CHAPTER FIVE
Rocker pulled his favorite, long-sleeved tee on over his head. It was faded black, with the logo of a now-defunct MC, the Dead Kings in deep maroon and tarnished silver.
He pulled the hem down over his jeans, shoved the sleeves up near his elbows and combed his wet hair back with his fingers, knotting it at the back of his head to keep it from getting his collar wet.
Deep in thought, he pulled on his leather bracelet, heavy silver cuff, and his rings.
He was thinking about the woman downstairs--or rather what to do about her.
It was Saturday morning. Pete and Lesa would not be back until the next evening. Billie needed somewhere to hang until then.
He could take her to Sara and Stick's. Sara now lived with Stick and his boys in his big farmhouse. Her little house next door was empty except for Sara's leather workshop, but it had two bedrooms.
Shoving his feet into a pair of worn moccasins, Rocker then padded down the wide, custom-built iron-work stairs to his main living area.
He flipped a light on in his kitchen and fired up his Keurig. He kept odd hours and hated stale coffee, so one cup at a time was great. A mug of steaming dark roast in his hand, he walked over to look out the windows.
Eight o'clock, and the sun was shining along the street and hitting the upper edge of his building on the west side of the courtyard. The rest of the paved area was in shadow.
A big orange tiger-striped cat was moseying along the edge of the sidewalk, and a Spokesman-Review delivery van was slowing in the street, the driver tossing a bundled newspaper into Rocker's courtyard. He liked to glance through the paper on the weekend, see what the law-abiding folk of greater Spokane were up to.
Hearing a rustle behind him, he turned and leaned his shoulder against the wall to watch as the quilt on the sofa flipped back, and his guest emerged, all tousled light brown hair and arms and legs. She sat up slowly, swinging her feet to the floor, and then shoved her hair back from her face and stretched luxuriously, back arching, full breasts thrusting out and arms flexing skyward.
She yawned, then opened her eyes, and looked around. He could've tracked the instant her gaze fell on him even if he hadn't been able to see her eyes—she froze, and then sat up straight. Damn, there went the sexy, sleepy look that made him want to head over there and push her back down on the black leather and lose himself in her warm, sleep-flushed curves.
But that wouldn't happen in any case, he reminded himself. He wouldn't let it.
"Mornin'," he said, taking another drink of hot, strong java and watching her over his mug.
She didn't disappoint. She squinted at him, bundling her hair into a long, messy rope over one shoulder, and then finally spoke. "Morning. Is that coffee I smell?" Her voice was hushed and husky with sleep.
"Yep. Want some?"
"Uh, yeah. I'd fight a forest troll for a cup right now." She rose, shedding her blanket and padded toward his kitchen, her sweater clinging to her curves in wrinkled splendor, her hair falling loose again around her shoulders and back.
She had a really nice ass, and that strip of pale skin bared by her hip-hugger cords looked like it'd be silky under his fingertips.
He'd grab her hair and use it to hold her head back while he bent and—he shook his head, hard. Focus on the words from her lips, not the swing of her hips.
"Forest troll?" he repeated, chuckling as he followed her to the kitchen. He grabbed a mug from the cupboard and set it in place under the spout, then opened the drawer at her hip so she could see the little coffee pods. "None of them here, but you and me can go hand-to-hand if you want."
She slid a look at him from under her lashes and tangle of hair, and pursed her lips out as if to hide a grin. "How about we call it your win and you give me a cup anyway?"
One of her cheeks was pink from being pressed to the pillow, and her eye-makeup was messy, but the dark smudges merely made her eyes look greener. And those lips looked like they were ready for a good-morning kiss.
The yellowing bruise on her cheekbone, though, when her hair swung away from her face, brought him up short, reminding him all too well why she was here. Not so he could fuck her six ways to Sunday, but so he could protect her from that little ass-wipe Simms until the Flyers found him and made him sorry he'd ever raised a hand to her.
"Help yourself," he offered. "I'm gonna rustle us up some breakfast. Granola okay with you?"
Hearing an odd noise behind him, he looked over his shoulder, ready to be entertained. She didn't disappoint. Her eyes were bright, a hand to her mouth, failing to hide her husky giggle. "Sorry. But, bikers eat granola?"
