Vivian

 

Big Hill, Texas

 

I haven’t had the dream of teaching elementary school my whole life. But it sure feels like I have.

 

The seed was planted in high school. When I was a sophomore, our class took a field trip to a local homeless shelter. The shelter staff had somehow found out I was the top student in my English class and was interested in books, so they let me read stories to the homeless kids.

 

The way the kids all gathered around me in reverent awe, how they pointed at the pictures and tried to sound out the words I was speaking, the way I could make them jump and laugh by reading in a fast and hypnotic tone of voice—these details all merged into one of those great occupation epiphanies. I knew what I wanted to do with the rest of my life and what I wanted to be when I grew up.

 

I’m twenty-five now, and I’ve been going to school to officially become a teacher. I’ll be finished next semester, and for now I’ve got a steady course load. I pay my bills by tutoring fellow college students in the evenings, and it’s something I really enjoy. The look on a person’s face when they smile and look up at me in sudden understanding is still pure magic and worth every bit of the struggle.

 

Right now it’s winter time in Texas, and every day feels like a miracle. I love my apartment on campus where I sit at my little desk with its delicious smell of musty books and a single lamp lit against the chill.

 

I drink mocha coffee from a chipped inlaid Chinese cup that I found when I was poking around in a murky little shop on the Boardwalk. The cup has a bird painted on it, and its plumage is an orange sunset set against the sapphire skies and a quaint bridge that leads somewhere to the distance of the Orient. That cup has always held a strange fascination for me. I like to turn it over in my hands, thinking of the future and meditating. The color of the skies reminds me of a lover’s eyes I hope to look into one day.

 

But tonight, I’m in the library. There’s a gentle, late rain, the drops shimmering in the reflected light of the lamps scattered over the campus. Even in the quiet of the library, I can still hear the water softly tapping against the panes. I’m tutoring an Economics major named Mitch who is having a tough time with algebra.

 

I’m still cold despite the heated room, so I take my long, light brown hair out of my hairclip and let it fall across my shoulders for warmth. I look up and Mitch seems to be looking at me strangely.

 

Almost as if he’s suddenly interested in more than just algebra.

 

It always takes me a moment or two to get it through my head that someone might desire me. I used to be so gawky and awkward-looking when I was a kid. But at about my senior year, things started happening. I grew taller and more graceful. My braces came off and my face cleared up. I stopped wearing my glasses and opted for contacts instead. And I noticed I got more attention, and that people acted much nicer to me.

 

But still, deep inside, that same geeky kid from years ago is trying to claw her way to the surface. Sometimes I think that if I were smarter, I’d be bitter. It’s not like anything about me has changed besides my looks.

 

At that moment in my nostalgia, I feel a hand fall gently on my shoulder.

 

“Miss Grayson? Vivian Grayson?” The creaky voice belongs to Mrs. Eggert, the elderly head librarian. She narrows her eyes, like she’s ashamed to be speaking in a place of silence and quiet.

 

“Yes?”

 

“There is a phone call for you in the lobby.”

 

“Thanks, Mrs. Eggert. I’ll be right there.”

 

I turn to look at Mitch. He looks disappointed. “I was really getting this, you know,” he says, though I’m not sure if he’s being entirely truthful. “No one has ever been able to explain it to me and have me comprehend it like you can. Do you think you’ll be long?”

 

“I’ll be back in just a few. I promise. Until then, take a look at the next lesson.” I smile, as if to lessen the blow.

 

He looks hopeful again. As I turn around, I can’t help but smirk.

 

In the lobby my steps ring hollowly on the marble floors. I pick up the receiver from the returns desk.

 

“Hello?”

 

I frown. There’s nothing there—no voice, seemingly no one on the other end of the phone.

 

“Hello?” This time, my voice lingers in the air and I shiver. My ears are met only with dead silence.

 

I hang up the phone, feeling more than a little unnerved. I’ve always been a somewhat shy, wary person. I guess I’m a little naïve and frightened of the world around me, or maybe at least of people’s intentions.

 

Perhaps this would make sense if I told you who my father is. His name is Steel Grayson, the infamous leader of a renowned Texas motorcycle club, Blacktop Chaos.

 

You would think I’d have grown up knowing what it was like to be friends with guys in a motorcycle club. But my dad was super protective and for the most part, he kept me away from that scene. It was as if the men weren’t allowed to speak to me. Heck, most of the time, they didn’t even dare sneak a look in my direction. Without question they obeyed my dad’s commands. I could see the fear and awe in their eyes, and I guess I was proud, in a perverse way. But I always felt that the club—the whole biker mentality—was something alien to me, something I didn’t quite understand the workings of. Besides, Dad never talked about the MC when we were alone. He’d always ask me about school, making sure to remind me that I wouldn’t get anywhere in life without good grades.

