Page 52 of The Biker and the Baker
But there’s no easy running for me this time around. He made sure of it.
Another win for him.
His phone rings and he glances down at the screen, then ignores it. It rings again and he looks at me instead, a crease forming between his brows as if he’s contemplating something. When it rings a third time, he answers, “Yo…Why?…’bout what?… You don’t give up, do you?…Where?…’kay. Meet you there.”
He gets up and disappears into the RV, returning a few minutes later dressed in jeans, t-shirt, biker boots, and his biker jacket, dark sunglasses hiding his eyes.
“Punks, remember to turn this off before you go, yeah?” he says to the twins.
Attention divided, they nod their heads.
As he’s passing by me, he tugs at my fishtail side braid and says, “Let’s go.”
Oh...“Wait, let me go get my bag.”
He glances over his shoulder to me. “For what?”
“You’re taking me home, aren’t you?”
“No.” He beckons me with two fingers. “C’mon.”
I’m not a follower, I’m a leader.Alwaysa leader. But with this man…dammit, I don’t even know.
I resent how much of a “girl” I am with him, how spineless my will becomes. In this very moment, I’m resenting myself for responding to those two beckoning fingers, for going straight to him and letting him hook his arm around my neck as if he owns me. Letting him lead me to his motorcycle. I especially resent myself for taking my place on the back of said motorcycle like it’s my second home.
Damn him.
Chapter 12
Pia
I cling toOnyx’s solid mid-section, loving the smooth, windy ride on this mellow Sunday morning, never wanting it to be over. But, of course, all good things come to an end.
He pulls up in front of a giant, rusting, paint-stripped gate, right across the street from The Metal House, the auto repair shop my family and I use.
If I’m remembering it correctly, there used to be an emblem of sorts painted on these gates. Though it’s been quite a while since I’ve seen any activity on this side of the street, I do remember bikers trafficking heavily through there a few years back. Now, there’s nothing but a thick blotch of black paint where the emblem used to be.
Onyx stares at the gates for the longest time, unmoving.
By way of a nudge, I squeeze my thighs against his. “Onyx? Is everything okay?”
He doesn’t answer. He kicks down the bike stand and my arms fall away from around him when he dismounts.
From his front pocket, he digs out a jingle of keys and proceeds to open the padlocked chains on the gates. Once he has the chains off and the gates wide open, he comes back to the motorcycle, kicks up the stand, and rides us through.
Swerving to the right, he parks in front of a detached building with another set of rusted doors and a weathered sign that reads, “Den of Heathens Riders’ Bar.”
Den of Heathens... That’s it. That’s what used to be outside on the gates. Den of Heathens Motorcycle Club, with a snake wrapped around the words.
As Onyx switches the motorcycle off and we dismount, I realize this place has done something to his mood. His whole aura changed the moment we got here. It feels almost like grief, with a touch of anger.
Sidling close to him, I snake both my arms around one of his, so he knows I’m here for him.
His lips tighten at the corners as he looks around the environment. And then it dawns on me, what should have been obvious all along.
He’d been a part of a motorcycle club. So were Grunt, Scratch, and Kendra.
It washere. They were all a part of the same club.Thisclub. Den of Heathens. Wow, so many things make sense now. MC drama has never interested me, and I never follow up on any of the clubs here in Denver, so it’s no wonder the entire thing went right over my head.
