Page 14 of A Biker for Noelle
My actions and thoughts about Noelle morph into something complicated and heavy. Is she clouding my judgment? Should I give them this one opportunity to rest, fix her fucking car, and send them on their way, never to see them again?
I reach into the pocket of my leather cut, pull out the pack, and take one out. With a flick of my thumb, the lighter ignites, and the flame catches the cigarette’s tip hanging loosely from my lips. I take a long drag, letting the smoke curl and weave through the air. The nicotine burns a trail down my throat, creating a temporary haze in my mind, chasing away the shadows of my actions and bringing Noelle ever so closer in my mind.
I inhale again, nicotine pouring into my lungs. I exhale slowly, and the thick cloud hangs momentarily in the air before dissipating, unlike the unwanted feelings about a woman I just met. Her name burns my thoughts like the cherry on the end of this cigarette. “Fuck,” I mutter, exhaling a stream of smoke that curls. I lean further back into the leather sofa, the familiar grasp of tension in my shoulders releasing.
“She could be trouble,” Brewer states, and I don’t bite back at his concerns. That woman has trouble written all over her. She’s like a caged bird. I glance upstairs at the corridor as if the woman sleeping in my room, in my bed, will offer me answers if I barge in there and demand them. My approach to her, though, needs to be softer—kinder—than I’m used to dishing out. She needs to know she is safe.
“We will deal with all that soon. The sun will be up in a few hours. Use the time how you see fit and let the others know that Church will follow breakfast.” I roll my head, trying to ease the built-up tension.
“I’ll make coffee.” Brewer pushes from the pool table and strolls off toward the kitchen area on the other side of the room.
Each puff of the cigarette takes me deeper into my thoughts. Like it or not, I’m drawn to her. I want to know why she isrunning and protect her from whatever problems follow her. The weight of my decision to bring her here and make her problems mine is pressing down on me, but it’s one I am standing by.
The aroma of fresh coffee fills the air, instantly taking me back to the early mornings I spent with my old man for so many years when times were more straightforward and I had less weight on my shoulders.
Suddenly, a clip of a random conversation takes over my thoughts.Don’t fear dyin’. Fear not livin’. You haven’t lived without the love of a good woman, and trust me when I say she will come along when you least want her or think you need her.My old man’s words from one of those many mornings echo in my head.
Is Noelle my endgame?
I take one final, contemplative drag from the cigarette, feeling the warmth of the embers as I watch the smoke curl into the air before crushing it into the ashtray resting on the arm of the sofa.
My old man’s words repeat in my mind, cutting through the chaos and filling me with a newfound clarity—to embrace the possibilities of what could be.
The low murmur of voices fills the building as the sun crests the horizon, sending rays of light spilling through the windows of the clubhouse. The common area of the first floor consists of leather sofas, recliners, and a couple of pool tables. The bar is located against the far right of the space. Across the room on the left is a large flat-screen television, and at the far end is the kitchen. Upstairs is where the bedrooms are located, andcurrently, my focus, because Noelle and her brother have yet to come out of the room.
The large wooden table in the center of the kitchen is crowded with my brothers, like me, ragged from lack of sleep. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling bacon permeates the entire room.
I lounge back in my chair at the end of the table, my eyes flicking between my brothers and the staircase. At the same time, I watch my mom continue to whip up breakfast for the men—a labor of love that has become a staple in our lives.
My mom is a breathtakingly beautiful, petite woman with shoulder-length hair that cascades down her back in a striking shade of smoky gray. She fiercely loves her family and the club. Her presence helps smooth the rough edges of the clubhouse—or, I should say, the men in it. She smiles warmly at the men as they banter, her hands skillfully flipping buttermilk pancakes on a well-worn skillet.
A soft thump echoing down the staircase catches everyone’s attention. I turn to see Zack slowly making his way down from upstairs. His tousled hair and sleepy eyes contrast with the wide grin that spreads across his face as he rushes down the last few steps.
“It smells awesome in here,” Zack calls out, his voice bursting with youthful enthusiasm.
“Zack.” Noelle reaches for her brother as he races into the kitchen, all lightness and innocence, oblivious to anything but his hunger.
My eyes land on Noelle, who slowly follows her brother. Her gaze falls on me momentarily as she passes me to the kitchen.
“I hope you’re hungry because I made extra just for you and your sister,” my mom boasts, enjoying the energy Zach brings to the room.
“I’m starving,” Zack announces, patting his stomach.
Mom glances over her shoulder to meet our temporary guests. Her eyes widen at the sight of the young boy’s battered face. “What in the world happened?” She gasps, turns around entirely, and tenderly takes Zack’s face in her caring hands.
“It doesn’t hurt much anymore,” Zack says.
Mom looks at me and then back at the boy, her shoulders loosening. She smiles, trying to hide her emotions. “You like hot chocolate with marshmallows?”
Zack nods. “You bet I do.”
“Good. Help yourself.” She points to the pitcher of warm cocoa sitting on the stovetop. “The marshmallows and mugs are in the cabinet above the coffee machine.” My mom’s attention shifts to Noelle and moves in her direction, closing the distance between them. “You must be Noelle.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Honey, call me June. Ma’am makes me feel old.” My mom laughs, smiling warmly.
“Could you use any help?” Noelle asks with a hint of nervousness, and my mom catches it.
