Page 30 of Burning Ember
His office is a mess. The once white walls are now gray with fingerprints and hand-size oil smudges. Papers are strewn across his desk. Books hazardously stacked in precarious piles on every surface, and cardboard tubes litter the floor.
The temptation to organize and clean nags at me. I’ve never been able to stand disorder, even before my first real job as a maid.
A crimson flag hangs on one wall. It has the club name and insignia, and along the bottom are the initials, “UWL/UWR/UWF.” I open my mouth to ask him what it stands for, but one quick glance at his defensive stance and his stern face and that idea goes up in smoke.
He’s studying me as I study the room. I do my best to ignore him as I continue my inspection of his office.
Another wall has a collage of photos. My heart stutters as I recall losing my picture of Will today. When I land somewhere safe, the first thing I’ll do is call Sunny and ask her to send me another.
Shaking my sadness away, I refocus on the pictures. I can’t see them clearly from where I’m standing, and I’m curious. They’re closer to Mav and I’d have to walk past him to get to them.
But what better way to get him to let down his guard than to show him I’m no threat to him and I don’t feel threatened by him, even if it is only an act.
Shoving my fears back, I stride forward. Luce tenses and his eyes narrow. Otherwise, he doesn’t move.
I breathe in a calming breath once I’m past him. I’m still unsettled though. Having him at my back is like having a rabid wolf tracking you. He’s watching my every move like he’s waiting to pounce, which makes me wary.
I try to distract myself with the images by scanning them for familiar faces.
Right off, I recognize Dozer. He’s younger in most of these. In one, he’s skinny, lanky almost and has a baby face. I bite my lip to hold in a smile.
I spot Griz. The first picture I see him in is a tad blurry with a yellowish tint and rounded corners. Probably, because it was taken in the late sixties or early seventies. He has an afro and a fuller, bushier beard. He’s wearing a blue banana, bellbottom jeans, and a jean biker jacket sans shirt. His arm is around another biker who’s wearing something similar. The other guy has hideous sideburns and light brown hair, and looks a lot like Dozer, but he’s not as bulky and has a broader nose.
They remind me of my mother who never quite grew out of her hippy stage.
Griz and the other guy are in most of the other photos. Goose is also in a few. One catches my eye in particular. In it, Goose is sporting inky-black hair. And yep, he’s still good-looking; although, I’m partial to the peppery-gray hair he has now. It gives him an innate sexiness most men will never have.
Bodie and the brunet biker with the face tats are in a couple more recent photos. Maybe because they’re newer to the club?
I don’t recognize most of the other bikers. However, I’m sure with time, if I’m allowed to stay, I’ll come to know a few. Perhaps more intimately than I’d like.
I get lost in the images. I feel like I’m seeing glimpses of the club as it changes and grows, and the members as they grow older. They look happy in the photos. Smiling. Arms around each other. Beers in hands. A little teasing going on. Bunny ears and all.
I think back to my mother’s description of them. Killer bees. No matter how cozy I get with Dozer or Goose, or any of the guys, I need to remember that.
I see by the images, that to them, they’re more than just outlaws who like to ride motorcycles—they’re family. They’re a group of friends living a life that maybe society doesn’t deem acceptable, but they’re fine with that.
I squint and search for Mav. Surely, he’s in some of them.
My eyes gloss over the same gorgeous-dark-haired biker a couple of times before I see the similarities, and put two and two together. But to be fair, the contrast between the man in the photo and the man standing behind me are quite striking. Like night and day.Hot . . . and . . . cold.Complete opposite ends of the spectrum.
This biker in the photo is happy. Smiling. Vivacious. He has a devil may care smile. One that could singe a woman’s panties in a heartbeat.
Both of his arms are around the shoulders of the men beside him. I move from that picture to the next and find him again. Now that I know what version of him to look for, I find him more easily. Back then, he was more muscular. And in most of these, he’s clean-shaven, flaunting that impeccable bone structure of his, showing off a chiseled jaw, which frankly, should be illegal. Combined with his long, wavy, jet-black hair, he’s lethally sexy. Criminal. Maulable, if that’s even a word.
He appears to be high on life in each photo. Like nothing and nobody can touch him.
“What happened, Mav? You look so happy?” The simple questions escape my mouth in a breathy whisper.
Hands push me from behind. I crash forward into the wall. My face hits it a split second before my hands can brace me for the impact. Adrenaline coils through my body and my heart rate spikes. I’m so close to the oil smudges now I could lick them.
I knew turning my back on the rabid wolf behind me was a bad idea.
“W-what . . . what are you doing?” I stammer out. Using the wall for leverage, I attempt to push back from it. But he presses his hand between my shoulder blades and holds me where I am.
He kicks my legs apart. His breath tickles my ear as he grates out, “Don’t worry,Doll.This will be over before you know it.”
And suddenly, I can’t breathe. My skin feels tight all over. Possible scenarios of what he’s about to do to me flash through my mind. Without warning, calloused fingers and a palm skate across my belly, slip under the top of my shorts.
