The men will be here soon for the job. The only reason I’m here is to pick up some coffee. We had a heavy night last night, and half of The Miseryed are hanging out of their asses. Pick up coffee, wait for them to catch up, easy. I shouldn’t waste time following this sweet redheaded piece down the street, but watching her walk, I can’t help myself.
I catch up with her in half a dozen quick strides. “Where are you going, Red?”
“You know my name,” she says. “You don’t have to call me Red.”
“Have I upset you?” I grin. “I promise, that wasn’t my intention.”
“You know nothing about me,” she says. “It was silly of me to come back. That’s all. All that stuff you said…”
She stops.
“Why are you following me?”
“Oh, I have a few more theories about you.”
She rolls her eyes, just like she did back in the coffee shop. I’m in for a chase here. There’s nothing better than when a woman is sassy at the start, pushing you away, only to submit later and give you everything you want, everything you need. Pedestrians walk around us, but we ignore them.
“Maybe I’m not interested in your theories.”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “And maybe you are.”
A small smile touches her lips. “You’re a strange man,” she comments.
“I am,” I agree. “But I can read you, Eden. You’re probably the type of girl who won’t let guys open the door for her. The type of girl who wants to be independent, who wants to be a strong woman—all that stuff. But right now, you don’t want that. Right now, you want to flirt with this biker, be a bit of eye candy for him, let him look you up and down, feel his gaze on you.”
“Are you seriously referring to yourself in the third person?” she giggles.
She smiles at me and then wipes the smile away. But it’s there, behind her reddish eyes. She wants to smile.
She holds my gaze for a long time, and all of a sudden I don’t give a damn about the men, the job. Right now, all I care about is looking into the eyes of this hot-as-hell redhead. She tries to hold back the smile. Her lips twitch. And then she can’t hold it back any longer. The corners of her lips lift into a wide grin.
“You can’t stop smiling,” I say.
“Maybe I smile when I’m scared.”
“I don’t think that’s it.”
“And you’re the expert. Apparently.”
“I am the expert,” I say. “When it comes to women, anyway.”
“Women? How many are we talking about?”
I chuckle. “That’d be telling, Red.”
She tilts her head, a cute, inquisitive look on her face, lips pursed, a crinkle in her forehead. “What exactly is it you want from me?” she says.
“Me? You’re the one who waited outside for—”
“Yeah, fine, but you’re the one who followed me down the street.”
“I guess we both want the same thing, then,” I say.
“Yeah? And what’s that?” She raises her eyebrows.
“To get to know each other a little better.”
She giggles, too cute. “Is that what you call it, then?”
There’s a pause. I do just want to fuck her, right? That’s all, yeah?
“My turn,” she says.
“Your turn?”
“Yeah, my turn to guess some stuff about you. It’s only fair.”
I shrug. “Guess away.”
She takes a step back and studies me as though studying a painting. “You’re a member of a motorcycle club, obviously. But it’s more than that. You’re too confident and – no offense – prickish to just be a member of some social motorcycle club. I think you’re a member of a one percent club. That’s what I thought when I first saw you. You’re an outlaw.”
“An outlaw,” I repeat, tasting the word. It’s always sounded strange. Outlaw. Is that what I am? I do my fair share of outlawing, I suppose.
“An outlaw,” she confirms. “Tell me, am I right?”
“Yes, mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“I’m not just a member. I’m the leader.”
She brings her hand to her mouth. “So I’m speaking with the leader of an outlaw motorcycle club?” She lowers her hand, grinning, shocked and thrilled at the same time.
“I guess you are, yeah.”
What are you doing, Maddox? You don’t tell random women who and what you are! What if she works for the police?!
She nods. “I don’t know what to make of you,” she admits.
“How about you take your coffee?” I say. “That might be a start.”
Without discussing it, we walk back down the street to the coffee shop, to my Harley. She takes her coffee but doesn’t say thanks. She’s still a little standoffish, a little wary. I can’t blame her. But she’s brave, too. I just admitted to her – in so many words – that I’m a criminal. And she’s still here. And she’s not a paid whore. And she doesn’t look like one of those wannabe biker chicks. Odd.
“So who are those other fourteen coffees for?” she says. “Your girlfriends?”
I laugh. Is she joking? Or does part of her really believe I’m the sort of man who’d have a harem of women, all of them wanting coffee?
“Not exactly,” I say.
As if on cue, the street growls into life, thirteen bikes roaring into the parking spaces, which line the street in front of the coffee shop. I turn and watch as my men dismount: Markus Green, a lumbering bald-headed man, tougher than leather, grim, simple, kind, large and ogre-looking, and my second-in-command; the man we all just call Irish, with a scar down the left side of his face; Andrew and Simon Fenix, the Loco Brothers, half-Mexican, half-American psychopaths; Stanley, who prefers knives to guns; Isaac, the old man; and the rest, who blend into each other, all grizzled, tattooed, and big scary motherfuckers.
“Oh,” Eden says as the men approach.
***
“Boss! Riding fast like always!” Irish calls, his accent thick.
I hold a finger up to Eden. “Wait here, two secs.”
“Sure,” she mutters, looking over at the men. To her, they must look like a legion of monsters, all of them lined up like an army out of some prison drama. I’m used to it, so I normally don’t think twice. Used to it. Hell, I am it. But seeing Eden’s reaction makes me see it through new eyes. Yeah, they’re scary-looking. Mean-looking. But I wouldn’t have anyone else standing by me when shit goes south.
I take the tray of drinks to Markus, who stands one the sidewalk scratching his bald dome of a head. “Boss.” He nods. “Ready to head out?”
“Yeah, soon. Hand these out, will you?”
I hand the tray of drinks to Markus. He takes them and then turns to the men, who stand in a huddle near their bikes, smoking and laughing grimly. A few of them cast glances at Eden, but when I look at them, they drop their gaze immediately. It’s like we’re animals. They’re sniffing her out, but one look from me, and they know: Taken, go somewhere else.
I go back to Eden, who stands more than a little nervously with a coffee in her hand. Maybe her eyes are sharper than the average person, and she can see outlines of guns beneath their leathers.
“Big day ahead?” she says. Her voice is playful, but I can see the shock in her eyes as she looks over my men. Maybe she has never seen a group of men like these.
“You’re not scared, are you?” I ask.
“Scared?” She nods at Markus. “Of course I am.”
I look at her, suddenly feeling serious, more serious than I normally feel with any other woman. Do I like this woman? A woman I barely know?
“Nobody would touch you with me around,” I say. “And even if I wasn’t, they’ve seen you’re with me, now. They wouldn’t do a thing.”
“You’re their leader?”
I nod. “These men fear me, Eden. And they have good reason to—” I cut short, realizing I’ve gone too far.
“Look,” I say. “You’re welcome to come with me, if you want.”
“Come with you where?”
“On the job.”
“I don’t know if I’d fit in on a job like that,” she mutters. “I’m a student and a programmer.”
A programmer. My chest is pounding. Is that fate shit real?
“Come with me,” I say, and now my voice is more commanding. I hold my hands up to take some of the sting out of it. “I tell you what, Red. I won’t do you any favors, and I won’t act chivalrous. I’ll close doors in your face, and if you fall down, I won’t pick you up. I’ll be the most ungentlemanly man you’ve ever met.” I stop, and lean in, lowering my voice. “Come with me. Take a chance. You came back here for a reason. Maybe it’s ’cause you were bored of the normal life.”
She licks her lips. “Yes,” she says. “Maybe I was.”