Unruly (2 page)

“What if people
did
know?” I asked, pushing a little harder for the answer I hoped to hear.

Instead he looked as if I'd just told him I loved him. Sheer terror was written on his face. “Ellie . . . come on. People know we're friends. All they don't know is that we do
this
.” He gestured between us at the bed. “Why would we need to tell anyone our business?”

That's all this was to him: friends who sometimes had sex. That was the bald truth. We were friends, so we talked, and if we were in a bad way about anything, we knew that we could call at any hour of the day or night. And if we had a need for something other than talk, we had that too. It looked a lot like a relationship, and maybe it was. It wasn't one that worked for me, though. I wasn't ready for kids or a husband or any of that forever stuff, but I was ready to
matter
. I was ready not to be a dirty secret.

And I was ready for someone who
knew
why I was in a lousy mood this week, who cared enough to remember what week it was, who understood why I needed reassurance. I didn't want to have to tell Noah to be kind to me because I needed it a little extra
this week
.

Noah wouldn't change, and I couldn't. What we had wasn't enough. I was done with that, with
him
, with being the girl who didn't deserve more.

I started to climb out of bed to grab my clothes.

“Where are
you
going?” Noah tugged me back onto the bed and rolled me under him. “I just got you here, El.”

“You got me here six years ago, Noah.”

“I did, didn't I?” He grinned down at me. “Beautiful Miss Ellen, all naked and in my sheets . . . so why can't I take you to the bar tonight? It's been a while. No one would think anything.”

“Just let it go. Please?” I asked, hating that he thought that my worry was being found out. I'd all but asked him to be open about us, and he still couldn't hear what I was telling him.

“I'll take you home later if you still want to get your car.” He was curled behind me, holding me to him as he did only when he was too exhausted to remember that friends don't cuddle. He kissed my shoulder and murmured, “I hate when we fight, Ellie. Just think about it.”

And then he slept . . . and I slid out of his bed for the last time. I felt like a thief as I tiptoed over to gather my clothes, shoes, and books—but better a thief than a fool. Maybe there wasn't anyone out there who would be happy to be with me. Maybe I was an idiot for caring that Noah didn't want more. I didn't mean to care, but I had enough of my heart in the mix that I couldn't stay, not if I wanted to respect myself at all. The next time I let a man into my bed, he sure as hell wasn't getting into my heart. Keeping sex and love in separate rooms was a safer plan. I didn't love Noah anymore, but I had been lingering on the edge of it far too long. I could love him like a friend, but I couldn't do it
and
sleep with him. I'd rather have love
or
sex because this half-assed mess of neither and both was breaking my heart. No matter what, though, I wouldn't be hidden away by anyone again.

“Never again,” I promised myself as I went downstairs.

At the bottom of the steps, I pulled the building door closed behind me. Not for the first time, I was left stranded because of Noah Dash.

Truthfully, I was stranded in more ways than one. Job opportunities meant moving, and because of Noah I hadn't been willing to leave Williamsville. Admittedly, fashion industry jobs weren't thick on the vine in Tennessee—but those that
were
certainly weren't in Williamsville. I was here because of him, though.

My more immediate issue was getting out of his neighborhood. Later when I was calm, I could think about getting out of town entirely . . . or decide if I really wanted to go. For now I needed a ride.

I could call my mother—who was more a roommate than a parent—but I didn't know that I was in the mood for her counseling me on patience. For reasons I wouldn't even try to fathom, she thought Noah could do no wrong. That left me with calling my friends who didn't know about Noah, calling Noah's cousin, Killer, or calling the bar.

I called the bar.

“What's up, little bit?” Mike asked.

“I need a ride. No questions, and no one who'd tell tales about . . . anything.” I walked farther from the building where Noah lived. I felt like a vagabond with my boots, bag, and helmet, but I was afraid I'd wake Noah if I tried to put them on inside.

Mike sighed. “I can call a taxicab. Depending on who's working, they might not tell Miss Bitty.”

“Ugh.” I sat on the curb and shoved my feet into my boots. “Mama's got everyone in her damn pocket. I swear she'd put a tracking chip in my ass if the veterinarian would do it.”

Mike snorted. “Don't go giving her ideas.”

It was one of the mysteries of my life. My mother never put any restrictions on me, but she kept awfully close tabs on my comings and goings. There was no way that the local drivers wouldn't tell her where I was.

“I can send the new guy to fetch you,” Mike said. “He just walked in. Seems a good sort. Wouldn't tell . . . either of the young'uns.”

“That works.”

Mike paused and cleared his throat before asking, “Do I need to guess where you are, or do I just assume you're
with
one of the young'uns?”

“Got it in one.” That was the thing. People
did
know, maybe not everything, but enough for me to be embarrassed by the fact that Noah treated me like I was a secret.

“Do I need to send a helmet?”

“I have mine,” I said, glancing at it, trying not to think of going shopping for it with Noah and Killer. “I just need a ride . . . and if you can avoid mentioning it to Uncle Karl or Echo.”

Mike's tone shifted. “You know better than that, Ellen.”

I nodded even though he couldn't see me. Everything to do with Noah or Killer was reported to the Wolves' president
and
to the biker who'd raised both boys. It was simply the way of it. Hell, I'd been the one reporting things over the years. Everyone did it. Echo cared about every little detail of their lives. Nothing was considered too insignificant to mention. Killer had coped by devoting himself to Echo, becoming Echo's right hand. Noah had done the opposite—refusing to even be patched into the Wolves.

“What's the new guy's name?” I asked.

“Alamo.”

