Chapter 4
Chapter four
Kelsie
At the day care center, I pushed the outside world to the back of my mind.
There wasn’t time to think about my stalker.
Or my complicated feelings for Ryker. Or the fact that I’d lied my ass off to my brother this morning, claiming that I was dropping off breakfast for my landlady before I left for work.
I sighed and rubbed my forehead. Why couldn’t Noah just be cool about stuff for once? Every little aspect of my life was shoved under a microscope and scrutinized to death.
I knew a stalker was serious business—I wasn’t making light of that in any way.
But if Noah found out, it would destroy the marginal amount of personal space that I’d worked so hard to gain in the first place.
I wanted to deal with this issue on my own terms. And Noah would never allow that.
So, I couldn’t tell him. Not yet anyway. It killed me to keep secrets from him, but maybe this is what growing pains felt like.
The noise levels of the main play room reached ear-splitting levels. With nearly a hundred kids to look after, ranging in age from infants to five years old, I always had my hands full.
I didn’t mind the chaos though. The kids brightened my day when they crawled into my lap for story time, or gave me gifts that they made. I had a giant box in my apartment full of drawings I’d received over the years, rendered in chunky crayon lines and a rainbow of colors.
The bell over the door chimed, and I glanced up to meet the new arrivals.
Then my breath caught in my throat.
I recognized the man standing on the threshold as one of our regulars, Clint Atwood, with his son, Colby. They were carbon copies of each other, with chestnut curls, Wrangler jeans, and cowboy boots.
Today, instead of his plain clothes, Clint wore a leather cut with a patch over his heart that read Blackjacks MC.
Ryker had a cut just like it. That was his club.
Noah had warned me to steer clear of them. Trouble tended to follow them around town, and my brother didn’t want me getting tangled up in that.
It seemed the Blackjacks were creeping into my life anyway though.
There was Ryker, of course.
Then I met Vlad last night.
And now, it turned out that Clint was a member, too.
“Mornin’, Miss Kelsie,” Colby chirped. He held out a slightly crushed bouquet of wildflowers in his little fist. “These are for you, ma’am.”
My heart squeezed with gratitude as I accepted the flowers and inhaled their sweet scent.
“Oh, they’re lovely! Did you pick them yourself?”
Colby gave an enthusiastic nod.
“Thank you, Colby. That was kind of you.”
I ruffled his hair and unlocked the gate, ushering him into the play area. After Colby was out of hearing range, I turned my attention to Clint.
“You’re raising a very polite young man,” I said.
“Don’t jinx it,” he replied, with a hint of drawl from his Southern roots. “There’s still a chance he might grow out of it. I was hell on wheels as a teenager.”
I gestured to his cut.
“Is that how you ended up joining the Blackjacks?”
“Nah, that wouldn’t happen for a few more years down the road. I had to get my head screwed on straight first before I associated with those heathens.”
Questions welled on the tip of my tongue, curious to hear more about the Blackjacks. Ryker rarely talked about the club in detail, even though it took up so much of his life. He claimed it wasn’t special and he could be voted out at any moment on a whim. But I had my doubts about that.
Despite serving in the military for years, he didn’t associate with other veterans often. When he needed backup, he didn’t call on fellow soldiers. He brought another biker with him for extra muscle.
Clint’s gaze flicked past my shoulder toward the other staff members. Two of my co-workers weren’t being subtle about their wary glances in our direction.
“I don’t usually wear my cut around the day care,” he said. “Makes people uncomfortable.”
“Clearly you changed your mind today though,” I replied.
Clint pulled his gaze away from my co-workers and settled on me.
“Gatling texted earlier. He knows my son comes here and he asked me to check in on you. I didn’t think you’d appreciate it if I started getting nosy out of the blue. So, I guess you could say that I wore my cut as a calling card.”
Gatling. Ryker’s road name.
To me, he would always be Ryker.
But to Clint, to the Blackjacks, he was Gatling, Sergeant-at-Arms. A completely different man.
Ryker was usually patient and lenient with me, but I couldn’t help wondering what he was like among these bikers. Ever since I was little, Ryker and my brother had been best friends. When Noah wasn’t around, I could count on Ryker to show up when I needed him.
There were still so many aspects of his life that remained a mystery to me though.
“I’m all right,” I replied. “You can tell Ryker—Gatling—that the only threat I’ve dodged this morning is sticky fingers covered in fruit juice.”
Clint chuckled.
“I’ll pass the message along. Is everything okay otherwise? Gatling doesn’t make requests like that unless he has a good reason to.”
I hesitated. My own brother didn’t know about my stalker. It didn’t seem fair to tell Clint who was virtually a stranger. I didn’t like the idea of Ryker telling his entire club about my personal problems either. Even if he trusted them to have his back, that didn’t mean I felt the same way.
“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” I replied lightly.
Clint nodded and lingered for a second or two longer, looking skeptical. But he didn’t push the issue. Backing up, he nudged the door open with his boot and stepped out.
I watched through the window as he crossed the parking lot and climbed into his truck. It was hard to imagine mild-mannered Clint with his charming little boy as an outlaw biker. He seemed too chill and laidback for that.
When I returned to the play room, my co-worker, Marcy, sidled over with a wicked gleam in her eye. She was about my age—maybe a year or two younger—with a dating history that rivaled the most dramatic soap operas.
“Look at you, girl,” she crooned, low enough so the kids couldn’t overhear it. “You’ve got all kinds of hot guys swarming around you.”
I sputtered a laugh of disbelief.
“Beg your pardon? What are you talking about?”
Marcy held up her hand, ticking off names with her fingers.
