CHAPTER THIRTY

“The devil is in the details and the pantry Rider was going to stock...”  - Zara

 

 

 

       “Are---are you certifiable right now? I know the checklist of symptoms, Rider.” Zara’s eyes had gone wide as saucers, first looking down the long entry hallway, to the left, into the first room, a living room, and then she flipped her disbelieving gaze to the presuming biker president stood with arms folded against his wide chest, legs in a relaxed stance but it was all business on his face. Sharp angles to his jaw masked by facial hair, and holy god, the look in his eyes. Zara swallowed. She contemplated asking him to dial back on the handsome, since it was an impossibility she let it go.

      “Not since I last checked, no. It’s somewhere to live, Zara. Don’t make a big-fuckin’-deal outta it. Problem solved.”

      Problem solved. How Rider. A man of few words.

      She rolled her eyes. The air was stale like it hadn’t been lived in for a while but other than that it looked fine, more than fine. It was quaint and any other circumstance she would have been eager to look around, to imagine hanging cute flower curtains and buying matching knives for the kitchen. But she was confused. He could magic a house out of thin air with no notice at all.

     Rider, on the other hand, looked perturbed holding onto his self-restraint as though she’d offended him by pissing in his cereal that morning.

      If Zara wasn’t churning with her own irritation over him taking her one decision out of her hands she would have taken more notice of Rider for the last minute, only as he sucked around his teeth in a show of grabbing onto patience did he draw her focus, hands moved down to his lean hips, every movement clanking his wallet chain. Those vigilant eyes trained on her.

      “What’s it to be? Do you wanna live here?”

     “This---this is your house, Rider, isn’t it?” She wanted confirmation since he wasn’t offering it willingly.

      “So? You said you wanted your own place. You can live here. It’s stood empty most of the time.”

      He didn’t get it. “But it’s yours and you can’t just say I can live here like it means nothing, Rider. That’s huge and crazy. This is your house. It’s no different than being in the clubhouse. I said I wanted my own place, found and paid for by me, to stand on my own two feet again.  

      “It’s something I needed to do for me, to know I can be on my own, regain my independence. Not move from your one place to your other one place. That makes no sense. And don’t you think we could have discussed this before you dragged me here under a cloud of biker silence?”

      He snorted and looked up to the ceiling. “Discussing it now, babe.”

      She followed his hard gaze, wondering if he was searching out his bearing up there? Look for mine while you’re there.  Was she making him mad? Ha. That was rich. When she’d been perfectly clear in what she wanted. Was it her fault he didn't know how to communicate, mister 'do as I say and don't ask fucking questions' Ugh, maddening.

       His phone rang and he ignored it.

     "It's still your house..." His. Just like the clubhouse and everything she had, including the clothes on her back, was because of him.

     Without his tenor of voice rising he let his temper erupt. “Goddammit, Icy. Goddamn and fucks sake. You don’t have to look so fuckin’ thrilled that I’m offering you something.  I won’t be here, you can have it all to yourself just like you want, I was barely here anyway.  I won’t even step over the shittin’ doorstep if you don’t ask me to. There’s no strings, no payment. I thought you’d like the surprise considerin' you’re so desperate to leave the clubhouse.  So, do you want to fuckin’ live here?”

      She heard Desperate to leave me. She gave a little hmph. Turning her nose up and away from his burst of annoyance. The man was too used to being the one in charge giving the God complex orders he didn't know when he was overstepping his bossy steps. Ignoring him, her feet shifted under her to give better attention to the house.  At least it was tidy even with the funky air smell, that she could deal with a couple of candles. Confessing quietly once her back was turned. "This has nothing to do with us, Rider. Just so you know. I want us.” Making sure he grasped that. It was a place to live, not a break up. “I need safety and order, I need to know what's coming. I don't want to be surprised, Rider. You could have used your big-boy words and told me about your house instead of expecting me to follow like a clueless puppy and let me, oh, I don’t know … allow me to weigh in on the decision.” God. Men.

     He might be off the scale beautiful but boy was he lacking in consideration, she supposed it came with his job title, the buck started and ended at his feet but it didn’t justify taking the only little bit of power she was trying to scrape back out of her hands.

      Even if the gesture was a nice one. And she could admit it was. Dammit. It was nice of him. Uggh. Exhaling her frustration away, she turned to face him after a long minute of silence between them. Lifting her gaze, she caught his unwavering glare, waiting for her answer. Zara mentally shrugged. It was a lovely house.  She’d pictured renting a pokey little apartment above a noisy bar, now he was giving her a house. It just didn't seem right.

      Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

      Rider was a fixer. She’d presented him with what he saw as a problem and now Zara was stood central of his magic solution.

      He didn’t flinch, just continued to wait out her answer. If his jaw was to go by then the racing tic along his cheek was a good indication, he thought he was about to hear her tell him to fuck off.

      Bossy man. Sweet man. She inhaled and agreed it was actually a great house.