 

After the unsettling phone call, I return to Mitch. The sight of him makes me giggle. He’s sitting with his elbows on the desk and his head in his hands, his fists full of great tufts of black hair. Gritting his teeth at the material, he looks up at me and says one word:

 

“Torture.”

 

I laugh softly, then pull out my seat beside him and sit down.

 

“We’ll get there. Remember, it’s a journey, not a destination.” I bite my lip, unable to believe that I just said something so ridiculous.

 

At the end of the night, Mitch is thanking me heartily. “Oh my God, thank you so much, Miss Grayson. I get it now, I get it!”

 

“Mitch, I’m really happy with your success. But remember, you did it. Not me. I just gave you a different path to follow to reach the answers.”

 

“Miss Grayson,” Mitch says nervously. He twists his hands in front of me.

 

“Please. Call me ‘Vivian.’”

 

“Vivian, would you possibly want to join me for a slice of pizza at Jerry’s?”

 

Oh, no. Here it comes.

 

“Um, gosh, I really would like that,” I say. “But it’s against department regulations to socialize with the students I teach. I could get in a lot of trouble. I’m sure you understand.”

 

“Yeah, whatever,” Mitch mumbles under his breath. Part of me wonders if he’s going to correct me—I’m not really a teacher. I’m still a student myself. Tutoring people like Mitch is how I’m earning my degree.

 

I’m not sure Mitch does understand. He looks kind of pissed. As if he’s done a great deal of working towards something that I’ve just taken away from him.

 

“Well,” I say brightly. “Good night, then. See you soon, Mitch.”

 

I can tell that Mitch’s about to say something else when I turn on my heel and walk out of the library. Part of me is even listening for the booming sound of his voice. But nothing comes, and a hot wave of relief washes over me when I make it through the library doors.

 

Luckily for me, it’s stopped raining. I’ve got my key in the car door lock when I feel him at my back. Of course I don’t know who he is specifically. I know it’s a he, though. It’s funny how your senses just know these things. Maybe it’s simply because I’m a woman.

 

But then, I feel breath against my neck—hot and fast. There’s a foul smell in the air, like whoever’s behind me hasn’t thought to brush his teeth in days. And that’s when I hear the ominous warning. “Keep quiet, sweetheart, and don’t put up a fight. This will all be over soon.”

 

My brain flashes into panic mode and my muscles tense up. God, I wish I’d said yes to Mitch, I think desperately. When I feel strong hands clamp down on my shoulders, I try to struggle, but the strange man is strong and easily overpowers me. He starts dragging me to what looks like a beat-up black subcompact car parked off to the side of the lot. I’m panicking and can’t seem to overcome him, but I still can’t give up the struggle just yet. I may be a timid and cautious person, but I can be stubborn as hell.

 

“Stop struggling, you little bitch,” the stranger hisses in my ear. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

 

All of a sudden, I can hear the loud roar of what can only be a motorcycle. A huge man on a monstrous black beast of a bike roars up next to us in a flash. It all seems to happen in slow motion, yet at the same time, it’s all over in an instant.

 

The unknown biker hops off his bike, runs up to us, and punches my attacker hard in the face. I can’t help but cry out as the strange man who’d attacked me falls to the ground, yelling out in pain and covering his now-bloody nose with both grimy hands.

 

Backing away, I’m shaking my head and looking wildly back and forth at the both of them, trying to discern their identities. The man on the ground is wearing what looks like a ski cap pulled low over his eyes—all I can make out is a stubbly chin and pimpled skin. The man on the motorcycle is wearing a glossy black helmet. He’s my savior, I realize. The thought sends another terrifying shiver through my body.

 

My savior starts towards me. “You okay?” His voice comes out as a growl—like a vicious dog. But I know he’s not going to hurt me…at least I hope he won’t.

 

There is something about that voice. I don’t recognize it, but I feel a strange stirring inside me as if that voice is a question and only my body knows the answer. A shot of awareness seems to pierce throughout my stomach and outwards towards my limbs. My whole body is tingling and hot.

 

“Yeah, I’m fine, thanks.” Even though I’m nowhere near fine, I want to play it cool. If this guy’s a biker, he’s probably seen some tough stuff. I don’t want to add to his burden.

