5. Chapter 4
Honey
I stood in Jack's kitchen, fidgeting with the leather vest that now marked me as his "property.
" I'd found it hanging on the bedroom door this morning with a note that simply read "Wear it.
" No please, no explanation. Just a command I didn't dare ignore.
Now I stress-cooked enough food to feed a small army, hoping the familiar motions would calm my racing thoughts.
After Jack had left last night, I'd tossed and turned on his bed for hours before finally passing out from exhaustion.
When I woke, he was gone, but fresh clothes had appeared.
The jeans fit surprisingly well, a simple black tank top, and this leather vest with "PROPERTY OF BLOODY JACK" emblazoned across the back in blood-red stitching.
The front had the club's insignia. Which was a skull dripping blood into cupped hands. Charming.
I stirred the massive pot of chili with more force than necessary, splashing a drop onto the counter.
After wiping it away, I checked on the cornbread in the oven.
The kitchen was industrial sized, clearly meant to feed dozens of hungry bikers, but right now it was just me, drowning in my thoughts and the smell of spices.
"Smells good."
I jumped at Jack's voice, nearly dropping the wooden spoon. He stood in the doorway, filling it with his massive frame, those glacial blue eyes fixed on me. His gaze traveled slowly from my face down to the vest and back up again, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"I, uh, hope you like chili," I said, hating how my voice squeaked. "I found everything in the pantry and freezer, so I figured..."
"I like anything that isn't takeout or burnt to shit. Unless it’s grilled hotdogs. Those need to be just this side of burnt." He moved into the kitchen with that predatory grace that seemed at odds with his size. "Didn't expect to find you cookin'."
I shrugged, turning back to the pot to hide my flushed face. "Cooking calms me down. Helps me think."
"And what are you thinkin' about, darlin'?" He was closer now, right behind me. I could feel the heat radiating from his body. He only stayed long enough to peek over my shoulder at the cooking brew before sitting at the small table in the corner next to the stove.
"Oh, you know. Just how I went from serving lattes to being kidnapped by a motorcycle club president in the span of twenty-four hours. The usual. Which reminds me. I need to call my boss and ask for some time off."
To my surprise, Jack chuckled, a deep rumble that I felt more than heard. "You weren't kidnapped. You walked in here all on your own, sweetheart."
"And now I can't leave," I reminded him, turning to face him with the wooden spoon still in hand. "That's pretty close to the definition of kidnapping."
His expression sobered slightly. "It's the definition of protection.”
Before I could argue further, the timer dinged. I turned away to pull the cornbread from the oven, grateful for the interruption. The cornbread came out a perfect golden brown. I set it on a cooling rack and began ladling chili into bowls.
"I made enough for leftovers," I said, placing a heaping bowl in front of Jack along with a generous square of cornbread. "Figured you'd be busy, so this way you'd have something to eat later."
Jack didn't respond. He just dug in with the focus of a man who hadn't eaten in days. I sat across from him, picking at my own bowl, watching in fascination as he devoured the food. When he finished, he pushed the bowl toward me without a word, his gaze hard and demanding. I huffed out a breath but stood and refilled it for him. He attacked the second serving with the same intensity and suddenly I didn’t mind so much he’d same as demanded a second helping like a grumpy toddler.
No please. No thank you. Just “gimmie more!”.
By the third bowl, I was starting to wonder if he had a hollow leg. "Where do you put it all?" I asked, genuinely curious.
He glanced up, those blue eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. "High metabolism. And your cooking's good. Real fuckin’ good."
Something warm unfurled in my chest at the compliment. It was stupid to feel pleased over something so small, especially given my circumstances, but I couldn't help it.
The kitchen door burst open as Jack was starting on his fourth bowl. Two men in leather cuts similar to Jack's sauntered in, their nostrils flaring.
"Holy shit, what smells so fuckin' good?" the taller one asked, eyeing the pot on the stove.
"President's old lady’s been cooking," the other one said, already reaching for a bowl. "‘Bout time we got some decent food around here."
Before I could react, Jack's hand shot out, grabbing the man's wrist. "You askin' permission to eat my food?" His voice was deceptively soft, but I caught the dangerous edge to it.