“Okay.” Admittedly this was a somewhat silly question. I'd know him when he arrived because he would be wearing club colors, the Wolves' insignia clearly marked on either a black leather vest or jacket. Plus, there weren't any Wolves I didn't know
other
than the new guy, so a biker who arrived with club colors was obviously my ride. That said, I wasn't going to be rude and not know his name.

I disconnected and sat on the curb. I wondered if anyone else realized that this week was the anniversary of my father's death. Noah certainly hadn't, and that told me more than anything else. A man who wasn't there for me wasn't what I needed. A woman didn't
need
a man at all. Mama had been telling me that since my father died . . . but sometimes I wanted one, not just in my sheets but in my life. I wanted someone who cared about me, who remembered to hold me, who treated me like I was special. Instead, I was waiting for a stranger.

Chapter 2

T
EARS OF FRUSTRATION WERE STARTING TO STREAK DOWN
my cheeks when I heard the gorgeous growl of a Harley headed my way. There weren't a lot of Harleys in Williamsville that weren't ridden by Southern Wolves. It was sort of an unwritten law that if you were going to ride for pleasure but
not
be a Wolf, you rode something else. It was odd to me, but folks seemed to think it was a sign of respect to the club.

Regardless of what I thought of the town logic, the result was that I knew that the sound of a Harley likely meant that I'd know the rider. Noah didn't like drop-by visitors, either. It was just another way to keep me hidden. Well, it
had
been. No more. I wasn't anyone's dirty secret as of the past hour.

“No one respects a woman who doesn't respect herself,” I whispered.

Then I stood, wiped the tears from my face, and watched the arrival of my ride home. So far Alamo had my respect. Loud pipes were something I always appreciated. People who didn't ride thought pipes like that were about arrogance or intimidation, but after you'd seen a biker laid up in the hospital because someone had plowed into him, claiming “I didn't see him!” you realized exactly why a Harley roared.

No one was going to miss Alamo. I was fairly sure that his pipes were only just this side of legal. As he cruised up the alley, I took a breath. I wasn't looking for anyone to distract me from what I'd just lost, but if I had been, I'd be glad my gaze fell on the man who'd just ridden up to me on a cherry-red Wide Glide. Alamo was tall; I'd guess he was over six feet. He had on a black leather vest that revealed broad shoulders and muscles that made him look like he should've been on a football field.

“Ellen?” he asked as he stopped beside me. Even with that one word, I heard a pleasant drawl. He'd obviously
not
moved to Tennessee from up north or out west. He was a Southern man.

I nodded, feeling oddly self-conscious. I'd heard that the new guy was from another chapter, but that was all. I hadn't seen him, and no one had described him to me. I didn't expect Mike to tell me that Alamo had almond eyes I could get lost in. Mike was rough and blunt, like most of the club.

“Climb on, darlin'. Bartender says I'm to carry you wherever you want to be.”

“Is that so?” I asked. “What if I want to go to Wilmington and see the ocean?”

Alamo looked at me and grinned before replying, “Well then, I'd hope you're going to want to stop for a meal along the way because that's . . . what? Nine or ten hours easy?”

I laughed, pleasantly surprised by Alamo's relaxed attitude. Bikers as a rule were either wired too tight or mellow. Of course I'd seen even the calmest of them turn from chill to ready to throw down in a blink, so I wasn't naïve enough to think that what I was seeing was the all of it. A man as tall and built as Alamo undoubtedly needed to have fighting skills because wannabe badasses would've tried him.

“So the beach is a little too far,” I said.

“It is.”

“Any other restrictions?” I prompted.

Alamo shook his head. “Barman said you were in need of a ride, no questions and no trouble.”

“Mike's good people,” I said. “The Wolves don't put up with folks who aren't, though.” I looked back in the direction of Noah's apartment, despite everything. Noah
was
a good guy, just not good for me.

Alamo looked at my tear-wet face and added softly, “What say we get going?”

I nodded and took a step toward Alamo. This was it, the start of a life without Noah. For years he'd been tangled up in my life, and I'd been waiting for magic to happen. Sometimes you just gotta cut bait and go. The magic I wanted wasn't going to happen for me or for Noah if neither of us was willing to move on.

“Do you have anywhere you have to be?” I asked impulsively.

“Nothing that won't wait.” He shrugged. “What do you need?”

“Have you ever been to Memphis?”

“Not yet.”

“I'll treat if you want to go,” I offered. “I could go for a little music.”

I knew that music wouldn't fix everything that ailed me, but it would go a long way toward making me feel better. My father had played, so I grew up with music until he passed. It used to be a joke that the best way to tweak my mood was with music, but no one tried it anymore—not since Daddy died and I stopped singing. Today, though, I wanted to sing. I wasn't going to make a habit of it, but I could break my silence for a little while.

“I'm in,” Alamo said.

“Perfect.” I put on my helmet and climbed onto the bike behind Alamo, careful to keep some distance between us. He might be easy on the eyes, but this wasn't a date or an invitation for anything other than a meal. I didn't want either of us to get the wrong idea. He wasn't acting like he had, but the reputation bikers had for casual sex wasn't all lies and exaggerations. Most of them had no trouble getting regular loving, and only a few of them turned down a little strange if it was offered up. I wasn't offering.

“You good?” Alamo asked as I settled my feet on the pegs.

“I will be,” I said, surprised that I wasn't lying.

He started the engine, filling the quiet street with the sound of his Harley.

Alamo eased us onto the street and headed out of town, and I let my mind go silent. All that mattered was the feel of the road. Every curve and dip resonated through the machine, and the rush of the wind—even at lower speeds—was tantalizing. There was no metal frame, no cage between us and the world. There was no radio to distract us. It was air and nature. It was speed and elegance. Alamo handled his bike as if it was an extension of his body. There was no doubt in his management of the road, no hesitation in his choosing the right speed for each twist or turn.