Fire Meets Fire: Wretched Soulz MC

Chapter 11

While it might look like I subscribe to the notion of never having a woman as a backpack in case she gets ideas, in reality, I don’t take passengers because I’m just not overly fond of anyone riding behind me. In the past when I’ve taken brothers in cases of emergency, I’ve hated the change to the bike’s handling. So as I throw my leg over the saddle, right my sled, and kick up the stand, I’m already gritting my teeth, anticipating the dip of the suspension as she gets on behind. But as she places her hand on my shoulder and expertly slides on, showing this is far from her first time on this mode of transport, instead of annoyance that I’m not riding alone, I feel an unexpected burst of jealousy.

Whose bike has she ridden on before?

Rather than unbalancing me, the bike settles with the weight of us both as if her presence has caused it to reach an equilibrium it hasn’t before.

I thought I’d direct her to steady herself with the handholds instead of me, but when she immediately goes to curl her fingers around the impersonal anchors, I reach back and pull her hands tightly about my waist. The rightness of the sensation takes me completely by surprise.

Frustrated with myself, almost angrily, I punch at the start button, hoping the familiar engine roar will knock some sense into me. I perform a lifesaver to check there are no vehicles approaching, then pull out onto the road. In my rearview, I see Bull pulling out behind me. My lips curve. He’s my VP, and however short a journey, won’t let me ride alone.

Helo doesn’t tense as we draw away. There’s something about her relaxed posture and the way she’s hanging on that makes me believe if I turn my head, I’d see a great big fucking smile on her face.

Having her ride pillion is so far from uncomfortable that I’m hard put to stop grinning. She feels right. But that’s totally wrong. Neither she, nor any other woman, belongs there. I like my bike as I live my life, riding alone.

I’m half-relieved, half-sorry when the short journey ends. Helo gracefully dismounts like an expert, then shades her eyes from the sun and regards the building in front of her. It’s not much, an industrial type construction that we’ve converted and made our home.

After backing my bike into its parking spot right next to the door, I take her elbow and guide her inside.

It’s morning and the smell of bacon still lingers which hopefully means there’s still some cooking going on. My lips curve as Helo’s stomach rumbles loudly. It’s a no-brainer to head to the kitchen where, thank fuck, StoryTeller’s old lady is manning the stove.

“Unca Chav!” Maria comes wobbling across, grabbing onto my legs with hands which look suspiciously like they’re covered in syrup.

Carefully, I extract myself and send her back to her mom.

Sheri laughs and leans down to wipe the little tyke’s sticky fingers. “Sorry, Chaz.” She grins at me, then brushes off her own hands as she notices the woman at my side. Her eyes widen and I can see the wheels in her head turning, interpreting her thoughts, as she’s no sweet butt. I must be able to translate it correctly, as she approaches with a smile. “Hi, I’m Sheri.”

Helo hesitates for a moment then introduces herself. “Helo.” As she speaks, she reaches forward to formally shake Sheri’s hand. I notice, despite the recent wind in her face, she’s paled, and wonder whether she’s even more exhausted than I first thought as she points down at the toddler who’s now plonked her butt on the floor and asks, “Yours?”

“For my sins, yeah.” But Sheri’s fond expression and soft tone belies her words.

With thumb in her mouth and staring up at the newcomer, even I admit she looks cute. I find myself wondering whether Helo’s the maternal type, but then know I don’t need to ask whether she wants kids from the look of longing I see on her face as her eyes focus on the child. Uh-uh, no way. I’ve always kept my dick covered up and have absolutely no desire to propagate a next generation. But Helo’s expression looks too much like me or one of my brothers when we eye up a coveted bike. She’d want a baby.

The thought of impregnating her makes my cock twitch, while my brain tries to remind it of the responsibility that comes with that. It means being faithful to one pussy and being cockblocked at every turn. But even that doesn’t stop it thickening. I’m concentrating so hard on making the damn thing stand down that I’m only half aware of Helo suddenly falling, and unable to do anything until she’s prone at my feet. I never had a chance to try to catch her.

It takes a split second before I spring into action. As Sheri’s mouth drops open, I sink down to my knees, belatedly cradling her in my arms, making sure her head is off the ground, and feeling for any lumps she might have gained during her less-than-graceful fall. Remembering it wasn’t long last time before she started to come around, I rock her gently and softly stroke her forehead, not wanting to move her in case she’s damaged herself.

Coming close and peering down, StoryTeller’s woman is concerned. She takes hold of Helo’s wrist and starts feeling for her pulse.

Realising she’s going to start going through her repertoire of diagnostic skills if I don’t stop her, I quickly explain, “She has these episodes.” I keep my voice low. “No medical assistance required. She’ll come out of it soon enough.”

She gives me a quizzical look.“Well, if you do need me…”

“I’ll let you know.” Having a nurse resident on the compound comes in handy, even if her skills aren’t needed now.

Satisfied, Sheri turns to console her daughter. “It’s okay, Maria. The lady’s just not feeling well.”

“Has she got an owie?” Maria’s high-pitched voice asks. “’Cos Unca Chav could kiss it better.”

