Chapter 7 - Steel
I flex my fingers, feeling the sting of split knuckles.
Should have done more damage. Should have broken their fingers one by one and made sure they'd never throw another punch. But not here, not with all these phones recording, not with...
"Steel?" Clarissa's voice pulls me back. "You okay?"
"Fine." I force my hands to unclench. "They won't bother you again."
The crowd's starting to disperse, though some are still lingering, probably hoping for more action. The two thugs have managed to crawl away, leaving blood streaks on the pavement.
"I should get back to work, but..." She runs a shaking hand through her hair. "My heart's still racing. Think I need a minute."
I nod, understanding the adrenaline crash. Seen it enough times.
"I'll call August, have him pick up my bike, but..." She bites her lip, and I know whatever comes next is going to be trouble. "Could you give me a ride home? Just until I calm down?"
Fuck.
My hands clench again, this time for a different reason. Her, on my bike, pressed against my back? Bad idea. Very bad idea.
"Please?" Those amber eyes look up at me, and damn if I'm not already nodding.
"Yeah, okay." The words come out rough. "But straight home."
She smiles, and for a moment I forget about the pain in my ribs, the taste of blood in my mouth.
"Let me make that call first."
I watch her step away, phone to her ear, trying not to notice how her hands are still shaking slightly. Trying not to think about how good it felt to hit those guys, how much I wanted to do worse.
She can't see that side of me. The side that's earned my place in the MC. The side that knows exactly how many pounds of pressure it takes to break a man's fingers.
"August is sending Trenton with the tow truck," she says, coming back. "He wasn't happy about what happened."
"Bet he wasn't." I swing my leg over the bike, trying to ignore how my ribs protest. "You sure about this?"
She steps closer, and I catch that mix of motor oil and sweetness again.
"Unless you're scared?"
I grunt.
"Get on the bike, princess." The lovely name comes out, but she doesn’t seem to mind.
She slides on behind me, her thighs pressing against mine, her arms wrapping around my waist. I close my eyes for a moment, forcing myself to breathe steadily.
"Which way?" I ask, starting the engine.
"Left at the light," she says, her breath warm against my neck. "Then second right."
I pull out onto the street, hyper-aware of every point where her body touches mine. She holds tighter around a corner, and I must bite back a groan.
Twenty-five years ago, I knew every street in Hope Peak. Now, with her arms around my waist and her directions in my ear, it's like riding through a strange town.
"Next left," she says, her voice close to my ear, sending a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the wind.
The streets are quiet now, most people back at work or inside avoiding the midday heat. We pass the old elementary school, now sporting a fresh coat of paint but still looking tired.
"That's new," I mutter, more to myself than her.
"They renovated last year." Her chin rests on my shoulder as she speaks, and I can feel her words vibrate through my body. "Trying to attract young families to Hope Peak. The Morrison brothers opposed it, of course. Said the money could be better spent on 'development projects.'"
Another right turn, and we're in a neighborhood I barely recognize. Modern houses mixed with older ones, all with neat lawns and trimmed hedges. The kind of place I never belonged, even before I left.
"The blue one," she directs. "With the motorcycle parts in the driveway."
I pull up to a small craftsman-style house. True to her word, various bike parts are arranged neatly along one side of the driveway. Some look restored, others waiting their turn. It's organized chaos, just like her.
She slides off the bike, and I immediately miss her warmth.
"Want to come in? The least I can do is clean up those wounds."
Warning bells go off in my head. Going into her house is a monumentally bad idea. I've seen how this ends - with complicated feelings and someone getting hurt. But my split lip is throbbing, and my ribs could use some ice. Plus, something in her eyes makes it impossible to say no.
"Just for a minute," I hear myself say, knowing it's a lie even as the words leave my mouth.
She unlocks the front door, leading me into a pure Clarissa space. Tools are mixed with feminine touches—a floral couch next to a workbench, mechanical diagrams framed like art on the walls, and a half-assembled engine sitting on a coffee table like some people might display flowers.
"Bathroom's through there," she points down a hallway lined with black and white photographs of motorcycles. "First aid kit's under the sink. I'll get some ice."
