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INNOCENCE.

THAT’S THE FIRST thing I thought of the first time I laid eyes on Saylor Samson. Her eyes were wide. Her teeth were chattering, and her hair was stuck to her head as she stood in the rain, shaking at the sight of me. I was scaring her. It was pouring, dark, and a man she didn’t know was approaching her.

I usually had women throwing themselves at me. Leather, rain, and sex seemed to go hand in hand with the women I knew. But, looking at her, I knew she was not like the women I knew. She was a girl, a young one. Maybe seventeen.

I stereotyped her instantly, figuring she was one of those little cheerleading bitches that was out past curfew. Or maybe she told Daddy she was studying with a friend when really she had been fucking some guy outside the club that wasn’t too far from here.

My kind didn’t visit her part of town much. It was probably the first time she had ever seen a biker face-to-face. But she was in my part of town now with a busted tire, no cell phone service, and completely at my mercy.

I reached my hand out and she flinched. I wouldn’t hurt her, but she didn’t know that and I didn’t feel the need to reassure her. Instead, I kept my eyes on hers as I opened the car door and found the button to pop the trunk. I grabbed the spare and changed the tire, while she just stood in the pouring rain and watched me, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, probably to hide her tiny tits.

When I was finished, I threw the busted tire in the trunk before giving her a salute and heading back to my bike. She never spoke and neither did I. By the time I was straddled across the seat of my Harley, she was gone.

That was five years ago.

SEXINESS.

That’s the first thing I saw the second time I laid eyes on Saylor Samson. I was in downtown, a part of Jackson, Mississippi, where I wasn’t shunned and she wasn’t too out of place. She was walking down the sidewalk with her head down, texting, dressed in white cutoff shorts and a tiny tank top with a bikini under it. Her legs were long and tan. Her hair was blond and curly, and her eyes were hid behind a pair of aviators.

When she crashed into me, I grabbed her arms to steady her when the impact of her small, soft body colliding with mine caused her to almost fall. When she looked at me, I knew she remembered who I was. Her mouth formed that small O that’s so fucking sexy on a woman, and when she released a breath of air, it was warm against my chin. I just stared at her, my eyes looking for hers through my own dark glasses. When she took a step back, I dropped my hand, gave another salute, and walked past her. By the time I got to the corner and looked back, she was gone.

That was three years ago.

MUSIC.

That’s the first thing I heard the third time I saw Saylor Samson. She sang a song that immediately got my attention. It was beautiful. Just like her. Her hair was straight, and she looked elegant. Her body was hidden behind a piano, but her eyes found mine as I took a seat at the table closest to her.

I twirled the beer bottle in my hand and watched as she sang to me. She was asking me to come away with her. I ignored the looks everyone in the restaurant gave me. I didn’t belong there. It was a nice place. People were wearing suits and shit, but I didn’t give a fuck. I didn’t want to sit at the bar where I half-ass fit in. I wanted to sit at the table next to the Aphrodite with the beautiful voice, right in the middle of the tie-wearing CEOs and their overpriced escorts. And she wanted me there. She hadn’t looked at me like I didn’t belong. She looked at me like I was the only man in the room. When the song finished, she left. Maybe she went on break. Maybe it was her last song. I didn’t know and never would. I left when she did.

That was two years ago.

PROTECTIVENESS.

That’s what the fuck I felt the last time I laid eyes on Saylor Samson. I was in a bar, she was in a bar. I had a date, she had a date. My date was a smokin’-hot redhead I’d picked up on my way in that had already come on my knee twice. Her date was a fuckin’ prick who had jealousy issues. Not that I could blame him.

Saylor wasn’t a little girl anymore. She was a full-blown woman whose dance moves had every dick in the bar twitching. Her hair was long. Really fuckin’ long. Down to her ass and thick and curly and crazy, kinda like she stuck her finger in a light socket. And it was sexy. Really fuckin’ sexy. I felt my dick press harder against my jeans, and it had nothing to do with the redhead humping my knee and sucking my neck.

Saylor wore a skirt that looked like it was made out of glitter and was so short, the cheeks of her ass hung out every time Lil Jon demanded she get low. My eyes moved down her legs to her high heels that were so tall, it looked like she was walking on her toes. I don’t know how in the hell women wear that shit, but it was hot. Especially on Saylor Samson.

