Vipers Run (17 page)

There were several Vipers guarding the apartment while Cage was at the clubhouse with Preacher. After the previous night, going back there was less of an option, but I was restless.

I heard another Harley approach and I glanced down to see Bear, who was carrying bags of food for the guys.

In a very short period of time, I'd come to anticipate—enjoy—relish—the loud distinctive roar of a Harley and I could differentiate between a single bike and two or even three at this point.

I knew Cage's bike too. I could pick out its sound above the others. I didn't tell him that, but it was something I loved knowing.

Was I fooling myself, thinking that Cage and Eli and I could be a family, within the MC's family?

I took the key to Cage's private space—he'd
shown me where I could find it—and I let myself down the private elevator into his world. Except it felt like our world, our place of secrets. There were times I'd just sit here, watching him for hours, neither of us talking.

I stood inside the garage work space so I could feel close to him. It was locked down, but I should've told someone where I was headed. But I couldn't stay in the bedroom, not when I was on the verge of another panic attack. I needed space, and lots of it. In the middle of Cage's workshop, I found it.

I ran my hands over an unfinished metal bumper, the coolness of it under my palms enough to soothe me. Ground me, until I swore I could feel Cage's energy flow from the bike to me.

I'd made it through the hard part tonight. And while that was the truth, how many harder parts did I have to endure?

Was it worth it?

“Cage is,” I whispered, wanting to fold up on the table with his custom parts and sleep. But I was too cold, too wired, too scared to death of my dreams.

Finally, I did drag a blanket around me and curled up on the old couch. I must've fallen asleep, despite my reservations, but when I woke, Cage was in the room with me.

Blinking sleepily, I watched him. Bent over the bumper, he was painting the details with a small brush, concentrating so hard he'd sucked his bottom lip between his teeth. He'd tied his hair back with a bandanna and the hard rock music blared into his headphones, so loud the sound escaped. I'd been in here before when he played it out loud, when the music made the whole place seem to shake.

The motorcycle's base was a deep blue. The streaks of silver and black were scattered and I could only imagine how they'd look as the bike zoomed by.

He looked over at me. Smiled. Took the headphones off, lowered the volume and unplugged them so music filtered through the entire space.

“What was it like, before this war?” I asked.

He didn't seem surprised by my question, but he put the brush down and came to sit next to me. I shifted to make room, sat up and folded into his arms as he told me, “It's always been dangerous. That's the draw. But the Heathens aren't patrolling Skulls twenty-four/seven.”

“But now that you're back . . .”

“It's going to get worse before it gets better.” He sighed. “We could leave, you know? Me, you, Eli. Go live by Tenn. Go anyplace.”

“What would happen to the town without Vipers?”

“Beyond going to hell with the drugs? Shit, I don't think many people realize how much real estate we bought when times were bad here. The mayor does. The police do too, which is probably why we don't get harassed more. But we don't put people out of business or party in their neighborhoods. And I'd hate to relocate and give up my home. But I would.” He looked at me. “Do you think he's going to be okay?”

“With you in his corner? Yes.” That made Cage smile, and I liked making him smile. “I wouldn't mind being fifteen again and having a do-over.”

“It's the first time you've talked about that without fear in your eyes.”

“Maybe because I just realized I'm getting my do-over right here, right now. You took what was all fucked up and you turned it around so I could heal.” All those years, trying to fuck away the memory. It had never worked, because it hadn't been with the right person.

Cage made me feel powerful.

Correction: Cage just made me feel.

I stood, walked over to him and wrapped my arms around him. He buried his face in my neck for a moment, murmured, “So fucking soft, Calla.” He licked along my collarbone. Sucked, hard
enough to leave a mark. I shuddered, on the brink of orgasm. It would take a single touch from him—the tweak of a nipple, a finger rubbed on my clit, even another hard suck, would slam me over that edge.

As if he knew, he did little more than pull down my sweats and underwear. And then he slid down my body, inserted himself between my thighs and had me put one leg over his shoulder. I was upright only through the combination of sheer will and his strength. And I was under no illusion that it was mainly the latter.