"This one does. What'd you think we eat for breakfast, raw steak?"
"Well... steak and eggs, maybe. Or a big old pan of sausage and eggs, along with mounds of fried potatoes, and whiskey in your coffee. Just ... not granola."
"You're a nut," he said. "I like a big, truck-stop breakfast now and then, but I also like granola. Are you gonna take away my man card if I say I like yogurt too?"
"Maybe. Especially if it's sugar-free."
"Nope, regular vanilla. And I only drink whiskey in my morning coffee on Mondays. You want some, it's up there." He tipped his head toward one of the top cupboards on the end of the kitchen.
She laughed again. "I'll drink to that. Monday mornings are hard. But I'll pass right now, thanks."
He was grinning as he set out white bowls and spoons, the yogurt, and a plastic deli-pack of fresh, cut-up fruit. He liked fruit, he did not like messing with it.
She took her coffee away to the bathroom, and Rocker walked out to get the paper. It was chilly in the shade, but looked to be a helluva lot nicer than the previous days, the sky a bright wash of blue with no wind.
Billie came back with her face washed and clothing straightened, her hair bundled up high on the back of her head, a messy lock falling down her cheek. On purpose, he figured, as it nearly covered the ugly bruise.
They ate their fruit and granola in companionable silence, and Rocker read an article on a new boxing gym that was opening a few blocks away, with programs for underprivileged kids. Spokane certainly had their share of kids who could use a hand up. He'd bet the place needed volunteers, too. Some of the brothers would probably swing by once a week.
He fixed his second cup of coffee, and leaned on the other side of the counter, watching her finish breakfast. "You got plans for the day?" he asked. Then he winced. "Sorry, not a lot you can do camped out here with no car, right? What I meant was, I'm busy this morning, but I've got nothin' on later. You want to head downtown, I'll be around."
She gazed at him in silence, and he waited. Christ, a man could practically see the circuits flashing in her motherboard, no doubt at hyper-speed. From the quirky shit that came out of her mouth, he wished he could listen in on her unedited thoughts.
After a moment, he waved his free hand in a slow circle and raised his brows. "And your decision is...?"
She blinked, and a pretty wash of pink spread across her cheeks. "Sorry—yes, okay. I guess there's nothing I can do about the rental today. And I haven't really had time to explore downtown, except for one night out with Lesa and Pete, so...so great. Um, thank you."
Her green eyes were bright with what looked like excitement, all aimed at him. Christ, he thought, a flash of heat building in his groin. She was into him, not just a little, but a lot.
Too bad she was not for him. Too fucking bad, 'cause here she was in his place with no one else around. And she might not be his usual type, but fuck, she was pretty. Lush as a ripe peach, ready to be picked.
And he better get his mind off that sexy imagery, or he was gonna be sportin' wood. Even a chick as naive as her couldn't miss a big boner in his snug jeans.
He straightened. "All right then, will you be okay here alone for a few hours first?"
Her gaze flickered, but she nodded. "Sure. I'll be just fine."
"Babe, you don't have to put up a front with me. Two days ago, you were attacked. Yesterday, your rental was vandalized, in an ugly way. Nobody expects you to be fine. You don't wanna be alone here, it makes you nervous, just say. We'll figure something out."
She flushed again, but held his gaze. "Okay, no, I'm not fine. But I'm good enough. I don't need a baby-sitter. I can stay here, and work on my phone and laptop till you get back."
He nodded slowly. "All right, then, here's how it's gonna go. We swap phone numbers, you put me on speed dial. Then I give you a quick tour, show you my security system. You're as safe here as you would be anywhere in this city. But if anything worries you, you call me."
"You have a security system?" she asked. "Oh, because your office is here?"
He grinned. "Babe. The office is because of the security system. It's what I do. Rock Solid Security, that's me. Also do surveillance and computer searches, but that's a different story."
She looked awed. "Oh, my God. You do all that? Then you know code, right? Do you—" She broke off, biting her lip and laughing at herself. "Sorry, I'm geeking out, huh?"
"Doesn't bother me," he assured her. "We'll compare notes later, yeah?"
"Okay. It's just so cool that you know all that. How did you learn? Were you in the armed services?"
"Nope. I was a cop. One of Spokane's Finest for fifteen years."