From the innocent mouths of babes—for a second I consider lowering my lips onto hers, not because they might have some magical healing properties, but because the idea is attractive all by itself. But I’m no prince wanting to wake a sleeping princess. I like my women awake and very aware.

Her eyelids flutter, focus slowly coming back into her eyes. Gentler with her than I was last time, I slowly help her to sit, keeping my arm around her. I notice how she blinks and her face reddens when she notices the woman and child staring at her.

“You hurt?” If my voice is gruff, I can’t help it. I hate seeing such a strong woman as her brought down.

When she shakes her head, I stand, then sweep her up into my arms.

“What are you doing?” she squeals.

“Taking you somewhere you can lie down.” My unspoken addition and away from prying eyes isn’t missed by her. While she tries to protest her legs haven’t stopped working, she seems to appreciate my desire to give her some privacy.

I might not know very much about Helo, but I’ve been around my brothers who had a worse time than I did when they served. Most have an underlying self-confidence and strength, and hate to display any weakness, or fuss being made if they exhibit PTSD signs. I doubt Helo’s very much different.

The clubroom is virtually empty at this time of day, so I carry her through, shushing her when she tries to get me to let her loose. I don’t give a fuck she’s capable of walking on her own two feet. I like the feel of her in my arms. If she was one hundred percent, I’ve no doubt she’d find ways to get free from my hold, which probably includes emasculating me. But as she’s still groggy, she doesn’t struggle too hard.

Without really having thought about it, I take her straight into my room. It’s only when I’m in there that I realise my mistake. The bed’s unmade from when I left it this morning, and not only that, but the sheets definitely need to be changed. I’d had a sweet butt in it for a couple of hours before chucking her out.

To my consternation, the used condoms are still tied off and lying where I’d dropped them on the floor.

I put Helo down in front of the chair and tell her to sit while I change the linen. She eyes the bed and other shambles with a curve to her lips.

“Chaz, I’m dead on my feet. I can sleep anywhere. Just pull the covers up and I’ll lie on top of them.” Her hand failing to hide exactly how wide her yawn is shows me it’s rest she needs more than pampering.

I watch as she efficiently bends and takes off her sturdy boots, then simply loosens her belt before lying down on the comforter with a sigh. She props herself up on her elbows to ask, “Does that door lock?”

“Yeah. It will lock behind me, and only I have the key.” I don’t add most of my brothers could easily pick their way in if they wanted to, and the lack of that addition means my reassurance works.

Her chest sinks as a sigh of breath leaves her. Momentarily I wonder whether it’s a sign of trust she’s giving to me that she appears relaxed in my bed, or whether her recent episode has emptied her tank. My lips twitch as I strongly suspect, weak as she appears, should I try to take advantage and get handsy with her, I’d soon find myself on my ass.

As if confirming, although she appears otherwise, like any good soldier, she’s still on high alert, one eye cautiously opens. “You still here?”

I can’t admit I have a strong impulse not to leave her, and I don’t understand what drives it myself. It’s not to ensure her safety. She’s in less danger here in my room, in this clubhouse, then she would be anywhere else. It’s like there’s something elemental drawing me toward her, wanting to immerse her into my life. These totally alien thoughts cause me to wonder if again I’ve been subjected to some virus or nerve gas.

Now her second eye opens, and I feel like an ass. She must be tired, both from being awake all night and her last episode taking it out of her. I should leave her to sleep. While I’d like nothing better than to stay with her, on her part, trust only goes so far.

She’s magnificent—her job, her role in the masculine world, her acceptance of risk that few civilians would ever contemplate. No wonder I admire her. Before I leave, something drives me to take a step closer and show my appreciation by saying in a low voice, “Thank you for your service.”

Her head raises fast off the pillow as she again balances her weight on her elbows. “Don’t say that. I had a fucking job many people would die for. It wasn’t work. It was pure fun, in control of a machine that could bring death or save lives. I was a thrill seeker, and the Army allowed me to be what I wanted to be. So don’t thank me.”

How can I explain I’m not thanking her for doing her job, but for the way it all ended? One day, she was in control, living her dream, the next, she had no say in whether she’d live or die, and no way to influence the matter. Deciding it’s best to stay quiet rather than try to put into words the admiration and compassion I feel for her, I raise my chin then lower it.

She nods in return, then leans back on the bed, and her eyes close. This time it looks unlikely they’ll reopen.

I pause for a moment, watching her, then, realising that’s a bit creepy, quietly leave. The lock snicks reassuringly behind me.

I stand, my back against the wall outside the room for a moment. Part of me is surprised she didn’t wait to relax until I left, and there’s a warmth in my chest when it dawns that it demonstrates to some extent she already trusts me. Before descending the stairs, I lean my head against the wall, as I become conscious that she’s partway won my trust too. Although my words and actions might have looked otherwise, there wasn’t a moment when I’d thought she’d intended to steal the bike. There’s just something inherently honest inside her. And, while I wouldn’t be a good MC prez if deviance didn’t run through my blood, she must have recognised when I do give my word, I mean it.