 

It’s at the exact moment when I’m distracted with my savior that my attacker takes his chance, standing up and sneaking over to his car. I only notice as he climbs in the driver’s side. Slamming the door and revving up the engine, he thunders off in a billowing cloud of smoke.

 

My rescuer and I have both witnessed the spectacle. But I’m still in shock and feeling paralyzed.

 

He swings his head back to me. “Did you get a good look at him?”

 

“No,” I answer in a trembling voice. “He was masked the whole time.”

 

And that’s when the man removes his helmet.

 

A shock of chin-length blond hair falls softly across a face I know well. That face is perfect—beautiful yet rugged, with piercing dark blue eyes the exact color of the sapphire skies on my Chinese cup. Black, snake-like, sinuous tattoos curl upwards towards his neck.

 

He’s Landon Lockhart. The second-in-command of Blacktop Chaos, and the man chosen to be leader after my father’s reign is over.

 

The one man my father made me swear long ago to avoid.

 

The man who haunts my dreams relentlessly.

 

Suddenly my mouth feels dry. I feel an uncomfortable sense of tightening deep in my core like I’m wanting to draw this man into me. I can actually feel my muscles tense and contract with every long, hitching breath.

 

I’ve never felt this before.

 

And the way he looks at me…his eyes burn with some unknowable emotion. It almost seems like he wants to strip me bare.

 

Me—gawky plain Vivian Grayson.

 

It must be a mistake. There’s no way someone like Landon Lockhart could want me. I want to be an elementary school teacher, for god’s sake! I’m not exactly the kind of girl who would look at home on the back of a bike, wearing a shirt that says “I’m the bitch who fell off!”

 

A change passes visibly over his face. A sort of bland matter-of-factness.

 

“I got a tip someone was out to get you,” Landon says. “Luckily I got here just in time.”

 

Just in time, I thought. Yeah, right. I can’t help but shiver when I recall the feeling of the attacker’s hands clamping down on my shoulders.

 

“Um, I hate to say this, but it would have actually helped out if you had been here a little earlier. This was not my ideal night, having to be groped and dragged to a kidnapper’s car, you know.”

 

His hypnotic eyes glint daggers at me. “You should count yourself lucky I was here at all, Miss Grayson. Now get on the back of my bike. I’m taking you to hq.”

 

Though I could feel he was genuinely concerned, something annoyed me about that command. Where the hell does this guy get off thinking he can talk to me like that?

 

“No. I don’t think so. I have to get home. I have class tomorrow early.”

 

“You know, if I hadn’t been here, you probably wouldn’t be going to class ever again. Vivian.”

 

When he says my name, I feel a hard pulse deep inside. My breasts feel tingly and warm and my nipples stiffen. The sensation of my bra rubbing against my skin is enough to make me wet.

 

It’s not that I’m desperate. Not all guys have this effect on me. In fact, no other guy does. It’s not that I’m desperate. But Landon does something to me. Whenever he’s around, I can’t stop thinking about what it would feel like if his hands touched my body. I’m starved for his touch the same way I crave a good meal after a long day of classes.

 

I’m not a virgin—I had one sexual encounter with a man when I was twenty-one. To be honest, it wasn’t even that great. So it’s not like I’m not some lustful, wanton silly girl who makes eyes at everything with a dick.

 

But suddenly, out of nowhere, I imagine Landon Lockhart grabbing me and bending me over the soft leather seat of his bike, lifting my skirt to my waist and forcing one of my legs to fold at the knee as he drives himself high and deep into me…

 

“Listen. You need to do what I say. I need to bring you to your father. Now get on.” Landon raises his eyebrows and smirks. I can see everything in that smirk, and I can tell that he means business.

 

I obey him silently, embarrassed by the images going through my head. I feel myself burning in shame and wondering if he knows what I’m thinking.

 

Tentatively, I lace my arms around his firm waist. He feels like a brick wall before me.

 

“Hold on tight,” he says.

 

When he roars up the engine, I want to scream. But in a flash, he kicks the starter and we’re cruising down the black, cold, wet trail of the street, the wheels crunching on slick asphalt. The freedom I suddenly feel is intoxicating—my soul grows wings. I’ve never known anything like it. It’s a sense of liberation I have ached for all my life.

 

And to think I might have found it on the back of a motorcycle, of all places.

 

For the rest of the trip to Blacktop Chaos’s headquarters, I’m pressed firmly against Landon Lockhart, feeling as if I could climax any minute from his mere presence and the delicious friction I feel against him.