      Independence beckoned.

      Zara was both scared and fucking scared.

      She had conditions, though.

     "Fine, okay. I will take your kind if not steamroll’ed offer, Rider. But only until I can sort out my finances and find my own place that’s just mine. And I’m damn well-paying rent, I won’t live here if you expect me not to give you a cent, that’s just crazy.  I’m not being a kept woman.”

      He’d bought her clothes. Gave her food and a roof over her head already, now wanted to hand her his house. Dammit, was he going for sainthood?

      Saint Outlaw.

      Tick. Silence. Tick. She watched his jaw grow tighter. All flex and muscle. He moved her way again, his posture to anyone else would seem casual and relaxed but Zara clocked the rigidness of his fingers as they clenched against his hips. She could swear she heard Rider curse beneath his breath but he kept himself in check. And when she rose her eyebrow at him for some reaction, a word, or to acknowledge that they had a deal his eyes had gone flat, cold, his lips drawn together in a thin line.

     “Thank fuck we got that sorted. I’ll get one of the boys to come by with groceries, the pantry is pretty stocked, you just need the fresh shit.”

      “You don’t have to--”

     “They’ll bring the shit, Icy. It needs restocking anyway.” When his phone rang again he answered angrily. “What the fuck is it? ... Who did they send? … fucks sake, he alone? … unlikely. Keep him there, Hawk, I’m on my way. Do me a favor, tell Pretty-boy to get his ass to my house ... yeah, there now … Zara's movin' in ... just do it.” he hung up. “I gotta shoot off, baby. Out of towners come to see me, should be fun.” His sarcastic tone said the opposite. “Pretty is swinging by, he’s on-route, he’s gonna sit outside, you won’t know he’s there unless you need him, look around, see if it’s to your likin’,” Zara could hear the ‘Princess’ he wasn’t pasting on the end of that sentence.

      Her nose wrinkled. She liked the house fine, just not the delivery shoved down her throat. Men. Biker men. “You like it, it’s yours.”

     “Rider. It’s really not necessary to-----” he’d strode to the door not giving her hardly a chance to speak, god that man, she wanted to kick him! With his dark jeans and long sleeved shirt, the thick boots, and the thumb ring, his hair caught back in his trademark bun he looked like one of those models that had turned to the dark side. The visual alone made her scowl and her mouth water.  She’d still punch him, handsome or not.

      Three hard strides he redirected himself back towering over Zara, cupping her face he crushed her mouth possessively like he owned it before she could utter a word, his tongue got busy sneaking and stroking and right as she got into kissing him,  moaning, he pulled back, brushed his thumb against her wet lips.

      “If you like it, it’s yours, Zara. We don’t need to go head shrink about a place to flop at. I don’t want you to leave the clubhouse, but I see you’re determined to, and really, baby, I’m pleased you’re gettin’ strong again, that’s my girl. So, use the house. I’ll be back later to take you to the club to pack.”

      As that, the roar of an engine’s pipes were heard outside. “That’ll be Pretty-Boy.” Zara missed his touch when his hands dropped, a blue-eyed wink later he left her still rooted to the same spot, her heart a little frantic after that kiss and still a little pissed that he’d walked all over her without a proper-fucking-talk.

      “He is infuriating and bossy.” she huffed finally coming unglued. What could she say really, other than she needed a place and here was a place. It just felt wrong to lean on Rider as much as she was.

      It was only as she recognized she was alone in a strange dark house that her insides roiled, anxiety rearing its ugly head.

      Zara wasn't proud of her dark phobia, it pissed her off even as she sought to ignore it gnawing at the back of her head, that monster demanding her attention. Little shithead. Having spent more time than her gut wanted to relive in the dark, in small cramped stinking places because the Raging Rebels thought it was hilarious to hear her beg to be let out of whatever cubbyhole they could find, the phobia lived and breathed within her.

      In. Out. In. Out. She took in air like a starving person hating every single second of fear. 

      Surprisingly it was a tall lamp parked in the far-right corner that dragged Zara's mind from the past into the now, she belatedly looked at the set-up. Rooted to the floor in the middle of Rider’s living room, the two twin lamps throwing shadows, she couldn’t see out of the windows, the dark was swallowing up any light left in the sky and the same panic crawled up her legs reaching deep inside where she was most fearful, where those memories lingered in a place inside her logic couldn't reach.

      She wanted Rider.

     Mentally shaking herself, she forced her feet to move, switching on the main light, moving into the hallway she flipped that switch up, on into the kitchen, the dining nook with its own breakfast bar and stools.

      It was deep determined psychosis that as all lights turned on the fear lessened a little, until she was on the top floor, the house blazing with every bulb.

