Connor

 

She stiffened against me at my words. It was funny. She could hear the menace in my voice. I knew those men were either crooked cops or not cops at all. Someone powerful was after her. And I certainly did not like jumping into situations without knowing what the hell was going on. She heard the threat, and yet, we still clung together.

 

Because we were hiding. And it was cold.

 

But that didn’t stop me from feeling, quite firmly, the outline of her breasts against my chest.

 

She shivered, and I wrapped my arms around her, warming her. It was automatic. I did not think about it. I suppose you throw any man and a hot, sexy woman together in a freezer, and any guy with a proper set of balls would have his arms around her.

 

Gentlemanly, my ass. I wanted to feel the sexy curve of her waist and creep down to the warm swell of her butt.

 

Focus, Connor, I told myself. I waited for her to answer my question. After a long minute (when my hands had slunk several more inches down her waist) she still hadn’t responded, so I asked again.

 

“What’s going on, Farrah?” I demanded. “I’m in here. I’m helping you out. What the fuck is going on?”

 

“I don’t know!” She burst at last. “I was just coming home to visit my Aunt Venus—”

 

“Aunt Venus?” I interrupted. “Anna Venus Michaels? Christ, I know her.”

 

“Everybody who’s anybody in this town knows her,” she said shortly, and I could hear the proud protectiveness in her voice.

 

“Anyway,” she continued, “all of a sudden, those fucking cops showed up, and she stuffed this weird envelope into my hand and told me to give it to the Devil’s Wings, and …”

 

All of a sudden she broke off. I could not see her in the darkness, but by the sudden hush I could tell she was worried about something. There was a scuffling sound over fabric, as if she was searching herself frantically.

 

“Oh, my God!” she whimpered. “It’s gone! It’s gone! And my aunt said it was so important …”

 

She trailed off, and I could hear, for the first time, tears in her voice.

 

“Honi has it,” she said at last. “I’m sure … yeah! She must have taken it to … to keep it safe!”

 

Even in the dark, without knowing this girl at all, I could tell that she was trying to comfort herself.

 

“Yeah,” I agreed, pulling her against me, feeling the warmth growing in my loins despite the chill of the freezer. “Yeah, that’s right.”

 

Her hair smelt like windswept fields and honey.

 

I thought about what it would be like to fuck her. If she really was Farrah Michaels, as she said, then she had one hell of a reputation. Not as a slut—which was the reputation most women got in a motorcycle club—but as a money laundering genius. The guys spoke of rumors of all the ways she’d helped her “Aunt Venus” make bank over the years, and how now she was even actually going to school for it. I could imagine the cold-eyed bitch in class, tearing down the other feeble students and then bringing her skills back for trickery and treachery.

 

The feeling of warmth between my thighs turned into a throb.

 

“Hey, Farrah,” I said conversationally. “I hear you’re a whiz with money. Is that right?”

 

She sighed, now trembling with cold against me, “I am.” she said.

 

Good. No false modesty. I liked that.

 

“Interesting,” I said. President Montengo was an idiot with money. He’d gotten to where he was with muscle and bullying. But he was costing the club hundreds of thousands of dollars with his stupid antics. And anytime someone tried to stop him, it just blew up into a massive cock-waving context, with Montengo grunting and posturing the loudest until the guy backed off. I think it threatened his manhood or something.

 

But if we got this pretty white bitch to do it … She could handle the finances, dressed like a slut, and then Montengo wouldn’t feel threatened at all. Hell, he’d probably get as much of a boner as I was at the thought. Smart bitch … Sexy bitch …

 

Smart bitch.

 

Just then, something occurred to me. She’d lied about her name the first time. She could be lying again. What would the real Farrah Michaels be doing at a skivvy bar like the one I’d found her in? What if she just saw that I was a Devil’s Wing and took a gamble, because she needed help? This girl was in trouble. That was obvious. And a conniving girl would do whatever it took to look after herself. I’d met enough meddling bitches to know that was true.

 

Hell, my humiliation that morning proved it. The raven-haired witch flipped her shit just because she thought I was cheating on her. I mean, flipped her fucking shit.

 

Maybe this girl could be doing the same. Always taking advantage, I thought.

 

Suddenly annoyed, I pushed away from her, leaving her trembling in the dark and the cold.

 

“D-do you think we can get out of here yet?” she asked. I could hear her shivering.

 

“No,” I said vindictively. “The ‘cops’ will be looking around for longer than this.”

