Page 13 of Brazen Being It

“Who are you?”

He smiles with his perfectly white teeth. “I’m starting to figure that out, darlin’. I’m not a good man, but I’m not a bad one either. I see something in your eyes. I can’t explain it. You need me, Cambria, just call. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

And before I can think of a single word to reply, he turns and walks back to his bike without ever looking back at me.

I’ve never felt butterflies before. I’ve never felt confused by someone before either. But here we are and I’m not quite sure what comes next.

Well, except dinner tomorrow night.

THREE

DREW

Living on the edge … more than a line

I watchher fingers wrap around the water glass, nails painted a soft pink, trembling just a little. She doesn’t notice me watching, not yet. She’s studying the menu like it’s written in a foreign language, but I don’t think it’s the pasta that’s got her nervous.

It’s me and this date, if one can call it that. With a glance at the hotel records, I managed to get her full name and her mother’s. Cambria Christine Tracy is indeed eighteen years old. While I knew she was young by her looks, but not freshly legal young. Granted the information Hawk dug up on her and her mother, she’s lived a hard life. I’m sure that ages someone. What I learned on paper about her: she’s a survivor through and through.

I can’t blame her for her cautiousness.

The place isn’t fancy—just a quiet Italian joint tucked between a pawn shop and a tire store on the edge of town—but it’s a far cry from the smoky clubhouse and the roar of Harley-Davidsons or a dive bar I’m used to. That world clings to me like motor oil, no matter how many clean shirts I own, I am and always will be a Hellion, a biker, an outlaw through and through. And she—Cambria—she smells like fresh air, looks like innocence and a life I probably have no business stepping into.

Yet, I’m here. There is something about her that calls to me. I’ve never been one for a hero complex, but watching her pick up change in a busted hotel parking lot piqued my interest. The way she moves, always on alert, but still somewhere far away in her mind, it all makes me want to know what goes on inside her head.

She looks up finally, catching me staring. A shy smile curls on her lips, and my chest tightens like I’ve just taken a punch I didn’t see coming.

“You have a favorite?” she asks, nodding at the menu.

“Lasagna,” I say without thinking. “Burned my mouth on it last time. Didn’t stop me.”

“You come here often?”

I shake my head, “not really, but had to come to Collins a few times and found this place. It’s a good spot and I like to support local.”

She nods, “including super-hot food?”

“Worth it.” I joke back.

She laughs, and it’s soft, uncertain, like she’s still trying to figure me out. “You like pain, huh?”

I raise a brow. “Occupational hazard.”

She tilts her head, golden hair spilling over her shoulder. “How so? Does driving a big rig hurt you regularly?”

“Some loads can.” I reply vaguely.

I nod, leaning back in my chair. I’m not in colors tonight—didn’t seem right. But the tattoos on my arms peek out from under my rolled sleeves, and I know she sees them.

“I don’t mind questions,” I say. “Long as you’re ready for honest answers.”

“I want honest.” Her eyes lock onto mine, more steady than before. “I don’t like games.”

She says it like she’s had her fill already. Eighteen years old and already wary of being lied to. That does something to me. Not pity, not exactly. Just…caution. She has this look, the kind that tells me she’s lived a lifetime of pain and instability.

“You always this serious on a first date?” I ask, trying to lighten the air between us.

She blushes. “I’ve never been on one. Not sure if I’m supposed to be serious.”

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