The man froze, eyes widening. "Uh, no, Prez. Sorry."
"That's what I thought." Jack released him and jerked his chin toward me. "Now ask her proper."
Both men turned to me, looking thoroughly uncomfortable.
Again, the thought of how they reminded me of children flitted through my mind.
I supposed the description fit. They were guys in a male dominated environment where they had all the power.
Stood to reason they’d act like children.
The taller one cleared his throat. "Ma'am, would it be alright if we had some of your chili, please? "
I blinked, surprised by the formality. "Um, sure. Help yourselves."
They didn't need to be told twice. As soon as the words left my mouth, they were scrambling for bowls, shouldering each other out of the way like teenagers.
When one elbowed the other hard enough to make him drop his spoon, a brief scuffle broke out, complete with colorful cursing and threats that made my eyes widen.
Jack watched the whole thing with barely contained amusement, his eyes occasionally flicking to my face to gauge my reaction. I must have looked as shocked as I felt because his mouth twitched into something close to a smile.
His shrill whistle pierced the room. "Knock it the fuck off," he said, his voice carrying the weight of command. The men immediately separated, mumbling apologies. "You're scaring my old lady."
Both men shot me apologetic looks before returning to their food, this time with such exaggerated manners that were almost comical.
Later, after the kitchen had been cleaned and Jack had taken care of whatever mysterious business occupied his time, we sat on the couch in his room.
The TV droned in the background, some action movie neither of us was really watching.
My mind kept circling back to the way he'd called me his old lady so easily, like it was an absolute fact rather than this bizarre charade.
I was hyper aware of his presence beside me, the couch suddenly feeling much smaller than it had last night. When he reached for his beer on the coffee table, his hand brushed against mine. A jolt of electricity shot up my arm, and I jerked back slightly, startled by the intensity of my reaction.
Jack froze, his eyes finding mine in the dim light.
Something dark and hungry flashed in those blue depths, making my breath catch in my throat.
He didn't move away. Instead, his fingertips ghosted over my knuckles deliberately this time, a touch so light it might have been my imagination if not for the goosebumps rising on my skin.
My pulse hammered in my ears as we sat there, barely touching but connected by something I couldn't name. His gaze dropped to my lips, and I found myself leaning forward unconsciously, drawn by some magnetic force I couldn't resist.
The door flew open with a bang that made me jump nearly out of my skin. A young man with a patch on his leather vest that labeled him a prospect stood in the doorway, breathing hard.
"Prez! Copperhead bike spotted near the south fence!"
Jack was on his feet in an instant, all traces of whatever had just passed between us gone, replaced by the hard lines of command. "How many?" His voice was ice cold.
"Just one. Our scout thinks it might be Shank."
"Lock down the compound. Get Ghost and meet me at the armory." Jack's orders came rapid-fire. “And Dice?”
“Yeah, prez?”
“Don’t you ever fuckin’ barge in here again. Hear me?”
Dice swallowed hard, glanced at me, then ducked his head. “Yes, sir. Sorry, ma’am.”
As he moved toward the door, Jack paused, turning back to place a large, warm hand on my shoulder. "Stay here. Lock the door behind me." His voice was softer now, meant only for me. "I'll be back."
Then he was gone, leaving me alone with the phantom feeling of his touch still burning on my skin and the sudden, unwelcome realization that I might be in danger of feeling something for a man who called himself "Bloody Jack."
* * *
I woke with the sun, my body clock still set to farm time despite years of trying to break the habit.
Probably why I made a good barista at the coffee shop.
Getting up my whole life with or before the sun dominated my sleep schedule.
Funny how I wanted to change my life but somethings refused to budge.
Jack's side of the bed was empty and cold.
He'd never returned after the Copperhead sighting last night and it bothered me more than it should even as not having to deal with his presence eased my mind. I had no business feeling any attraction for the guy. Yet I’d nearly kissed him.
Not the show he put on for Shank when the other man had me cornered, either. Like really kissed him. Twice.
I stretched, wincing at the stiffness in my neck from sleeping curled up in a tight ball on the edge of the mattress. Yesterday's cooking adventure had taught me a valuable lesson about biker appetites. Today, I'd be ready.