      Only then did Zara exhale, feeling the heavy thump of her heart recede to a normal beat. She could do this. Sitting on the edge of a bed, her modus operandi were usually to find the negative aspect of something first because usually, it was shit creek with no paddle in sight, it made sense to her, so she was surprised to find once the mild panic attack at being alone had subsided she felt an itching of curiosity to look around where she’d live, she wanted to poke her nose into cabinets and closets, to check how big the bathroom was and please god let it have a large tub. She’d once been a Lush addict; she could very well see it becoming a thing again if only Rider’s house had a tub so sink chin deep into. Time to get acquainted with her new home. More than curious to see where Rider lived.

     With the white walls and plain comforter and not a scatter cushion in sight. What kind of heathen was I sleeping with? she discerned she must be in Rider’s bedroom. It wasn’t much for a designer to get their underwear excited over, like his room at the club it was understated, bikers weren’t about frills and cute decor, it was all functionality.

      But it was clean. The wrought iron bed was covered in white sheets and a thick comforter that reached down to the floor, it had six plump pillows, but otherwise it was a plain bed sat on top of a terracotta colored rug and a bedside table sans lamps on each side. Then there was a five-drawer old antique dresser, next to a smaller set of drawers. Next to that was a door. Curious, her nose twitched, she rose to check it out, finding a small closet with a few shirts and T-shirts hung inside on a silver rail, along with a row of the same color denim jeans. Rider wasn’t into fashion going by that pitiful display. The man needed a major much-needed shopping trip in the men’s department of Saks.

Touching his stuff, rubbing one of his shirts between her fingers, she moved on.

      The double bay window with a padded blue bench seat underneath it was gorgeous. She tested it out and decided it would be nice to curl up there to sink into some sloppy romance book. She hadn’t read anything in a long time. She was so far behind her reading she wondered how many J.R. Ward books had been released in the last three years. Sigh. She put it on her mental to-do list.

      Back in the living room a few minutes later. Warm butter cast the loveliest light around, it was a nice house, no feminine touches anywhere. She’d soon fix that.

      The large functional chocolate brown sectional couch was too without cushions of any kind, with some TLC, she decided silently, her eyes roving over all the potential, and maybe with a roaring fire in the fireplace, it would be even cozier, her mind wound around ideas of just that envisioning a few trips to Pier One and Pottery Barn. The tv was large, she didn’t think men could buy small tv’s, it just wasn’t in their DNA, larger the better. Like dicks. She snickered.  It hung midway up the center wall above a long black media center with three rows of drawers in front. She had a peek inside and saw a collection of action DVDs and three remote controls. Very neat. Very Rider. All his stuff was hidden out of sight. How Martha Stewart of the big bad biker man, she grinned.

     Speaking of he who must be obeyed. Now Zara wasn't feeling so pissy towards him she wanted to speak to him. She had no way of contacting him she registered and felt the swell of panic. What if he stayed to his word and didn’t come back? No, he wouldn’t do that. Taking brisk steps into the hallway, Zara pulled open the door and almost tripped over Pretty Boy in her haste.

      The taller guy no older than she was glanced over startled propped against the porch, arms crossed and a toothpick in his mouth, the light from inside flung a shadow around his blonde hair and height. She saw his brow roll up his forehead.

      “Hi. I need your cell phone, Pretty---I can’t keep calling you Pretty boy, I feel silly, what’s your real name?”

      “Uhm. It’s Mace, ma’am.”

      “Mace. Good. Gimme your phone real quick, please. Actually, you’d find it faster, pull up Rider’s number for me. Quickly, Mace.” She rushed him when he only stared at her before shoving his hand into his leather jacket with the Souls emblem on the back to retrieve the phone, a few swipes and a button press he passed her his Samsung.

       Yes! it was ringing. And ringing. And ringing. And then.

     “There better not be a problem, PB, I told you to fuckin’ watch Zara as close as you do your own dick."

     "It's me. And ew. Thanks for that imagine, Rider." She couldn't help laughing.

      He chuckled on the other end. "What's up, baby? my house not to your likin' after all, not enough chandeliers and butlers?" caution laced his tone.

     "I love it, actually. We'll talk about rent, though." A snicker from Pretty-boy had her angled to ask with her eyes what was so funny.

     "Zara." He warned. "I'm about to have a meet with the fuckin' Russians, now isn't the time to press me about money, not takin' rent from you now or ever, got it."

      Zara wanted to ask what Russians and was he going to be safe and what Russians? She bit her tongue. The MC president would know what he was doing and from what she knew of the outlaws who skirted a fine line to the law it was not going to be a peace treaty.

     "Rider."

     "Icy. I mean it. Now what you callin' for?" Zara could feel her eyebrows inching into her hair. Oh, that man … she'd keep talk of money until the caveman was stood in front of her.                

     All the better to punch him.

     "I was going to invite you back for dinner, but with that attitude, I don't think I want to."

      Pretty-boy openly snickered showing her his teeth.

     "I like that, baby. I'll bring pizza, then we'll come back for your clothes."

      His voice always warmed her from the inside and she found herself smiling when she handed Pretty-boy his phone back.

      She had a pizza date with her boyfriend/landlord.