 

“Yeah,” she sighed, then remained where she was. I could sense that she wanted to sit, or lean on something, but every surface surrounding her was icily, bitingly cold. The only warm things in this room was me.

 

Come get it, you slut, I thought. But she didn’t. She remained strong, and standing.

 

I had to, at least, respect her for that.

 

We waited an hour in silence, fighting the increasing cold. I felt my fingers and toes growing numb, but I ignored it. I was a biker. I could handle shit like this. Farrah—if that was really what her name was—was shivering uncontrollably. Finally, I relented.

 

“I think it’s safe now,” I muttered. She was stiff with cold, so it took her a minute to loosen her joints enough to walk to the freezer door. It let out a small hiss as she pushed it open.

 

Ah! The warmth! The wonderful, basement-smelling, heavenly warmth!

 

We stumbled out together, and in an instant my enmity was forgotten. How could I have been so sour and distrustful? In the leaping sense of joy I had at finally being warm again, I swept her up into a grand hug and almost kissed her.

 

Almost.

 

As I put her down, she laughed, and murmured into my ear, “Thank you for your help. I owe you one, Connor.”

 

Owes me one. Yes, that was it. I sensed some sort of plan forming in my mind: a way to save the club and restore my brothers’ respect for me. Using Farrah Michaels.

 

“You’re welcome,” I said. Then we looked around, remembering that we were in a basement, which was as dark and dreary as ever. “Now what?” I asked her.

 

“Now we need to find a way to get to the motorcycle club.”

 

“Perfect. My bike is parked nearby.”

 

She nodded in agreement, and we cautiously made our way up the stairs leading into the kitchen.

 

It was late. The bar had closed, and there was only one lone janitor, sweeping up by the tables. The window which Farrah’s friend had shattered glittered prettily in the moonlight, and, by being quick on our feet, we were able to silently slip out a side door without him noticing. Hell, he was probably listening to his headphones anyway.

 

We stood outside, breathing in the cool but comfortable night air and gazing up at the stars. We’d been trapped in that freezer for less than two hours, and yet the breeze on my face buoyed me in a way that made me feel like a little boy. Smiling broadly, I dug into my vest and grabbed a cigarette.

 

“Want one?” I offered Farrah, feeling magnanimous. She nodded.

 

I lit mine, then lit hers, and when I inhaled it was about the most beautiful drag I had ever taken in my life. She, too, was smiling, and I felt a sudden fondness for her.

 

Tonight was fun, I thought. It was the first ‘fun’ adventure I had had in a long time. It was like how the motorcycle club used to be, before Montengo took over and turned everything into a source of constant stress and fucking things up.

 

“My bike’s over there,” I said, pointing down the road. I always parked far away at bars—I didn’t want those drunk idiots scratching my precious bike— and, in this case, it had proved very wise. It probably would have looked mighty suspicious to those cops—r whoever they were—having one lone Devil’s Wing bike waiting around at the bar.

 

Farrah and I walked towards it, relishing with every step the feeling of warmth returning to our muscles. I hadn’t realized how much the cold had been fucking me up. Out here, under the blazing stars, with a fresh cig in my mouth, I felt much more awake and aware.

 

I freed the bike and mounted it, tossing the girl my spare helmet. “Have you ever ridden before?” I asked.

 

She laughed. “Please,” she said. “I’m Farrah Michael’s daughter.” And then, like a pro, she threw her long, sexy leg over the seat and nestled in behind me. Right away, the warm feeling of her thighs on either side of me woke up a burning throb, and I smiled.

 

“Sam Michael’s was a hell of a rider,” I said conversationally, waiting for her to finish locking the helmet in place. “The guys still talk about him.”

 

“Yeah,” said Farrah. I felt her hands closing around my waist. “He was the best in the whole damn state. It was ironic, really. His death.”

 

“The car crash?” It was legend to the Devil’s Wings, really.

 

“Yeah. Another biker game drove him right off the road. If he’d have been on a bike, instead of in a car with my mother, I’m sure he would have escaped.”

 

“Probably,” I responded. I didn’t really know what to say. Surely she didn’t want to talk about her dead old man? When I didn’t say anything else, she sighed, and settled in against me.

 

Without a word, I started the engine and peeled right out of that parking lot, giving that bar a big old ‘fuck you’ of a rev on our way out. Within a minute, the roaring of the bike and the road beneath us made it impossible to talk, which was, to me, an enormous relief.