Chapter 8
MAREN
There is no doubt in my mind that I should be worried about the two men who tried to force information out of me.
The first time they came, I wasn’t prepared to defend myself.
The second time, I should have been and wasn’t.
So, there’s a complicated mix of fear and embarrassment rushing through my veins.
I also always thought that if I was put in such a moral dilemma, I’d be the honest and noble person.
That I’d stand my ground and never share the location of one of the only bikers I considered even remotely close to a friend.
But when I tripped out of the bait shop, and the dirt of the parking lot cut into my palms, Jackal’s address danced on the tip of my tongue.
If Knox hadn’t arrived when he did, I’m sure it would have eventually tripped out.
And I also knew I wouldn’t be able to look Knox in the eye if it did.
Given I don’t know why these men want to find their friend or know what they intend to do to Jackal, I have no concept of how severe the penalty would be if I did or said the wrong thing.
And sometimes doing nothing is the right answer.
I’m sure there is nothing wrong with me that a hot shower, strong painkillers, and a good night’s sleep won’t solve. Then, tomorrow, I need to figure out how to protect myself from their return, because I’m certain they’re coming back.
The obvious thing would be to tell my father exactly what happened, then live through the whole “I told you so” plus whatever bonus lecture he decides to give me. It says something about my relationship with my father when I realize I’d rather face those two men alone than go to him for help.
I’ve just made it to the stairs when the side door to the boathouse swings open, and my heart misfires with the fear that it’s the two men. But it’s Knox who shoves the door to finagle his bike inside.
Once done, he seals the door shut, then runs his fingers through his soaked hair, throwing off the surplus water onto the floor. Every inch of him is drenched.
Delicious and dangerous.
Two words that shouldn’t go together but, in this case, do.
His T-shirt clings to his abs where the rain soaked through. Water runs in rivulets down well-defined and muscular arms.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“What I said I was going to do. Closing up your shop and getting my bike. My window to leave passed, so maybe we can call a truce and just let me ride out the storm here.”
A small droplet of blood chooses that moment to drip off my cheek onto the ground, a swift reminder that this man just saved my life. “Fine. But we should get upstairs.”
Knox moves his bike as far away from the water as he can, then uses some rope to tie it to one of the racks we have installed.
“It should be okay there,” I say from the doorway at the bottom of the stairs. “We don’t tend to get a lot of water damage even though we’re on the swamp.”
He moves toward me, so composed for a man utterly soaked from head to toe. “Let’s get you upstairs.” Knox moves to pick me up again, and as much as it was a thrill, I put out my arms to stop him.
“I don’t need to be carried again.”
Knox runs his eyes over me, a slow and lazy drag. “I beg to differ.”
Before I can protest again, I’m already in the air.
Seeing I have no choice in the matter, I slip my arms around his neck, purely to help with stability and ease of carry.
And yeah, I know I’m a liar.
It’s an uncomfortable journey. The staircase is narrow because the door at the bottom has a seal on it to keep water out, even if the water level in the dock rises. But when we finally reach the top and Knox steps out into the small studio, I can see he’s impressed.
Wind noisily rattles the metal rails along the dock as he looks around.
“Wow.” Knox places me down by the door so I can toe off my sneakers, and he can ditch his boots. “This place is part apartment, part bunker.”
“It’s poured concrete, smooth and clean. My grandfather wanted a safe place for him and my family after Hurricane Charley hit. Something that would protect the business. He didn’t make a profit for years to be able to build it.”
There is a very small kitchen along one wall with wood cabinets, a compact stainless fridge, a two-burner stove, and a microwave. “There’s a backup generator in a waterproof room downstairs if we need it.” I grab a couple of painkillers and wash them down with water.
“I had no idea you guys had this place.” He slips out of his dripping-wet leather cut and hangs it on a hook by the door.
There’s a small television perched on a stand to my left, and the soft, worn rug in front of the sofa is the only respite from the concrete walls.
“It can get too warm in here because of all the concrete, but I figure most people can survive anything for a few days. There’s emergency roof access in the back, so you can get outside if you need to.
” I tip my head in the direction of the kitchen, where a large stack of five-gallon water bottles lives.
“There’s water, and I stocked up on some fresh food, but there is plenty of dried and canned goods. ”
Knox peers around the bed and looks beyond it. “That a bathroom through there?”
I nod. “It’s pretty rudimentary, though. There’s a rain barrel in there that I filled using the shower earlier…you know, in case we lose water and need something for the toilet.”
“We should shower while there’s still hot water and let our clothes dry.”
“We?” The image of me and Knox in the shower together causes a dark ache between my thighs.
Knox grins, for a second. “Not like that, sweetheart. You go first so you can clean up that blood. I’m gonna make a call.”
“Oh.”
Oh.
“Sure. Shower. You’ll have to go back outside for a call because the concrete’s too thick to get a signal.
” I press the button on the small security display on the side table.
It’s connected to video cameras around the property so we can watch the storm and see when things calm down. But as I raise my arm, I wince.