* * *
And with this startling pronouncement, Rocker straightened and set down his coffee mug. His expression said the subject of his former career was closed.
"C'mon, I'll give you a tour, show you what's what," he told her, jerking his head toward the rest of the place.
Billie slid off her stool so fast it rocked on two legs. She grabbed it to save it from crashing to the floor, then followed him across the big room. The painted cement floor was chilly under her bare feet, but she wasn't about to make him wait for her to find the boots she'd worn yesterday. She sort of remembered waking just enough in the night to kick them off. They must be hiding under the coffee table, or under the quilt trailing from the leather sofa.
Rocker's tour didn't take long. He showed her his security system—the portals which it guarded, at least. The inner workings were in his office, which was locked.
"Windows have the bars," he told her. "But if anyone's stupid or determined enough to try and get through them, sirens go off and I get an alert on my phone, so do a couple of the brothers. Doors have the same. Anyone tries to get in there without punching in the current code, they're busted. System's set up with fail-safes so it can't be by-passed. All of which means you are safe here as in the cop shop downtown."
He waited for her to nod her understanding, which she did with relief. Whitey Simms and his creepy friends would not be bothering her here, even while Rocker was gone.
He led her upstairs, showed her his big, open loft bedroom, dominated by a king-sized bed furnished in charcoal comforter and sheets. A big, Craftsman-style oak wardrobe stood as a partial room divider on the right, with a bureau on the other side of the bed, and two nightstands. An old, black steamer trunk sat at the foot of the bed.
At the far back corner was a bathroom. And what a bathroom--it had a long gray stone counter with sinks, a commode behind a sliding door, and a huge rain-forest shower, nearly surrounded by smoked-glass blocks.
"Could I use this?" Billie asked, gazing longingly into the depths of the shower stall, or shower room, more like. It was like something she'd dream up if she was told to invent the perfect shower.
Rocker chuckled, and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Yeah, babe. You can take a shower. Use anything in the place you want—except my Firebird."
She gave him a mock pout. "Guess that means you'll be riding your Harley. That's what I really wanna borrow." Not. She wanted a ride on it, but behind him, hanging on the way Lesa did with Pete.
He bent and gave her a swift, friendly kiss on the cheek. "Not a chance in hell, babe. Now, I'm out. Your bag is in by the bureau. You need anything, have a concern, call me."
Then he sauntered away, and down the stairs, leaving her standing there, her body and mind thrumming with shock. He'd kissed her. On the cheek, but so what? She'd felt the warm press of his soft, firm lips, the brush of his 'stache and beard, prickly yet soft, and his scent, all shower-fresh man with hints of leather and coffee.
Clapping a hand to her heart, Billie considered swooning on the floor like a fifties-teen movie heroine kissed by Elvis.
Especially because her hot hero was, under his hot, badass exterior, at least partly a geek like her. Whoa, she could hardly wrap her mind around the knowledge they had that much in common.
Instead, she wandered over to where her suitcase sat on a low bench, and unzipped it, smiling to herself.
Then she gathered her wash kit, clean undies and used his fabulous shower.
She undressed slowly, half-worried that Rocker would come back inside and jog up the stairs, calling that he'd forgotten something. When his Harley roared to life down in the garage—it sounded as if it was nearly under her feet—she gasped, and yanked her pants back up her legs, her heart pounding.
But then another sound vibrated, the garage door going up. The sound of the Harley changed as it moved, the garage door slid down.
She hurried to one of the long windows that looked over the courtyard in time to see him ride out onto the street.
He wore one of the small, flattened helmets bikers seemed to prefer if they wore one at all. The emblem on his Devil's Flyers cut grinned up at her from his back, the chrome on his motorcycle flashed in the sun, and then he was gone. A graceful, bad-ass biker rolling out into the day.
Maybe someday she'd come right out and ask him for a ride. Lesa raved about riding behind Pete. And her friend Kit, whom Billie considered cooler-than-cool, even had her own bike, a vintage Indian motorcycle she rode, side-by-side with her two men.
How any woman could handle two men was beyond Billie. She shook her head as she stepped into Rocker's big shower and turned on the taps.
She didn't even know if she could handle one biker—but if she ever got the chance she knew which one she would choose.