I was half naked. He was dressed, his face buried between my legs as electric currents shot through me, the quickness of the climax unsurprising.

I trembled but his arms were strong around me as he rose and wrapped me around him. I buried my face in his shoulder. “You made me come alive, Cage. You made me really live. And I don't ever want it to end.”

He tightened his grip. “Good. 'Cause I'm not planning on going anywhere, babe.”

* * *

When he'd first come back to the empty apartment, Cage had known exactly where Calla had gone. He'd found her resting so comfortably in the space, and had been ready to pick her up and
bring her to bed when he'd seen the sketchbook on the chair, not the table where he'd left it.

It was a new one he'd just bought the day before to start framing out new jobs, since he'd put out the word that he'd be taking orders again. He flipped through to find the first twenty or so pages taken up with sketches and a signature with a jagged
E
.

At least the old man gave us this.
Because their grandfather had been the artist in the family. His father was a good mechanic, but he'd never had the patience for putting together a bike from scratch.

But Eli did, at least from what these drawings indicated. And he had the potential for a talent well beyond Cage's . . . if he kept practicing.

Cage would gladly make room for another artist in his garage, but what Eli needed wasn't in this space.

He needs you,
Tenn had told him that morning. But Cage had learned that sometimes giving people their freedom to grow was the best gift you could give them.

Cage was dealing with finding Eli a tutor for his GED. He couldn't enroll him in school without bringing child protective services down on him in some fashion. For the moment, there was a fragile peace and getting the law involved would make it much worse. I understood that, because in this situation Eli would be placed back with the Heathens, or in foster care. I wasn't sure exactly which would be worse, but Eli threatened to run if CPS got involved.

I was going to hang around the apartment, but Preacher came to pick me up. I was surprised to see him, but when I went to let him in, he shook his head and said, “Let's take a ride and get something to eat.”

He had his truck, a dark gray Suburban that rumbled as he drove it. We parked in town and
walked through to the small restaurant. It was a warm day, so we sat outside. It was the first time I really got to people-watch and I enjoyed it. A couple of other Vipers members came to join us, and there were others going about their business in town.

As the afternoon wore on, I watched the men and women, cognizant of what Cage had told me, that most of the general population didn't know the contributions Vipers made. But maybe it took an outsider to notice, because I could see easily how the town treated these men, and me by extension, with a mixture of fear and gratitude. I saw it in their eyes—the little boys who watched the leather and Harleys with a gleam of awe as mothers and fathers hurried them by. Fathers, maybe a little more slowly, and I definitely saw some mothers looking over their shoulders.

Everyone has a wild side.

I also saw it in the giggle of older teenage girls as they gazed on the bikers for just a little too long.

The dichotomy was fascinating.

The town definitely knew that Vipers was a big part of their infrastructure.

“Does it bother you?” I asked Preacher after two teenage girls focused on him, giggling and reddening like he was a celebrity, until an older
woman sternly shooed them away and glared at Preacher as though he'd encouraged it.

Which, for the record, he hadn't.

“What? That I'll never be invited to Sunday dinner?” Preacher asked now. “Fuck 'em. They should be grateful.”

He couldn't hide the hurt and it actually made me want to shake these people a little. Although, in theory, a little bit of fear put the best kind of separation between the town and the Vipers. Best for both, because enemies could easily use that relationship against Vipers. Anything that left the MC vulnerable wasn't good, and so pretending to only give a shit about their interests protected the town from all the things that went roar in the night.

I dropped the subject and we ate. Talked about Eli and school, and his art.

“Cage showed me some of his stuff. The boy's good,” Preacher said.

“He should go to art school.”

“We don't have that around here.”

They did in New York. That made me think about my father, and the fact that I hadn't been in touch with him. I felt guilty about it, but the investigation surrounding Ned's murder was ongoing. At least it was the last time I'd called to check, because no matter how much I couldn't
stand him, I couldn't let him be buried in a pauper's grave. “Do you think Officer Flores contacted my father?”

