Chapter Thirty-Eight #2
The roar of bikes echoes through the air.
My eyes meet Rhys’, looking for confirmation.
With a subtle nod from him, I’m out of my seat and hauling ass to the front doors like there’s a fire.
A group of six motorcycles rides down the dirt road toward us, but there’s too much dust and dirt for me to pick out who Kira is riding with.
I recognize Malice and Wrath in the front, but Kira clearly isn’t on the back of their bikes.
Then a truck comes down the path, and I know she’s inside.
“They took a truck?” I ask Rhys, who’s taken up residence next to me, sliding his hand through mine in a show of silent support.
“The back of a rider’s bike is reserved for his old lady.
It’s important, almost sacred. Even if these men have no plan to settle down, they aren’t just letting any woman ride on the back of ’em.
” I look up at him in silent question. “You’re the only woman who’s ever been on my bike, my love.
I would have put you on it the day we met if it had been up to me. ”
The tattoo, the seat on the bike, him showing up time and time again just to be my friend, even though he may never get me in return. Rhys waited and hoped and never asked for more.
Just as I’m about to open my mouth to respond, a door slams, pulling my attention to the driveway. Kira stomps up the dirt path toward the deck with fire in her eyes. I didn’t know what to expect, but she thankfully looks like the same Kira I’ve known my entire life, just much more pissed off.
I meet her at the bottom of the steps, our arms wrapping tightly around each other. I take a deep breath of her sweet jasmine scent, squeezing her impossibly close.
“You gonna tell me what the fuck is going on? Jackass number one and two,” she says as she points to Malice and Wrath, “wouldn’t give me any information except where we were heading.”
“She threatened to chop off my balls and put them in a blender! She’s a monster! I need my balls!” Malice yelps, covering his junk with his hand.
“Shut the hell up, Mal,” Rhys snaps, joining Kira and I in the driveway. “We didn’t really get to meet the first time, and I hate that we’re meeting like this, but I’m Rhys. The members around here call me Sin.”
“Oh, I remember you. I like you. Where’s the little fucker who convinced me to go to the cabin only to lock me in the primary suite with the windows boarded up for a week? I want to know where that one is so I can rearrange his face.”
“Kira, oh my god,” I gasp.
“Told me it was a surprise weekend for you to force you to relax. Actually sounded like he was trying, and since I promised you I would try, I packed up my shit and went. Imagine my shock when fuckface was there and led me to the bedroom where you were supposed to be unpacking, only to lock me in the fucking place. With my phone on the counter with my goddamn purse.” Kira recounts her story, and my mouth hangs slightly ajar.
I can’t fucking believe the lengths Blake would go.
“How the hell did you survive a week?”
“Oh, shit bag had it planned. Gotta give it to him. The room was fully loaded with the bare living essentials. So, clearly, he didn’t want me to die in there. Like he’s going to once I get my hands on him.”
Rhys and I share a look. I don’t want to know where Blake is or what happened to him, and I don’t need to tell him that with words.
“You two have a lot to catch up on. How about we go inside?” Rhys suggests.
I take Kira’s hand, wanting to keep her close.
Kira and lock ourselves in Rhys’ bedroom, where I scoop up Mr. Bun-Buns to snuggle him through this conversation. We hash through it all, from beginning to end. I hate that I kept things from her, but like I would expect any less from her, Kira understands why.
“I knew there was something more fucked up about that little needle dick. It’s always the ones with a complex, tiny cocks or bald heads, that are the worst of the worst. Always wanting to hurt women to make themselves feel better about the shitty cards they were dealt.”
“I hate that I accepted it for so long. But my focus is on healing and letting go. This isn’t something I brought on myself; it’s something that happened to me, and I refuse to let it define me.”
“I’m proud of you. You know that? I still want to kill him, a huge part of me won’t be mad if someone here slits his throat.”
“Oh, that’s definitely a possibility with one of the women here.”
“Shut up. What did you get yourself into?”
“A real-life season of Sons of Anarchy, apparently.”
“No shit. At least you got your Charlie Hunnum.”
“God, Kira, he’s perfect for me. I’m so in love.”
“I could tell the moment you laid eyes on him, babe. I’m happy for you. Even if all this is weird as hell.”
Kira and I return to the common room where Rhys is waiting for us.
I take a seat in his lap, needing to be close to him after the emotional turmoil of the day.
Kira settles in quickly with her surroundings, waltzing away to talk to people.
She’s always been able to adapt, to talk to everyone around her.
“Jesus Christ, Bristol, your friend is a fucking knockout,” Wrath states from the other side of Rhys as he runs his hand over his jaw, eyes eating her up.
The lights hit her flawless dark skin just right, making her glow ethereally.
Her jumbo box braids hang down to her mid-back, framing her oval face perfectly.
I agree, my best friend really is a fucking knockout. I couldn’t love that girl more.
“She is. But she’s taken, so hands off.”
“Shame. Would have loved to give her a ride tonight.”
“Thought the back of your motorcycle was sacred?” I ask, making Wrath cover his laugh with his hand.
“Not that kinda ride, baby,” Rhys whispers. My god. I bury my face into his neck, my cheeks flaming crimson. Duh. Of course that’s what he meant.
Kira plops down next to us with a beer in her hand, looking around the room. “I see the appeal of this gig. I get why so many romance authors write motorcycle club.”
“They write motorcycle club?” Wrath asks, intrigued, leaning forward to talk to her over Rhys and me.
“Oh, yeah, it’s a whole subgenre of romance. Club members get their happily ever after with unsuspecting women. There’s suspense, danger, chemistry, passion, love, and sometimes if you’re lucky, a shit load of sex.”
“Jesus,” Wrath says under his breath, eyes going a little wild.
“I may write one.”
“You write romantic fantasy, my girl. Not motorcycle club,” I remind her.
“Yeah, but imagine fated mates with club members who have unique powers connected to their road name,” she suggests, thinking on it. “Yeah, I’m gonna write that next.”
Yeah, everything is going to be okay.