Page 8 of Bronco

“You’re not bein’ paranoid. There are too many creeps in this fuckin’ shit hole.” He glances around as some of the patrons stare at him.

I can’t help but smile. Bronco is dressed in his motorcycle jacket; his dirty patch on the top left corner reads ‘Tail Gunner,’ with his name underneath it. I never knew what a Tail Gunner was until I started working at the clubhouse. Apparently, this club needs two motorcycles to ride at the back to ensure the safety of the riders when they’re out on their club runs. I think it’s kinda hot. He also sports a fitted long sleeved, black Henley and a dark pair of jeans with a lot of wear and tear, and his black boots finish everything off. Then there’s the hair; his pride and joy. It’s short at the sides but longer on top, neatly disheveled and his goatee closely trimmed. The man is a sight for sore eyes, not that I’ve not noticed before; I’ve got perfect vision.

Bronco and I kinda just clicked right away. He was probably one of the few who didn’t hit on me, and also didn’t stare at my tits while I talked. Don’t get me wrong, not all the bikers are like that; a lot of them are in relationships or married, but the single guys in the club can be a little loose.

“I feel silly calling you to rescue me.”

He frowns. “We’re friends,AJ,of course I’m gonna come to your rescue. This city is wild. What did the guys look like?”

I shake my head. “The bigger one was beefy with tattoos on his hands, short, almost shaved, hair. As for his counterpart, I didn’t get a good look at him but he was a bit of a mini-me of his friend, shorter with tattoos.”

He quirks a brow. “Mini-me?”

“Let’s just go before the server comes back.” Just as I say it, the server arrives at the table, her eyes growing wide when she takes in Bronco and his grasp around me.

He leans over and drops a ten-dollar bill on the table, giving the surprised looking girl a wink. All I had was a free glass of water. “Plans have changed,” he tells her. “Gotta get my girl home.”

My girl?

I know he’s just playing a part so as not to upset the other patrons, but he’s raised enough eyebrows in here to make sure we’re definitely being watched and talked about in quiet whispers. Leaving no time to ponder that, he takes my hand. “Stay with me, I’m parked across the street.”

Where does he think I’m gonna go? Though, I think he’s just trying to reassure me.

I don’t argue with his words. Bronco is safe, and all my embarrassment over calling him dissipates when we step outside and I can fully appreciate how warm his hand is in mine.

It’s like home, although it shouldn’t really feel like home. I don’t know what fucking home is. I’ve been carving out this new life for myself for so long, you’d think I’d have a handle on it by now. Clearly, I’ve been living in delulu land because this is the first time anyone has made me feel safe.

“You good?” His gaze finds mine after he glances up and down the street. We’re still under the small entryway of the restaurant.

I glance around too, finally meeting his gaze. “I don’t see them.”

“Okay, let’s go.” He squeezes my hand as we step out onto the street and make a dash across the road toward his motorcycle.

It’s then I stop in my tracks mid-way across the road.

“Amber?” he barks. “You’re on the fuckin’ street!”

“I see them!”

“Where?” He looks around, but it doesn’t take long. He spots them because they’re right there, staring at us.

Dragging me off the street, he positions me beside his motorcycle and says, “Don’t move.”

“Bronco, don’t!”

He charges toward them and before I know what’s even happening, he’s tackling the bigger dude like he’s a quarterback and the big man goes stumbling backward, surprise taking him off guard. I shriek, my hands over my mouth as Bronco starts pounding his face with punches. The smaller guy is behind, yanking Bronco off his not-so-tough friend who’s unconscious on the ground, then he turns and takes one swing and the guy doubles over, crying out like a mama’s boy when Bronco strikes.

“You think it’s fuckin’ funny to stalk women down the street?” He kicks him in the ribs as I stare, horrified.

“Bronco!” I yell as two policemen rush toward him.

He turns, cussing as he reaches into his back pocket and tosses me his keys. “Gonna need these.”

I stare at him. “I can’t drive your Harley!”

“Not you! Call one of the girls, get a prospect down here to drive it, babe.”

Oh.

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