Unruly (9 page)

After they disconnected, Alamo grabbed his jacket and helmet and headed off to his torture. Having Ellen on his bike again, knowing the whole time that she was off-limits, sounded like a fresh ring of hell.

He pulled up outside her house.

It wasn't Ellen who walked out the door, though. An older woman, presumably Ellen's mother, stepped out. She was beautiful in that way that only strong women can be. Attitude radiated out from every hard-edged muscle, and she wasn't the least bit subtle about her sexuality: jeans that were all but painted on, a halter-type top, and bright-red toenails all screamed “Look at me!” Unlike Ellen, she was rail thin. She had curves, but not the way Ellen did. Her mother looked like life had carved away anything that might be mistaken for softness.

She paused on the porch, lifted a cigarette to her lips, and looked at him.

Alamo tensed a little, realizing that his assessment had been noted and filed. She wasn't smiling, but she didn't look angry, either. In the custom of so many women, she was weighing and measuring him, deciding if he had worth or was useless.

She didn't light her cigarette. Instead, she descended the stairs and walked out to the street where he was.

“You're the new Wolf,” she said by way of greeting. Her entire attitude was one of confidence, as if she were the old lady of one of the oldest club members. If he'd heard right, she very well might've been, except that he'd died years ago. She wasn't wearing a vest like most of the old ladies, but she had the attitude that made quite clear that she deserved—and expected—respect.

“Yes, ma'am,” he said. “Alejandro Díaz. Most folks call me Alamo.”

“Miss Bitty,” she said as she peered up at him. “You're not all white. Most of the Wolves here are. I got no issue with you, but some folks will.”

He grinned. “Ellen gets her subtlety from you, then.”

Miss Bitty looked him up and down. “I got no problem with your skin—the color or the muscles it's covering up. You're easy on the eyes, Alejandro. You're okay in a scuffle?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“If you're spending time with Ellen, you keep her safe. I find that she gets hurt on your watch, and I'll be making a call to Echo. Understand?”

He met Miss Bitty's fierce gaze and said, “I have a sister. I raised her most of our life. I understand completely.”

Miss Bitty stared back at him, studying him as if she was a juror holding his fate in her hands. He wanted to tell her this wasn't a date, but for a moment he wanted her to give her approval more. Logic won over impulse, and he said, “I'm just here as a friend. Ellen wanted a lift.”

“Dash know you're here?”

Alamo shook his head. Miss Bitty didn't mince words at all. “Killer does. I have his permission to be here
as Ellen's friend
.”

“He's a good boy.” Miss Bitty glanced back at the house. Then as abruptly as all the rest of her remarks, she said, “Ellen's singing is all from her daddy. Hell of a voice my Roger had. Ellie's better, though she won't do squat with it.”

“I got my never-fading tan from some guy my mother slept with, and my hatred of drugs from the way she couldn't keep quit of them.” Alamo met Miss Bitty's gaze. “Anything else I can tell you?”

She looked down, taking him in from boot to jacket before meeting his eyes again. “Already asked Echo about you, pup. You might be a friend; you might be something else. Right now, I have no trouble with you. You're following club rules, and Echo speaks well of you. Killer does, too. Fact is that you took my Ellie to sing. Not just anyone could get her to do that.”

He debated telling her that he was there to do the same again, but volunteering much of anything to this woman seemed unwise. All he did was nod—and hope Ellen showed up soon. Searching for a way to buy a little time, he reached into his pocket and found a lighter. Silently he held it up.

Miss Bitty nodded, and he flicked the lighter while she leaned forward and lit her cigarette. After she inhaled, she said, “Since you're minding your tongue so careful, I'm going to guess she's going singing again.”

As casually as he could, he told her, “Ellen didn't say where we were going, just asked for a ride.” It wasn't a lie, not precisely.

The older woman let out a cigarette-and whiskey-edged laugh and turned away. He wasn't sure whether he was to follow her or not. She was as unsettling as the guys had said she was. He couldn't fault her for the way she was. He was protective of Zoe, and when he dropped a warning on whatever boy she brought around, he wasn't nearly as
subtle
as Miss Bitty was being.

Chapter 8

I
GLARED AT MY CLOSET AGAIN
. I
WANTED TO DRESS UP
,
BUT
Alamo should've already been here. I didn't have much time to primp—and it wasn't like this was a date anyhow. I pulled on a prettier blouse all the same. I wasn't lacking in the bust, but this shirt emphasized what I had to best advantage. Then I grabbed my leather jacket. It was weathered, sturdy, and unadorned.

Unlike my mother, I had no right to wear club colors. The only way a woman could wear a Southern Wolves patch was if she was someone's “old lady.” Then she'd get a “property of” patch too. Being a Wolf's daughter or niece or ex wasn't enough. I was all
three
of those, but I wasn't anyone's old lady. Aubrey had been willing to give up on Killer in order not to wear those patches. I didn't understand it, but like Killer and Dash, I had grown up within the heart of the club.

The difference was that Dash could easily be a Wolf. I, however, was a woman, and woman weren't allowed to be Wolves. Wolves also couldn't ride anything other than Harleys or Triumphs. Like most 1% clubs, there were rules that were pretty set in stone.

