a lot of miles. All of that energy still courses through her body even with the engine off.

“Hop on,” I tell Rose.

She climbs on behind me and wraps her arms around my waist. Her touch feels so good. Everything feels better on the bike.

Or maybe it’s that my body is still feeling the effects of last night, when I got myself off while forcing myself to stay standing in her bedroom doorway. And while I’d kept that distance between us—not only while I made myself come, but also while I’d watched her do the same—I’d done it knowing she was thinking of me.

The fact that my sweet, little kindergarten teacher—and that’s how I’m beginning to think of her, as
mine
—has a dirty side that the sex toys on her bedroom floor had only begun to hint at, has me obsessed. She’s all I can think of. All I can focus on. And given our situation, that’s a dangerous thing. When I’d told her I needed to ride in order to clear my head, I hadn’t been exaggerating.

“Hold on,” I say before the bike roars to life underneath us. Feeling the rumbling, roaring engine beneath me, I walk her out of the garage and into the driveway. “You ready?” I yell, checking with Rose one last time before leaving the house.

She gives me a thumbs up, and we’re off. The road is ours at this point. I tell myself everything is going to work out fine and I believe it a little more now that she’s on the back of the motorcycle, riding away from her situation for a little while.

I’ve got a girl on the bike with me, and she’s one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met. She’s gorgeous, and she’s got an irresistible mix of innocence and experience, naivety and intelligence, that drives me wild.

On the Harley, I’m not her lawyer. I’m not representing her in court in a few short weeks.

No, on the Harley, I’m just another biker, a rebel. I’m the guy determined to get into her pants again despite the fact I know I should leave her alone. I’m the guy who’s starting to wonder exactly who I’d been trying to convince when I’d told her I didn’t want a relationship with her. Because as I’d lain in my cold bed last night, all I’d wanted was to go back to her and take her in my arms, not to fuck, but to hold. To comfort and be comforted by her, without all the damn lies and artificial rules and boundaries I’ve constructed.

Maybe that’s why I felt the pull to ride so much today, as well. Because I need to clear my head in another way, by reminding myself exactly why Rose and I can’t be together. Not so much because of our current circumstances, but because of my past.

This bike connects me to a darker time in my life, a time when I wasn’t always on the right side of the law. Hell, I’m not completely on the right side of the law now. I’m working for King, and there’s not much about that situation that is legitimate.

Before I realize it, we’re out of town and riding through the countryside. Rose’s arms are squeezing me as she holds on, and I realize just how tight her grip is.

I can feel the tension in her tight muscles and the almost desperate sting of her nails as she clutches onto me for dear life. I pull off the road at the nearest vacant lot.

It’s an abandoned gas station. It was probably a successful business before they moved the highway. I pull up in front of one of the long dead pumps and cut the engine. I take off my helmet and tap her hands to let her know it’s okay to let go of me.

“So, what do you think?” I ask her as I slide off the bike to lean against the gas pump.

“It’s definitely different,” she says with a wide-eyed, terrified look.

“You good?” I ask, knowing she’s scared as shit but not wanting to call her on it. This woman is fiercely proud, and she’ll get used to the bike.

“Yeah, I’m good. Or, I will be, I think,” she says.

I laugh at her. “Did you ever think you’d be here, with a lawyer on a motorcycle in the middle of nowhere?”

“No. Never in a million years did I imagine this would be happening. I don’t usually spend my time with outlaws. Um, you know what I mean,” she says.

“Yeah, you think we’re all outlaws. You think because I was in an MC, I’m some rough, violent biker,” I tease her.

“I think maybe you were,” she says.

Again, I’m startled by her perceptiveness. I’m swamped by memories of all the things I did for King, all the times he called on me for less than legal activities, though most of that had happened before my friends and I opened Nailed Garage. Once we’d left Thornbridge, we’d tried so hard to keep clean and straight. But he never let us go. Not completely.

“No, we actually ran a pretty clean business,” I tell her. “A garage called Nailed. It’s still in operation. It’s run by my friend Jericho, but me and three other guys are still partners.”

“So what happened to the MC?”

I hesitate, then tell her the truth, even though it’s not the whole truth. “The five of us opened the garage and things were good. Better than good. We’d all been orphans—that’s how we met—and had pretty shitty childhoods. One of our founding members, Street, went down for something stupid he and another friend of his did. I guess it didn’t feel right, keeping the club going without him.” I shrug. “Plus we’d all moved on to different things. Life got in the way. Me with lawyering. Axel joined the Marines. Jericho continued to run the garage. Davis is big into computers and finance.”

“And what about Street? Is he still in jail?”

“No, thank God. He got out of prison several weeks ago. Just before I met you, I saw him for the first time in three years. If Axel wasn’t off somewhere playing soldier, we would have all been together.”

“That must have felt wonderful. But why hadn’t you seen Street in three years? Didn’t you visit him in prison?”