Preacher nodded. “And I'm sure he knows exactly where you are.”

“You think so?”

“If you were my daughter and I heard you were hanging around an MC, I'd know.”

The thought of Preacher with a daughter made me smile—I couldn't help it. Because the idea of a wild guy saddled with a daughter to worry about was some kind of sweet revenge.

“I know what you're thinking, Calla,” he chided. We finished lunch uneventfully and then we got back into his truck.

When I saw we were heading toward the clubhouse, I must've tensed.

“Cage told me you have a rough time coming here,” he said. “It's quiet now. I need your help.”

I didn't ask why, just nodded, because certainly they'd helped me. Granted, they'd almost gotten me killed too. But once we were inside the clubhouse and I saw it was quiet, I relaxed slightly, until Preacher pointed down the hall and said, “I can't get through to Holly.”

“You think I can?”

“I think she won't be able to resist being a bitch to you, no.”

“And that's a good thing?”

“Better than zoning out and crying, yes,” he said firmly, pointing. I walked down the hall with only slightly less enthusiasm than if I'd been going to the electric chair.

I knocked on the half-open door and saw Holly lying on her side. As soon as she glanced up and saw it was me, she straightened, propped herself on the pillow.

Even with no makeup and with messy hair, she managed to look haughty. And I didn't even have to say anything before she started in.

“What, none of them could get through to me, so they figured, send in the rich girl?” Holly asked. She was wearing a T-shirt and shorts, her leg still bandaged, and her gaze flickered over me for a brief second before turning back to the TV. She was changing channels incessantly.

Finally I said, “I'm not a rich girl.”

She turned the TV off and stared at me. “I'm sure Cage told you how I came here.”

“A little.”

“Well, let me explain it, Calla, so you can understand the difference between you and me. Because I don't want you to become deluded into thinking we could be friends.”

I crossed my arms, leaned against the wall without saying a word.

She continued. “I fell in love with an American when I came here on vacation with some friends.”

I wanted to say, “You had friends?” but I didn't. She smirked, like she knew what I was thinking, then went on. “I was eighteen and Mickey was thirty-five. He said he'd take care of me, and he did. I never went back, told my family good-bye and moved in with him. He was part of the No'Ones. They're based out of Tallahassee. And we were together for ten years. One day, the MC members came in and cornered me in our shop, the one Mickey and I bought together. I didn't know it was mortgaged under the club's name, so really neither Mickey nor I had any rights to it. And the president of the club demanded to know where Mickey was. I'd thought he'd gone to the gym, but I knew something was very wrong. I tried to get in touch with him, to warn him, but no luck. They tied me up, waited for him to show, and then they bashed his head in with a baseball bat while I watched. They untied me, told me to get out, and here I am.”

She sucked in a breath and I struggled to do so as well. There had to be more to the story, but I wasn't about to push. She was telling me this for shock value, but to what end? “I'm sorry, Holly. I can't imagine.”

“Of course you couldn't.”

“You're still going to be a complete bitch to me?”

“You got my shop shut down. I had to come in and save you because you got sentimental and let your lover's brother inside. He's a Heathen, Calla. The same MC trying to kill Cage and you. Fucking daft, you are. Go back and play with your rich friends before you get this MC in big trouble.”

“Mickey got killed for something you did,” I said now.

She blinked. “What did you say?”

“A guilty conscience always recognizes another.” I walked out, although I couldn't be smug about it, because I'd hated the look on her face. I'd been right. And whether or not Holly was someone the MC should trust wasn't entirely up to me.

Preacher had heard the entire thing. I didn't like the look in his eyes, but he didn't say a word when he drove me home and walked me up to the apartment. When Cage opened the door, all Preacher said was, “Thanks for talking to her,” and walked away.

“What was that about?” Cage asked.

“I don't think you want to know.”

* * *

Cage had managed to get Eli a tutor, and he was in Rocco's apartment with her now, so Rocco could supervise. I told Cage about my lunch
with Preacher and a little of what happened with Holly.