The Southern Wolves were unusual in that they also allowed bikers who weren't Caucasian. It seemed odd sometimes that the Southern Wolves were progressive on this, but I figured it was because they were a newer club. A lot of the other clubs had histories that stretched back to the eras when racism was far more tolerated. Then again, the other reason could be simply that the founder of the Southern Wolves had done a lot of time, and his cellie was a ranked member of a gang out of Chicago. When the guys who had your back were Latino, it wasn't likely you were going to get out of prison and forget that. Maybe a lot of people didn't believe it, but there was definitely a code. Honor among thieves was a throwaway phrase for how it worked, but it was
truth
, too. When someone had your back, you remembered it. When someone did you a solid, you repaid it. When they did you wrong, you repaid that, too. It was pretty straightforward, and even though I wasn't ever going to be a Wolf, I lived by that same credo.

I wasn't shopping for a Wolf of my own, but I sure as hell wasn't dismayed if one worth noticing happened to look my way. I'd been riding with Killer years ago, and until a few months ago, I'd ridden with Noah in secret. Somehow, though, neither of them made me half as excited—or nervous—as Alamo did. There was something about him that made me feel nigh on crazy. It made me want to fuss with my clothes and try to be whatever it was that made him look back at me with that same sort of
want
in his eyes . . . even just a little of it.

I glanced out the window, only to see him standing there with my mother. He looked even better than usual, sporting his club vest that bared most of his arms. He was bigger than Killer and Noah, but just as fit. For a moment, I stared in awe—and disappointment. It was a cruel twist to have a man built like that waiting for me and know I wasn't going to be able to enjoy him.

Then reality hit: regardless of how fine he was, my mother was there with him. I wouldn't wish her undivided interrogation on most people.

“Shit!”

I grabbed my helmet and scurried downstairs as fast as I could. Unlike most of the Wolves, Alamo hadn't had the dubious pleasure of my mother's undivided attention before. God love her, but that woman was terrifying even if you
did
know her.

With as calm a smile as I could manage, I jerked open the front door—just as she was reaching for it.

Her grin was knowing. “Worried, Ellie?”

“You're a bit much sometimes, Mama.” I leaned in and kissed her cheek. “But you know I wouldn't trade you in for all the gold lost at sea.”

“So you say,” she teased. “What about all the lost blues songs?”

I pretended to think. “Nah. I'll just write new ones and keep you.”

For a moment she stared at me in silence. Then she reached out to cup my cheek. I could smell the mix of menthol cigarettes with her vanilla and lavender perfume. It was a scent that was uniquely her and always had been. “You could write amazing things if you wanted.”

“Maybe I will,” I said softly. “Or maybe I'll just sing a little.”

“When you're ready . . . I'd love to hear them.”

I nodded.

“Your daddy would be so proud of you already, Ellie, but knowing you're singing again . . .” She teared up. “I know he's up there smiling at us.”

“Or saying, ‘It's about damn time,'” I added.

“That too.” She blinked away tears, which mostly just meant that they clung to her mascara-heavy lashes. Then she patted my cheek and lowered her hand. “Go on with Alejandro. He's not running despite meeting me, so he's got balls at least.”

Alejandro?
I glanced back at Alamo, who had walked back toward his Harley. He looked a little perplexed, but Mama did that to a person when she was in a mood. I looked back at her. “Did you threaten him?”

She patted my cheek again and stepped around me. When she turned back, she grinned. Then the door closed on me as I stared at her.

I shook my head and walked out to Alamo.

“She's a bit intense,” I said.

He shrugged. “Family is supposed to protect family. She was just making it clear that you were to be treated like you should.”

“How's that?”

He slung his leg over the bike before answering. “With respect. Kept safe.”

I climbed on the bike behind him, not sure what to say. It wasn't that I wanted to be disrespected or hurt, but I got the impression that Alamo was already keeping me so far away from him that Mama's warnings were far from necessary.

We exchanged no other words. He turned on the bike, and after he checked to be sure my helmet was on, he eased out into the street. There was something like teasing at the start of a ride. The engine wasn't nearly as unrestrained as it could be, and the initial slips and slides into and out of traffic weren't as fast as they could be. Everything was still low-key.

And I kept my distance from Alamo. He wasn't mine, and from the way he treated me, he had no interest in
being
mine. There were moments I thought he might—glances that proved that he was aware that I was female, hints of heat in his eyes, and a slow rolling drawl as he spoke. Today, though, the man steering the massive motorcycle underneath me was as distant as he could be while sharing a small space. My knees were against him, but I stayed back as far as I could.

He kept the speed moderate, and the only hint I had that he was in possession of the passion I knew he had simmering inside was when we were stopped at a light and some asshole and his buddies pulled up alongside us in an overpriced sedan. The passenger had his window down, and he was all but leaning out.

He grinned, staring like I was something cheap and easy. When the sleaze made what I guessed was to be a sexy come-on face at me, Alamo let out an honest-to-goodness growl.

The sleaze ignored him and said, “Damn, girl! Why you wasting your time with—”

“Mind your fucking manners,” Alamo snapped.

“You want to start something?” the sleaze taunted.

Alamo put the kickstand down, and for the first time I got a glimpse of the man that I'd heard about. Up until that moment, I'd seen only the sweet biker who, while distant more often than I'd like, was infallibly gentle. This was another face of Alamo.

“Four of us. One of you,” the man taunted from his car. He stared at Alamo, and I wanted to point out that Wolves weren't unaccustomed to brawls. The buttoned-up man in the sedan didn't strike me as a fighter; neither did the others I could see in the car.

“Let's just go,” I murmured, my hand coming down on Alamo's biceps. The touch of his bare skin under my fingers was electrifying, so much so that I didn't pull away.

Alamo glanced at my hand, but he didn't reply.

“They're not worth it,” I added.

“Slide off.”

I listened. Maybe it was being raised around Wolves. Maybe it was a biological need to obey that tone in his voice. Either way, I dismounted the bike and stepped to the side.