“Let’s see. There’s Noah, the soldier boy with the juicy ass.”
I gagged.
“Ew! He’s my brother. Don’t talk about him like that to me.”
She continued, unfazed.
“Then there’s the biker hunk. What’s his name?”
The tips of my ears burned.
“Ryker.”
Marcy gave a dreamy sigh.
“Ryker. God, I’d love to snuggle between his muscled thighs all day long.”
The pit of my stomach clenched until I felt queasy.
I had no right to be jealous. Ryker and I weren’t together, and that would never change.
He didn’t really seem to be the type to settle down and get married.
He was more of a lone wolf, a bachelor for life.
But that didn’t mean he would forego sexual companionship…
I shook my head, steering the conversation somewhere else.
“We can’t talk about this in front of the kids,” I hissed through my teeth. “You know they repeat everything they hear—”
A little girl came up to us, pushing a miniature shopping cart with a jumble of dolls inside.
“What’s a biker hunk?”
Marcy snorted a laugh.
"See what I mean?" I whispered.
“You’ll find out when you’re older, sweetie." Marcy knelt down and smoothed a stray curl away from the little girl's forehead. “Your main concern right now is what snack you’re going to pick for lunch.”
The little girl cheered, sufficiently distracted.
And I released a breath of relief, grateful for the change of subject.
By the time I got off work, the sun dipped low on the horizon.
As August came to a close, the days grew shorter.
Autumn was just around the corner. In about a week, September would arrive, bringing cooler temperatures, the first touch of fall colors, and pumpkin-spiced everything. My favorite time of year.
As I headed to my car, movement on the other side of the street caught my attention. My heart leaped into my throat and my gaze snapped up. A large silver truck rolled around the corner.
Uneasiness prickled along my arms.
It’s nothing, I reasoned. I'm just jumpy and overreacting.
Big silver trucks were a dime a dozen in Montana.
But I could have sworn I’d seen that same truck following me to work last week. It didn’t happen every day though, so I couldn’t be absolutely sure.
That’s why I didn’t mention it to Ryker. I could imagine what a disaster that conversation would be.
Hey, um…yeah, this truck follows me. No, just once in a while. And I don’t have a license plate number. Have I seen the driver’s face? Well, no, not exactly. I can’t be sure it’s the same truck, either. It’s just…a feeling.
No one would take me seriously if I gave an explanation like that.
Gripping my keys, I hurried to my car. The knot of tension between my shoulders eased a little, knowing I was safe behind locked doors.
Testing a theory, I turned south, driving in the opposite direction from my apartment. If this truck really was following me, I didn’t want to lead them back to where I lived.
For the first two blocks, there was no sign of the truck.
Then it rolled into view, practically kissing my bumper. My Volkswagen felt so miniscule in comparison. The huge, menacing grille filled my rearview mirror.
My heart lurched against my sternum.
Stay calm, stay calm.
I flicked my flashers at the truck and gestured for the driver to go around me.
In response, the truck revved its engine and tapped my bumper. I lurched with a noise of surprise, clutching my steering wheel with trembling hands.
Reaching out, I dug around frantically in my purse and found my phone. I needed to call for help—Ryker, Noah, the police, anyone.
The truck plowed into the back of my car, pushing me forward. My car skidded sideways, burning rubber with an acrid stench.
My phone fell from my fingers, skidding across the floor. It ended up somewhere near my brake pedal—too far out of reach to retrieve it.
I hit the gas, trying to escape the truck’s onslaught.
My tires gained no traction. I couldn’t get away, trapped like a bug against the truck’s grille.
Then a familiar figure on a motorcycle turned the corner up ahead. Ryker. Speeding toward me, he lifted his arm, pistol in hand. Eyes cold. Jaw set.
He fired three times. The truck took a sharp turn and roared away.
I hit the brakes hard, tires squealing. My teeth chattered with shock. I sat there, frozen.
Ryker shouted something from behind me. I saw him gesture sharply in the direction of the truck. Another biker took off after it, skidding around the turn.
A moment later, Ryker rapped his knuckles against my window.
“Kelsie, it’s me. Open up.”
Peeling my hand off the steering wheel, I pressed the unlock button. As soon as Ryker heard the locking mechanism release, he yanked my door open, pulling me out of the car.
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
I stumbled into his arms with relief. He held me so tightly that I couldn’t breathe.
“The truck—” I rasped.
“I know.”
“It was following me. It—it tried to run me off the road.”
“I know.”
Ryker cradled the back of my head in his palm, folding me even harder into his chest. The leather of his cut was warm from the sun. He smelled like pine forests and black coffee. I curled my fingers into his shirt, burrowing against him.
I marveled that he could be so calm, when it seemed like my knees had turned to jelly, threatening to fold under me at any minute.
“Let me look at you,” Ryker said firmly.
Cupping my face in his hands, he tilted my head up until I met his gaze. He searched my face, touched my arms and torso in a brisk manner, all-business, searching for bruises or broken bones.
“Do you feel any pain?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Just shaken up,” I croaked. “I want to go home.”
Ryker exhaled hard.
“Ain't doin' that, Kelsie. Not after this. Shit just got serious.”
I said nothing. My stalker had never made contact with me before. Leaving those sunglasses in my apartment was the closest I came to actually meeting him face-to-face.
But this was different. This was aggressive, violent.
What if Ryker hadn’t shown up when he did? What would have happened if my stalker succeeded in running me off the road?
“I’m takin' you to my place,” Ryker declared. “No one will get to you there. And you’re goin' to tell your brother everything.”
Damn it.