Part of me can’t believe we’re having this conversation. That’s she’s not wrinkling her nose in disdain at the thought of me being friends with an ex-con or asking me what he did instead of asking why I didn’t see him, as if she’s a little insulted on behalf of Street. I smile at her. “You’re so inquisitive,” I tell her. “I like that about you. You try to make sure no details escape you.”

“I’m a teacher. What can I say? You pick up some of what you try to instill in your students over time,” she explains with a shrug.

“Well, I like it. Anyway, we tried to keep in touch with Street, but he pushed us away. He felt he’d let us down and didn’t deserve our friendship. It was rough on all of us. But like I said, we’ve made contact now.” I hesitate, not wanting to give away too much, but also wanting to give her a clue that I really am shadier than I’ve portrayed myself to be. “The truth is Street was supposed to serve another seven years in prison. He got out early. And that was in large part due to a favor we asked of a man. A man who’s not on the right side of the law.”

I glance at her, but she says nothing, which surprises me. It’s the first time I’ve actually confessed to anything remotely shady, yet she doesn’t look surprised.

“Because of the favor we asked, Street was able to start his life over. He’s even found a good woman. His life’s good.”

“And your life?” she asks.

I cock a brow, as if to say, Of course it’s good. You’ve seen my house. My car. My fancy suits. But there’s her intuition at work again. She’s not fooled by all of that. None of it makes up for the one thing hanging over my head. Over all my friends’ heads. The fact we found our way back to King. I’d do it again, to get Street out of prison early, but because of that favor, Rose is not the first person I’ve represented for him. She’s just the first one who was actually innocent.

“I’m good, Rose,” I say. “As you can see, I’m still riding, and maybe one day we’ll get everyone back together on the road again, but for now, it’s best if we keep our distance and live our own lives, I think. It’s easier that way for now,” I explain, trying to remain vague.

“Why do you say that?”

“Too many people expect every motorcycle club to be another Hell’s Angels. They bring us all this criminal work to do. Not the best way to stay clean.”

“And you weren’t always clean,” she guesses. “Which is how you knew the man who helped your friend Street? Was he the reason for your shitty childhood?”

Damn, she’s smart. But only partially right. “That was mostly because of my asshole father. He beat my mom. Beat her so bad one day he killed her, and he’s currently serving a life sentence. I haven’t seen him since I was twelve years old.”

She blinks, and all of a sudden her expression softens. “Slate, I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks,” I say, but when she reaches out to touch my arm, I shake my head. “It’s in the past, Rose. Just like your tragedy. I don’t dwell on it, and I hope someday, you’ll be able to say the same. We have to look to our futures.”

“I understand that. But our pasts can’t help but affect us. Especially when they involve tragic circumstances.”

“It’s molded me but it won’t control me.” Granted,
King
controls me to a certain degree, but
that
is a result of a conscious decision I made. I put my helmet back on. “You ready to head back?”

She hesitates, as if she wants to probe more into my miserable childhood, before she looks away. “Only if you are,” she replies. I can hear the trepidation in her voice. She’s still a little scared of the bike. But that’s Rose. Open to new experiences despite her fear.

Or maybe it’s not the ride home she’s so afraid of. Maybe she’s scared of what might happen when we get back to my house. Or maybe she’s scared of what might
not
happen.

Chapter Eleven

Slate

When we get back to the house, I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. I pull it out to see who’s calling. It’s King, calling to check up on my progress.

After I collect the helmet from her, I tell her, “I’ve got to take this. It’s another client. I’ll see you inside once I’m done.”

She wanders off, probably glad to finally be off the bike.

I answer the phone before it can go to voicemail.

“Slate,” King says in a cocky, fake welcoming tone, like he’s happy I answered the phone.

“Yeah.” I let him know right away I don’t share his enthusiasm for this call.

“Don’t sound so glum, Slate. I’m calling for an update. I hope you have good news for me, son,” he explains. The thinly veiled threat in his voice isn’t lost on me, though. What he means is I better have good news or there will be a price to pay for continuing to disappoint him.

“I do have good news, actually,” I tell him. I’m ready to put an end to this nonsense so I can focus on clearing Rose’s name.

“That’s great. What do you have to tell me?” He sounds like a movie villain over the phone sometimes with his over-the-top voice. I imagine him sitting back in a large desk chair stroking a white cat on his lap with a cigar dangling from his mouth while he talks.

I look around to make sure Rose isn’t within earshot of what I’m about to tell him. “You’re safe.”

“Please tell me you have more to say, boy. Elaborate a little.”

“She thinks her husband was simply on drugs and alcohol. I’ve got a stack of police reports where he got in trouble for his behavior after having a few too many at the bar. And I’ve got the complaints she filed against him, leading up to and including their separation papers and a restraining order because of his erratic behavior,” I explain.

“Good,” he says, drawing the word out with satisfaction. “Is there anything in those police reports that can connect him to me?”

“No. Everything’s clean. You’re not mentioned anywhere,” I assure him. “She doesn’t even know you or your associates exist.”