Hard Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 1) (9 page)

And wasn't that something all by itself—calling this Paxton guy, who he didn't know from Adam, a little shit. But his jealousy was there, it was real; he wanted June for himself, even though it was more and more apparent that he couldn't have her in any way that was real.

The smallness of Marlowe's social circles had begged the question why he didn’t know June. That had bugged him up until the point when she told him yesterday who her family was—the Colts.

Of course they were
the
Colts. Probably he should have put it together from the second she told him her last name, but he'd been too wrapped up in how gorgeous she was to notice. He didn’t know any of them except as the antagonists of his life. That was the way Howitzer had always wanted it.

The only good cop is a dead cop
.

Words he lived by.

Cops had taken his mother, nearly destroyed his father, left Ram to be raised by Madeline, who was still more like a mother to him than a sister until...

Until that motherfucker Beretta took her too
.

Unbidden, images of Madeline came to him. He recalled her cooking dinners, barely twelve, when Dad was gone on a run for more than two weeks, partying in the middle of Louisiana. When she cooked she always wore this apron, comically over-sized, that dragged down over her feet. It was covered in pink hearts and Howitzer said she would grow into it. All she knew how to cook were eggs and steamed broccoli.

And he pushed those thoughts aside, trying to focus. They were beside the point.

Cops were bad news.

But what about a cop’s daughter?

Bad news, still. It was all bad news.

Last night, he had slept alone in Marlowe for the first time in a real long time. For a guy like Ram, getting girls to come to his bed was as easy as saying he was looking to fuck. Women came running—especially the honeys that hung around the Wrecking Crew’s bar,
Shovelhead’s
.

But he couldn’t bring the girls to him last night—not with so many eyeballs there. Plenty of men around who would tell all to Rowdy, to Cattleprod, to Howitzer. And why wouldn’t they? There was no reason for them to keep a secret they knew nothing about.

And yet still, Ram was stung by little pincers of distrust, of betrayal, from the entire situation.

His boys didn't trust him. They didn't trust him even though
he
was the one who was standing up for his crew when they weren’t around.
He
was the one protecting the image of the Wrecking Crew when the Black Flags were rolling over their turf.
He
was the one willing to murder Beretta and settle that score once and for all for him
and
for his father.

Besides, last night, his thoughts weren’t exactly on other girls. Those kisses with June stuck with him—especially the first one. The one where she had been sliding so urgently across his body to meet him, her hands locking around his neck to pull him in...

“We’re not getting fucking married,” he said.

June laughed. “I know that. But we need to act engaged, okay? I told my parents—god, all the stuff I told them. I had to make most of it up.”

“Like what?”

“I told them you were a salesman.”

Ram snorted. That wasn't too far from the truth. He'd made his share of sales in the past, but he sure as shit wouldn't be sharing the details of any of them with John Colt.

“Yeah. And you have to get me a ring.” She coughed. “Temporarily.”

At this, he threw his hands in the air. “A fucking
ring
?

“We’re supposed to be engaged. Engaged people get rings. I told them I didn’t have mine because when you proposed, you got the ring size wrong. My dad did the same thing to my mom, so I figured they’d buy it, and they did. So...we’ll go to a pawn shop or something, okay?”

“A ring. Jesus Christ.” He slapped his wrench down on the nearby workbench, grabbing a rag and wiping his hands. “Jesus
Christ
.”

This was all spiraling too far for him. He didn’t like the idea of being engaged. He never
wanted
to be engaged. He didn’t even want an old lady—and now, the second they “paired up,” she was already demanding a ring.

Fucking women. Give them an inch...

“Where are you going?” she called after him.

And she kept calling as he walked farther away, out of the shop, into the street with his head full of bad thoughts.

He couldn’t do this shit. He couldn’t.

––––––––

S
he watched Ram walk off, clearly frustrated, and probably close to calling off the whole arrangement.

There was no blame in her heart for him, not exactly. She had escalated the situation for him, had made a decision for him. That wasn’t what she wanted to do for anyone, but it was how the situation had been forced to unfold.

June ran her own life. She did it well. She had done it for all four years of being in college. Not once did she phone home, homesick or desperate or scared, though she had been tempted in her first few months.

Not once did she ask her family for advice about what classes to take, or for help with paperwork, or anything like that. She was on her own, independent.

So much as a person could be, anyway. Over time, she had developed a network of friends and acquaintances to help her with everything from knowing which professor to choose to which doctors to rely on.

But having these friends, and seeking out their advice—that was always
her
decision.

If she told her parents “no” for this whole Paxton business, her mother might understand. For a little while. But the longer June was single, the more her mother would needle. It was improper for a girl like June to stay single in her mind. Sheila Colt had a terrible fear of her only daughter turning out as a spinster.

And her father, god. He wouldn’t even wait, would he? He would be right on top of her, demanding every night that she go out with Paxton. One night, June knew, the poor sap would show up at her door with flowers and chocolates, probably, maybe even still wearing his uniform, ready for a date that he’d been told June was just
so
excited about.

It would be
arranged
. It would be
handled
.

Her father believed in choice like he believed in global warming. He knew sometimes it got hot, but he also knew the world had a norm that it was always returning to.

And June would rather have a fake fiancé, even one who was an outlaw, then a real boyfriend who she didn’t want.

After dithering for a minute, unsure of whether to wait or act, June decided to follow Ram out. If she wasn’t around to convince him, he might very well cancel their “engagement.” Before she had gone home yesterday, that would have been acceptable. She could always raise money to get a new car.

But now it felt much more essential. Living with her parents
and
being under their thumb was anathema to her.