“Did you ask Preacher to take me to lunch?”

“You couldn't go anywhere on your own.”

“Ever?”

“I didn't say that.”

“Okay, good.”

“But for a long time. And you can only go where you'll be supervised by club guys.”

“What?”

“Did you think you could just stroll around and go shopping?”

Honestly, I hadn't given it any thought at all. My future was all a big, yawning abyss and I didn't know what I was supposed to do or feel. “For how long? And don't say, ‘For as long as it takes.'”

To his credit, he didn't say it, but just pointed at me when I said it.

I threw my hands in the air and turned my back. I should be grateful, not frustrated to the point of tears, which would spill down my cheeks soon if I didn't pull it together. I bit it back because, with or without Cage, I'd be in a lot of trouble. Without him, I'd have no place to go.

“Calla.” His voice rough to my ears, and his hands rough to my skin. I couldn't stay angry at him. And that was the problem.

“I need to know there's an end point.”

“I'm trying to get us there.”

I knew that Flores was trying to bring trouble down on me and the MC because of Ned. I knew that. I also knew too much about the Heathens. But I couldn't stay caged forever. “You have to let me do something. I don't have any money of my own. I'm a burden to you.”

“This is my fault. And you're not a burden.”

“Maybe it is your fault, but I'm not used to being taken care of.”

“Get used to it,” he growled.

“No,” I told him. “Don't get all sexy and possessive and ruin what I'm trying to say.”

“Sexy and possessive, huh?”

“Don't,” I warned.

“I'm listening.”

“I have to at least make my own money. That's important to me.”

“I'm not keeping you with me out of guilt, Calla. If that was the case, you wouldn't be sharing my bed. But the other stuff, I get that. It won't be forever that you're hiding, but I can get you a temporary ID. Actually, it's good for you to have something.”

“No.”

“No? Jesus, women are fucking confusing.”

That gave me a momentary grin. “I think it's time I just used my own ID. My own money.
Because isn't it better that way? The more it's out there—”

“The more questions you'll get. The more the Heathens will know about you.”

“Like they don't already.”

“Fuck.” He ran his hands through his hair as he paced. I thought about how I'd grabbed his hair the night before when he was between my legs. He caught the tail end of my expression, even though I tried to school it and smiled. “I swear, you think about sex as much as I do.”

“That's not a bad thing.”

“Not at all, babe. What is a bad thing is thinking you can go up against the Heathens and win. They don't value life, especially female life. This isn't like going up against the law. I've got to fight like with like, or this won't work.”

I buried my head against his chest. “I don't play the rescued-princess role well. The fact that you tracked my phone—”

“Not changing that,” he said stubbornly.

“I'm surprised you haven't found a way to plant a tracking device on me. Wait—” I stared at his smirk.

“Maybe you'll need to strip to find out?”

“Nice try.” But he didn't have to try . . .

“How about the bar? Amelia's already said she'd be happy to take you on.”

I wore an armful of bracelets from that very first night I'd met her. “Thanks, Cage. I'm just . . . trying to find out who I am.”

“Take your time finding that out.”

“Are you?”

“Every damned day, baby,” he told me. And he was serious. Completely.

And that afternoon, Amelia showed me the ropes in the bar while Cage and Preacher played pool. As evening rolled around, it got more crowded.

I was better here. I wiped down the bar, served drinks, managed the crowds with a little help from the bouncers.

I was back in my element. I'd done this regularly during the summers when I could escape from the boarding schools. I'd grown up watching Mom and Grams do it. I'd spent summers learning to bartend when I was much too little to even think about it.

Last time, I'd been too focused on Cage and fitting in to appreciate being back behind the bar. This time, all the memories flooded back to me. I inhaled the scent of oiled wood and stale beer and good whiskey. Smoke mixed with the leather and I swore I could hear the conversations that had happened here, like ghosts in the wind, whispering in my ear, telling me about the good old
days.