Vivian
The following morning, I walk into my apartment with Landon Lockhart following right behind me. My roommate, Lindsay, comes walking out of her bedroom and runs towards me.
“Oh my God, where have you been, Viv? I’ve been freaking out here.” She embraces me firmly in her arms.
She’s such a good friend. If truth be told, she’s my only friend.
She also happens to be absolutely stunning. Long blond hair and light blue eyes and a lean, willowy body to die for.
She’s a character, though. While I’m studying English, she’s studying Mortuary Science and is intent on being a funeral director someday. To each her own, I suppose.
But she wants to help people, I know. Just like me, but in a different way.
Weirdly enough, Lindsay rides a motorcycle herself. A crotch rocket, she calls it. And of all things, she earns her money for school by working as an exotic dancer.
“I’m alright,” I tell her when she pulls back from my arms. “Just had a run-in with some dude in a mask last night, that’s all. I need to pack some clothes and things. This is Landon Lockhart, second-in-command of my dad’s motorcycle club. He’s going to be my bodyguard and stay with me in the club’s hideout for a while until they figure out what’s going on.”
Lindsay looks over at Landon. A subtle, knowing smile spreads over her face.
“Nice to meet you, Landon,” she says, extending a hand.
Landon reaches out to firmly shake it. He stares down at her with interest.
And a strange wave of jealousy rages in my heart.
I guess Lindsay’s his type. She’d be any guy’s type. If we weren’t such good friends, I know I’d be jealous.
Just maybe he’s going to ask her out, I think.
But he doesn’t.
When we leave, Landon turns to me.
“Follow me in your car,” he says gruffly.
I still can’t believe what’s happened this morning. My father called me into the clubhouse meeting room earlier that night to tell me that Landon Lockhart, the Landon Lockhart is going to be my bodyguard and protector until the club figures out what’s up and who the rival MC is who tried to kidnap me.
Landon Lockhart. With me. For days and nights on end.
All fantasies aside, I’m freaking out. The man terrifies me. But I shake my head, trying to stay rational.
The drive up to the “hideout” takes a while because it is so far out of town. It’s a tiny, vacant looking house near the woods. The house looks like it was abandoned by ranchers years ago. Landon dismounts and walks to the driver’s side of my car.
“C’mon,” he says through the open window.
I shut down the engine and step out of the car, trying to ignore the fact he towers over me.
“And here we are,” he says in that intense, deep voice.
I walk through the foyer to what must be the main living room, and I can’t believe my eyes. It’s a giant man cave. My eyes meet items of comfort—black leather couches, soft carpeting, a pool table, and arcade games. There’s a jukebox and a big screen TV.
There’s even a beautiful mahogany writing desk with a leather chair and a crystal lamp set up in a corner of the living room. I gaze at it, thinking how perfect it would be for me to do the assignments my professors gave me to stay caught up during my leave of absence.
“I had that brought up for you,” Landon says gruffly again. “I thought you needed a place to work.”
I can’t believe the infamous Landon Lockhart is being kind to me and looking out for my comfort and needs. There must be a catch. Even though I’ve been shut out of most of the motorcycle club happenings all my life, I know this man’s legendry. He’s a renowned womanizer, a brute, and an outlaw.
A heartless, cold-blooded criminal.
I don’t know quite what to say. “Th-thank you,” I utter.
It’s at that moment my eyes settle on an incongruous object in the living room I haven’t noticed before. It’s a long, shiny pole mounted into the ceiling. It takes me a moment to realize what its purpose is.
It’s a stripper pole. For exotic dancing.
My mind flies to Lindsay. She could dance for Landon on that pole. I bet he’d enjoy that.
An odd jealousy rises in my throat again. I wander to the small bedroom where there’s a king-sized bed with white satin covers and a ton of pillows. There’s also bathroom with a glass-paned, walk-in shower.
I find Landon in the kitchen.
“Cold drink?” Landon smirks. “Beer? Wine? Juice box?” His eyes flick over my body and I cringe. I like the attention, but in a pink sweater and loose boyfriend jeans, I know I’m not exactly showing off.
I am finding it so difficult to talk to him. Even though I’ve known him for years, it’s like I don’t know him at all. He’s so big and scary and hulking. And all that metal and leather doesn’t exactly make him look warm.
“Um, how about a soda?”
“Sure thing.”
He grabs a can and hands it to me. It’s a cherry soda. I happen to love cherry soda. For himself, he takes a beer. I watch as he brings the cap to the lip of the counter, then neatly smacks his fist down on top. The cap pops off the bottle and flies to the floor. I blush. Something about the little masculine trick is both exciting and endearing.
“Um, I guess I’ll start working right away,” I say.
Landon merely nods.
I’m very aware that there’s only one bedroom, and suddenly wonder if I’m going to be raped for the first time in my life.
Landon Lockhart looks more than capable of it.
But I try to keep calm as we walk back to the living room, and take my backpack and place it on top of the desk. I’ve got a paper due in four days for my poetry class. An essay on one of T.S. Eliot’s poems.
I’ve got to keep up and I’ve got to graduate. It means everything to me.
For a while I try to read and work, but it’s so difficult with Landon in the room.
He settles onto the couch, letting his legs slack open. His black shirt has come slightly undone. A few golden curling hairs glisten against the dark tan of his skin. My body continues its fascinated response like a moth to a flame.
He just sits there, nursing his beer. He looks like a giant cradled in a black cloud. I try to concentrate but I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I keep stealing peeks at the sleek outlines of his thick arm muscles rippling out from his shirt. The tattoos that cover his arms are terrifying yet so sexy, even though I have no idea what they mean or symbolize. I’ve never been attracted to tattoos before, but on Landon I find them alluring.