That was why, before coming to the mechanic today, she had shopped around for a job all morning. There was nothing particularly exciting, but she did think she had some interest given to her from a local non-profit, “Pet Luck.” They took in the animals that the other agencies around town either hadn't picked up yet or were going to euthanize. The animals were spayed or neutered, given shots, and housed with foster families until forever homes could be found for them.

June loved cats and dogs; never liked very much that her mother had forbidden them from her house when she was growing up. Her roommates in college always had some kind of pet—a dog or a cat—and June had grown used to having them around. It sounded fulfilling to be able to try and find homes for needy animals.

It wouldn't be a high-paying job, but at least it would be something to start saving cash so she could move out of her parents' house.

“I know you, right?”

She bumped into Mikhail as she moved through the mechanic’s shop, trying to find Ram. She was in the waiting room now, mostly empty but for a few stained chairs, an old coffee table, a big screen playing court television, and a rack full of magazines.

Mikhail was tall and handsome—like a blond version of Ram, almost, except a lot more slender. His frame to her seemed more like that of someone who did yoga all the time, or maybe boxed, when Ram was thick and solid like a linebacker.

“Sure,” said June. “We met yesterday. I’m—”

“June, I remember. I meant before that. Don’t I know you from some place?”

They had gone to high school together. Mikhail was a grade behind her. Though filthy rich, he was always getting into trouble and hanging out with the seedy elements of the class. He eschewed the advanced-placement classes he was clearly smart enough for in favor of machine shop classes. No one could tell him what to do.

“Anything's possible,” said June. She didn't really want to have this conversation with him right now. After all, he might bring up—

“I see. Well, you and I better figure it out, then.”

Uh oh.

“Sorry?”

“I'm going to bat for my brother here. He told a bold-faced lie to our Prez, and I won't abide that for long. But as long as I do, you and I better figure out how we know each other, so our stories don't get mixed up, see?”

June gulped. So, it would be like that, would it?

“Maybe you came with him to Austin when we met?” she suggested.

“Sure.” He nodded. “When was that?”

“Last March? I don’t know.” She stepped past him. “Can we talk about it later? I’m looking for Ram. Have you seen him?”

Mikhail considered for a moment and then relented. “He’s out back.”

She stepped through the shop, heading to the exit.

“My brother's neck is on the line,” said Mikhail. “And you're part of the chopping block. I'm not gonna throw any warnings at you. Any kind of threats. You're with him and that's fine by me. But you ought to know the gravity of the situation for him. And you ought to know I'd do anything to keep him safe.”

“I understand,” said June.

But she wasn't sure she did, not all the way. And the way Mikhail looked at her made her think he didn't think she did either.

In the concrete lot behind the mechanic shop, Ram paced. He banged his fist against a shelled-out truck and then grabbed a fence, and then back again. No indication that he saw June. Long limbs stretched out in between the banging, the grabbing, and June thought he looked like an angry jungle cat trapped in a zoo. Powerful, long limbs, so full of grace in their movement. Her breath was catching just to look at him.

He was covered in sweat from the day's work. His white a-frame shirt was practically transparent in the portions where it wasn't covered with grease and oil. A man like him, a frame like his, was practically built to be sweaty and hot like that. Several moments passed where she forgot to breathe.

It was really
hard
to be stern with a man that big—and who she was quickly finding herself more and more attracted to. It seemed shameful, somehow, that they had stopped kissing when they did, when it was just getting good. She’d been thinking of it all last night, especially when she tried to go to sleep.

The strong grip around her waist, the firmness of his body on hers, the warmth of his lips...

“It’s how it has to be,” she said, approaching him. “I’m sorry to force it on you like this. But this will make it work best.”

He shook his head. “You’ve got no idea what you’re dropping into. No idea. You...you don’t know how these people are. They’ll eat you alive.”

“You think
your
family is worse than mine?” She laughed. “I'm in a family full of cops, remember? My dad wouldn’t let me date until I was eighteen.”

“If I couldn't rebuild a bike engine by my fifteenth birthday, my Dad was going to kick me out of the house.”

“If I brought home a boy to study, I'd have to go to six straight weeks of bible camp in the summer so I could learn about how my vagina is the source of all evil in the world.”

Ram laughed, leaning back against the empty truck and rapping his knuckles.

“My dad tied me down to a bike and then sped me around the highway when I was seven to break fear out of me from going too fast.”

That sounded awful—horrifying, really. But June felt she could match it.

“Pictures,” said June, not to be outdone. “Lots of them. The second of January, every year. We'd spend a day with them. Pictures of dead bodies from his files. When I was nine, it was drunk drivers. When I was ten, it was overdoses. That was just the
start
of the overdoses, really. Every year was something new, and there was always a new drug.”

Ram's smile was grim. “Did he get around to bikers?”

“I’m sure he will, once he hears about you.”

“He’s more likely just to show you my dead body. Your father and I...our families, they don’t get along.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” said June.

“We can’t do it.” Ram shook his head. “It’s not safe. Not for either of us.”

There was a fierce edge to his eyes then—something that bordered on protection?

Was he feeling
protective
of her?

The image of him striding from one end of the lot to the other stuck with her, like some jungle cat presiding over his pride. Scanning for threats. Posturing to keep them away.

Trouble man.

“This is going to happen. If it doesn’t, I’ll...” she straightened. “I’ll just announce to all of your people in there that I’m not your old lady, how about that? Would that make it better?” She turned from him and started back inside. “I’ll tell them right now!”

She didn't make it two steps. Ram was halfway across the lot and his hands were on her quick. Overpowering weight shoved her hard against the brick wall of the shop. Immediately, the situation felt clear to her.

She had threatened this alpha, this outlaw, and he was protecting himself.

By pressing her against the wall, he had not hurt her. And he did not hurt her now—not bending her arms, not squeezing her—but he did hold her firm against the brick, her front facing the wall. She could feel his breath against her ear, heated. And she felt...