“For fuck’s sake,” Knox mutters. “How badly are you hurt?”
“It’s nothing,” I say. “I hit the ground; it’s bound to hurt.”
Knox marches to where I am and raises the hem of my T-shirt to look at my back.
Pain flares as he does, and I glance over my shoulder. I can see the raw scrape where my T-shirt lifted as I squirmed along the ground to get away.
Knox’s jaw tightens as he crouches in front of me. He doesn’t immediately touch me. He looks, first, his eyes moving over my skin like he’s cataloguing every mark.
I’m bumped and bruised and sore. Things are probably going to ache for a few days.
He reaches out, then, his hand warm and steady against my side. The contact is careful and measured, but seeps through me anyway. Suddenly, I’m hyperaware of exactly where he’s touching me.
“Does this hurt?” He slides his palm over my ribs and presses lightly.
“No.”
He lifts his palm higher, stopping just beneath my breast. My nipples pucker against the lace of my bra. “Here? Do your ribs hurt?”
“No. I’m pretty certain I didn’t break anything.”
His mouth tightens as he stands and gently moves a lock of hair from my face to check the injury to the side of my head. “You could have a concussion.”
“I wasn’t knocked unconscious.”
His eyes follow my lips. “We should get you checked out at the ER.”
“With what money? And in this weather?”
He runs his thumb along my jawline. Just the whisper of a touch, but his eyes are filled with the kind of heat that makes my heart pound in my chest.
“I’m not filing a report either,” I say. “In case you were worried.”
His expression tells me, in no uncertain terms, that he didn’t like the mention of the police.
Outside, the storm rattles the roller shutter doors. The lights flicker again before steadying. Rain pounds against the roof like it’s attempting to break its way inside.
The whole world suddenly feels reduced to this room and the violent weather trying to tear it apart.
Yet, I can only focus on the way Knox is looking at me right now.
“They put their hands on you,” Knox says. His tone isn’t dramatic or angry, but his eyes tell a different story. “I’m going to kill them.”
It’s wild how five words, spoken so pragmatically, can tip your world. I should be terrified of them. But for the first time since my grandparents passed, someone is standing for me.
I study him in the low light of the apartment. There’s something different about him up here. Maybe it’s because he’s not wearing his cut; maybe it’s because he’s not surrounded by members of his club. For the first time, I see the man, not the biker.
He turns away from me, breaking the intensity. His gaze stops on one of my paintings. The marsh landscape in shades of deep green and blue. A chaotic, abstract piece where colors crash into each other in violent streaks.
“That painting is too good to be in here if you barely use this place.”
I smile to myself. “Yeah? Why?”
He shrugs, rainwater dripping from the ends of his dark hair as he steps closer to inspect the strokes. “Don’t know. Not much of an art connoisseur, but you can almost feel the pull of the swamp in it.”
“You can have it,” I say impulsively. “If it pulls that kind of emotion out of you, then you’re right. It shouldn’t waste away up here.”
He shakes his head and looks back at me. “You can’t just give me one of your family’s pieces of art because I like it.”
“I can, because I painted it.”
His eyes go wide. “You did?”
I nod. “It’s my hobby. I was about to go get my paints so I could work in here while the storm blew through.”
He looks confused, like he’s trying to put together a puzzle with missing pieces. “You sure know how to capture a storm.”
“I’ve had a lot of time to practice. I’ve been Caldwell’s daughter my whole life, which means I’ve never had many friends. Most people don’t see me as anything but my connection to him.”
The lights flicker again, and this time, they go out completely. The room drops into darkness, with the exception of the battery-operated emergency light above the stairwell.
My heart races, more because of my proximity to Knox than the semi-darkness. I exhale slowly and try to get myself under control.
I hear Knox take a couple of steps closer to me. After a moment, he reaches out, his hand resting on the curve of my waist, his thumb brushing over my rib. His touch ignites something immediate and unmistakable, and this all feels as unstoppable as the storm.
Here, in the dark, I’m not Caldwell’s daughter, and he isn’t the president of the Iron Outlaws. My father isn’t the man who killed his brother.
There’s a rumble from beneath us as the generator kicks in, and only the light above the kitchen and in the bathroom flicker back on.
“It’s a critical load panel for the generator.” My mouth is so dry, my voice cracks. “Only powers essential things.”
“I wish you’d stay out of it,” Knox says cryptically. I’m not sure if he means tracking down Jackal about the boat or talking to the two men. “I don’t want to have to worry about you.”
“I tried.”
He blows out a breath, like a man faced with two terrible choices, and the tension between us is so palpable, I swear I could touch it.
Knox moves first. Slowly and deliberately, like he’s giving me the time to stop him.
But I don’t. I want to see how far this could go with my whole heart.
I want to see who we could be, just for this one night with the storm howling in shame for us. I want to know what it feels like when he worries about me.
His hand slides up along my jaw, rough fingers against my skin as he tilts my face.
And then, Knox kisses me.