I wonder if they make up some kind of a puzzle or maze. My mouth goes dry and I take a sip of my soda, trying to quench my thirst. It doesn’t work, though—I’m not thirsty because I haven’t had anything to drink. I’m thirsty because of Landon.
Suddenly an image flashes through my mind. I’m straddling Landon on the couch with my small body, my head bent to trace my tongue along those thick, curving lines…
“So what are you studying?” he asks suddenly, breaking me out of my trance.
I feel embarrassed, guiltily believing he can read my thoughts. I feel the heat of a blush rising into my cheeks. And I do not want to talk to this man about my academics. I would assume he couldn’t care less.
“Um, it’s a poem. By T.S. Eliot. It actually is my favorite poem of all time.”
Why am I telling him this?
“Really. What’s it called?”
I know he’s feigning interest. Why would he need to do that? What would a biker care about Eliot? But I go along with it. I’m too afraid not to.
“It’s called ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.’ Um, I usually cry when I read it.” Oh my God, I think. Why did I just tell him that?
He looks at me. His beautiful face is hard and stern and impassive. I get that melting feeling inside me again.
“Why do you like something that makes you sad?” he questions me.
Despite my fear of him, something in me cannot resist literary justification.
“It’s not that the poem makes me sad, per se. It’s hard to explain….It deals with this guy coming towards the end of his life, and he’s just kind of thinking about where he is and what he’s done. He feels like he hasn’t led a life of much importance, you know. And he wonders was it all worth it. The trouble. The fight. It just…makes me cry. It’s so universal, you know. The struggle we all face in finding meaning and truth in our own transitory existences.”
I can’t believe it, but Landon almost seems at a loss for words.
“Makes sense,” he finally speaks rather anticlimactically.
I nod and drop my head back to my lessons. I can hear him shifting in his seat.
I’m totally floored when he asks, “So can you read some of it?”
I look up at him. He’s got a lip ring that makes me quiver deep inside. It only accentuates his full, sensual mouth with its soft-looking, beige lips. I stare down at the book before me, my mind racing. But I clear my throat and begin to read.
“And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate…”
When I look up at Landon, he has the strangest look on his face. I can’t describe it. It’s somehow exposed, tender. Vulnerable.
Impossible, I think.
But soon that look of grim matter-of-factness takes its place.
“I don’t really understand it,” he says.
“Neither did I,” I respond. “I started reading Eliot when I was a kid and I had no idea what he was talking about. But I suppose the way the words felt to me, the rhythm…I just fell in love. It reminded me of the pain I felt growing up.”
He just stares at me. Again, I think, why am I telling him this?
Images of my mom Alaina flash through my mind. I see her lying in her bed in our house. When I was eleven, she got esophageal cancer from chain-smoking. I remember the coughing that persisted throughout the days and nights. It was like a death rattle.
I was with her when she died. I held her hand throughout all of it.
I had longed for my father to be there with me. But he hadn’t.
I bring myself to the present. Landon’s gaze continues to penetrate me. It seems he wants to ask me a question, but he doesn’t.
The silence is awkward and I can’t help but try to fill it.
“You know, not to be disrespectful to the club, but I always wondered why men joined motorcycle clubs.”
I realize my error too late. Landon’s face looks as if I’ve tried to slap him. I can feel myself trembling in fear. But his face smooths over once again, and he answers, “There are a lot of reasons men belong to clubs. Legitimacy, reputation, identity. Family.”
The last word seems to ring in the air. I wonder why.
“Why did you join?” I ask, then bite down on my tongue.
Another error. A shadow passes over his face and he clenches his fists. “Miss Grayson, I don’t think that’s any of your business. If you haven’t forgotten, I’m here to be your bodyguard, not a conversationalist. So why don’t you do your work and leave me alone.”
His change in mood is so drastically abrupt I have to admit to myself, despite the fear, that I feel hurt and angry by him putting me off. I feel stupid for ever dreaming of Landon, for ever thinking that his eyes reminded me of sapphires.
“Fine. I guess I’ll take a nap for a while.”
“Good idea, Miss Grayson.”
“Why don’t you just call me ‘Vivian?’”
“I think we’re better off on a last name basis. I’ll call you ‘Miss Grayson,’ and you will call me ‘Mr. Lockhart.’”
“Fine, Mr. Lockhart. Then I’m off to sleep for now.”
I walk to one of the couches and let my body fall ungracefully.
I manage to fall asleep quickly. I don’t know how long I’m out. But when I awaken, I’m surprised to see Landon himself has dozed off on the other couch.
Stay away from him, I scream in my mind. You don’t know what he’s capable of.
But I can’t seem to help myself as I tiptoe closer to him. It’s so strange to see a man like him asleep. The way he seems so vulnerable and open and defenseless, which is everything he’s not in waking reality. When I look down at him, I get a strange sensation in my heart, like a fierce yearning. Despite its hardness, his face is so beautiful, almost angelic in rest. I can’t help myself. I suddenly yearn to place kisses upon his flawless jawline covered with a light blonde stubble.
I shiver when I think about how it would feel to kiss him, to run my tongue along the secret curve of his neck.
What is wrong with me? I’ve never been like this before.
I know I shouldn’t be doing it, but I can’t help myself as I trace a finger softly across his cheek.
And suddenly, his eyes flutter open. I’m lost within the depths of two hauntingly beautiful yet raging storm clouds of fury.
My life flashes before my eyes. This is it, Vivian, I think. This is the way you were meant to go.
I just pray it happens swiftly.