She was dancing on a table with a group of her friends. Judging by the sash and tiara the girl next to her was wearing, they were celebrating something. It physically hurt when I had to drag my eyes from Saylor’s legs to find her date yelling at her. He was demanding she get off the table, and I could make out the words “go fuck yourself” on her lips. When he reached up and grabbed for her leg, I was already on my way over. I wasn’t pissed because it was Saylor who he was messing with, or at least that’s what I told myself.

Usually, I didn’t get involved with relationship drama. This guy could be her husband for all I knew, but she was a chick and he was a dude, and I wasn’t gonna stand for that shit. I felt her eyes on me, and I didn’t want to look, but I did. The fight seemed to die out of her, and I knew it was because she knew I was there. I don’t know how she knew and I didn’t care. All that mattered was that she needed me. She needed me and she knew I could protect her. I could help her. She knew this shit, and she didn’t even know my fucking name.

Adrenaline shot through my body. I could feel my temples throbbing . . . my nostrils flaring . . . my teeth clenching . . . my hands balling into fists. I was gonna kill that motherfucker. She was telling me with her eyes she needed this. She wanted this. She wanted me.

I grabbed the prick by the throat and he grasped my hand in a shitty attempt to pry my fingers from around his neck. I carried him through the crowd of people with his feet kicking in the air, trying to find the floor. Once outside, I slammed him into the street. I felt that familiar feeling of power consume me as I watched him struggle to catch his breath. People around us were screaming and cheering, wanting more.

That feeling of power intensified as my fist met his bleeding flesh each time I landed a blow to his pathetic face. When I finally stopped, I stood over his body that lay unconscious on the crowded street. I turned to the cheering group of people, searching for only one face. When I found her, she was watching me.

Her eyes were slightly narrowed and her face turned to the side as she appraised me. I wanted to know what she was thinking. I wanted to know why she didn’t look scared. I wanted to know why she was so calm, acting as if she already knew this was going to happen. But her friends were pulling her back into the building before I could speak to her. When she made it to the door, she turned back and before she disappeared inside, her left eye shut on a wink. And then she was gone.

That was last night.

—

Today, I can’t get the images of Saylor over the past five years out of my head. It’s stupid. I know that. I’ve seen hundreds of women. I’ve fucked just as many. This one I haven’t even touched, but I can’t shake her from my thoughts. Two years ago, I’d asked the man at the bar she was singing at what her name was. All this time, that’s all I’ve ever known about her. But in just a few minutes I will know everything, or at least everything that has been documented on paper. I won’t know her favorite color or what makes her laugh or what her favorite food is or any of that shit. I’m sure I can find out if I really want to, and I wouldn’t even have to talk to her, but for some reason, this is shit I want her to tell me.

I slam my fist on the table, squeezing my eyes shut in pure aggravation. Why the hell do I care? It isn’t natural for me. I have brothers all over the world, but I don’t want to know their favorite color or what the fuck makes them laugh. I respect them, but it pretty much ends there.

I have to stay the hell outta Jackson, Mississippi. It seems like every time I come here, I see her. And every time I see her, I dream of her. And every time I dream of her, I dream we are together, and she is smiling. I’ve never even seen her smile, but I dreamed it was something beautiful. Like a sunset or a rainbow or a clear blue sky the day after a storm.

I clench my fist until my knuckles are white and bring them to my head, letting out a growl of frustration. Words like sunset, rainbow, and beautiful aren’t even in my vocabulary. My thoughts have me feeling weak. I need to kill. I need to hit someone. I need to control the crazy shit that’s happening in my head. Fucking sunshine and rainbows . . . What a pussy.

“Bad time?” I move my hands from my face and find Shady staring at me with a piece of paper in one hand and the other one held up in surrender. Good. By his reaction, I know I haven’t lost my touch. I like that men fear me, even if he is my own brother.

“You got my shit?” I growl, ignoring his question. This is one of the reasons I ride Nomad—alone. Stupid shit like unnecessary conversation.

“Yeah, man. I got it.” I snatch the paper from his hand. It’s not that I don’t like Shady, or that I don’t respect him. I’m just not much of a people person.

Everyone I come in contact with has strict orders from Nationals to give me anything I ask for and not to fuck with me. The results will be nasty and guaranteed. The warning from Nationals is the only one they get. Most of them respect it and leave me alone, but there were always those that pushed the limits just because they thought they could. The unlucky bastards that didn’t heed the warning now have scars of repercussion.

I study the paper, pausing long enough to dismiss Shady with a look, and read the address until it is memorized. That’s all I need for now. The rest I can read later. I shove the paper in my pocket on my way out, passing the guys in the clubhouse without even a look. I give them my two-fingered, half-ass signature salute and I’m gone.