Page 13 of Knuckles

“Don’t you think your big Hog there is a little noticeable?”

He grinned at me. “It might be. If anyone saw us.”

“But they won’t?”

“Nope. But we have to time it right. That means you come with me. Now. Helmet. Get on the bike.”

I took in a nervous breath. “Alrighty then.” Thankfully, Knuckles didn’t say something stupid like reminding me to be careful and not touch the pipes, so he got to live. But, oh my God! Riding on the back of his bike… My thighs were practically hugging his ass. His smell permeated my every breath. Yeah. I was sporting a wettie, make no mistake about it. It was ironic that I finally had this man between my thighs and he was facing the wrong fucking way.

Fuck my life!

Once we were on the road, I lifted my face to the breeze. I could ride a bike on my own. No way I had grown up in the Bones MC compound where my dad was president and not learned how to ride a bike unless I really didn’t want to. Not because my dad insisted, but because he forbade us girls from getting on a bike. Not because of some misguided, chauvinistic beliefs. Dad was terrified of anything happening to us. He was just as protective of the boys, but in different ways. Usually making them think whatever he wanted or didn’t want them doing was my brother’s idea to begin with. Truth was, though, I loved riding with someone instead of by myself. That way all I had to do was move with them, enjoy the scenery while the wind blew in my face, and let it take me away to a place of pure joy. Free from worries for even a little while.

We stopped at an intersection. It was one with a four-way stop sign instead of a roundabout or stop lights. I tapped Knuckles on the shoulder. He turned his head slightly to hear my request.

“Take me home.” I pointed to the left. The second I spoke, I knew I’d fucked up. Or maybe this had been his plan all along. Knuckles snorted, then turned right. Toward the Kiss of Death compound. “Fucker.” My muttered response got another snort out of him.

He didn’t even slow down as he approached the gates to the fucked-up compound that was Kiss of Death. These guys had basically taken up four city blocks of warehouses and strung them together, walled them off, and made a small community that they kept to themselves. I can’t even imagine the permits and fees it cost to do some of the integration they did -- city streets technically still ran through their territory -- but somehow they’d done it.

The streets were lined with camo canvas, masking movement from overhead. There were a few small open areas with either a park or a community pool, but that was it. Everything else was masked from overhead view.

I’d been to the compound a few times since Gunnar came home. I missed my brother. For years I’d blamed myself, and I suppose I always would to some extent. But now that I had him back, I was afraid to let him out of my sight. It’s why I’d moved to my little farm outside of Nashville. I could see my brother every day if I wanted. And Pippa. I was so glad Gunnar had Pippa. It was easy to see how much she loved my brother. I felt better knowing he had someone to help him navigate life outside of prison. Especially since he’d spent fifteen years of his life behind bars for something he didn’t do.

In all the times over the last couple of months I’d been to the KoD compound, I’d never been anywhere other than either the main clubhouse -- where parties and gatherings other than church were held -- and the warehouse with Gunnar and Pippa’s apartment. When we sped past both, a sliver of unease tickled my spine. A couple minutes later, we pulled into an underground garage exactly like the ones in all the enormous warehouse buildings they owned.

We pulled into a parking space, and he shut the bike down. There were a few other bikes and the occasional truck or SUV in a space, but mostly the motorcycles of the men living in this building.

“Where are we?”

Knuckles didn’t answer. He pressed the button on the elevator and we waited. A few seconds later he ushered me inside the elevator car and pressed the button for the top floor. The doors opened again, and he guided me out by my elbow.

“Knuckles. Ain’t asking again. Where the fuck are we?”

He stopped at one of doors and unlocked it, dragging me inside with him. The apartment was a small studio. There was a stove that still had the cardboard over the burners, a sink with one basin, a fridge, and a microwave. The microwave door was open, but the inside was spotlessly clean. The whole room was.

As he closed and locked the door, he nodded to the small, square table. There were only two chairs, placed across from each other. I took one, he took the other. He laced his fingers in front of him, his forearms resting on the table.

“Now. Explain that whole torture by roofing tacks and electric shock thing.”

“What? You think the guy didn’t deserve it?”

“Oh, he deserved what he got and more. What I don’t get is why you let him hit you, Hannah. Unless you were completely plastered, you could’ve fought that fucker off with your eyes closed.”

“Yep.” If he wasn’t answering my questions, I wasn’t answering his. We stared at each other for a long time. I didn’t have to explain myself to him, and had no intention of doing so.

“All right.” Knuckles placed his hands on the table, spreading his fingers wide. He had tattoos over most of his skin. His forearms were thickly muscled and roped with veins, his biceps stretching the T-shirt he wore. The leather vest with his name on the chest hung open. I knew on the back was the Kiss of Death emblem proclaiming them a one percenter. I’d heard the saying that ninety-nine percent of MCs were law-abiding. His patch proclaimed his club to be in the one percent of outlaw motorcycle clubs. I thought Torpedo and Bohannon would have tried to distance Kiss of Death from what the term outlaw implied, but fact was, even Bones dipped their toes on the wrong side of the law from time to time. His beard was full and long, and he looked exactly like what he was. One hundred percent outlaw biker. And, fuck me, it was a fucking great look on him. “How about you tell me how you met fucktard.”

“How is any of this your business, Knuckles?” I kept my tone even, but I felt a little like a child called into her father’s office to be punished.

He shrugged. “It’s not, really. And it doesn’t really matter, except that Gunnar is gonna kill someone when he finds out about this.”

“I killed Dillon so Gunnar wouldn’t,” I bit out, unable to contain my anger at the image he painted. It was a simple saying, really. People dropped the phrase “I’m gonna kill” someone or something all the time. But in this case, I cringed. Gunnar taking the rap for killing someone he hadn’t was what got him taken away from me in the first place. The man was my twin, for Christ’s sake! Which was even worse when you factored in how I was the guilty party. I was the one who’d killed that swine, Robert. Gunnar had confessed to the murder in order to keep me safe.

Knuckles raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m fully aware. What I don’t get is why you let things escalate as far as they did.”

“It happens all the time, Knuckles. Who knows why women stay with their abusers? There are so many different reasons and all of them seem valid at the time.”

“Ain’t interested in other women, Hannah. And I know you weren’t really with him. What I want to know is how many times you let that bastard beat on you before you took matters into your own hands tonight.”

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