I find the kit where she said, catching my reflection in the mirror. Blood's dried on my lip, and a bruise is darkening along my jaw. It could be worse. Been worse plenty of times. But something about seeing my beaten-up face in her clean, bright bathroom makes me feel out of place.
"Here," she appears in the doorway with an ice pack, still wearing her work clothes with grease stains that somehow make her more attractive. "Let me help."
"I got it," I try to take the ice pack, but she's already stepping closer into my space.
"Don't be stubborn." She dabs at my lip with an alcohol wipe, her touch gentle. "You got these defending me. The least I can do is patch you up."
She's standing between my legs as I lean against the counter, her face close enough that I can count her freckles. This is dangerous territory. More dangerous than any bar fight or MC business I've ever been in.
"Thank you," she says softly, her breath ghosting across my face. "For what you did back there."
"Don't mention it." My voice comes out rougher than intended.
"No, I mean it." She meets my eyes, and I see something there that spikes my heart rate. "Not many people stand up to them. Everyone's too scared."
"Not anymore," I say, trying to focus on anything but how close she is. "Word will get around about what happened today. People will start standing up to them."
She nods, applying antibiotic ointment to my lip. Her fingers brush my beard, and I must suppress my desire to claim her right here and now.
"All done," she says but doesn't step back. If anything, she moves closer.
I should leave. Should get on my bike and ride far away from this woman who makes me forget every rule I've made for myself. But I'm frozen in place, caught in her amber eyes, breathing in her scent.
"Clarissa," I warn, my voice low. "This isn't a good idea."
"Why not?" She challenges, tilting her chin up. "Because you're leaving? Because you're too old? Too dangerous?"
Christ, she sees right through me.
"All of the above," I growl, gripping the counter behind me to keep from touching her. "I'm not a good man, Clarissa."
"I think you are." Her fingers trail down my chest, stopping at my cut. "A bad man wouldn't have defended me today. Wouldn't care about his mother's house."
"You don't know what I've done." The words come out harsh, but she needs to understand. "The things I'm capable of."
"Then show me."
Jesus Christ. My control snaps like a rubber band pulled too tight. My hands find her waist, lifting her onto the counter like she weighs nothing at all. She gasps, but her legs wrap around my hips, pulling me closer.
"Last chance to back out, princess." My voice is barely recognizable, even to myself.
Instead of answering, she grabs my cut and pulls me closer. Our mouths crash together, and the pain from my split lip only adds to the fire. Her lips taste like chocolate, and I'm drowning in it.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, jarring us apart. Hellfire's name flashes on the screen.
"Fuck," I mutter, stepping back. Reality crashes back like a bucket of cold water. "I need to take this."
She's still perched on the counter, lips swollen, hair messed up. The sight makes me want to ignore the call, consequences be damned.
"Take it," she says, sliding off the counter.
I watch her leave the bathroom, trying to get my breathing under control before answering.
"Yeah?" My voice is still rough.
"Where the hell have you been?" Hellfire's voice booms through the speaker. "Been trying to reach you for hours."
I close my eyes, leaning against the wall. "Had trouble with some locals."
"What kind of trouble?"
"Nothing I couldn't handle." I touch my split lip. "But they're pushing back harder than expected."
"Need backup?"
Yes. No. Maybe. Having the MC here would solve the Morrison problem quickly, but it would also mean explaining Clarissa—explaining whatever this is becoming.
"Not yet," I say finally. "Give me a couple more days."
Silence on the other end. Then, "You got 48 hours, Steel. Then I'm sending Wrath and Crow."
The line goes dead. I stare at the phone, wondering how everything got so complicated so fast.
The smell of coffee draws me out of the bathroom. Clarissa's in the kitchen, her back to me as she pours two mugs. She's pulled her hair up, exposing the curve of her neck.
"Everything okay?" she asks without turning around.
"Yeah." The lie tastes bitter. "Just club business."
She turns, handing me a mug. "Ever think about leaving? Having a normal life?"
The question hits harder than any punch from today. I take a long sip of coffee, buying time.
"Club's my family," I say finally. "Only real family I've had since Mom."
"That's not what I asked."
I look at her over the rim of my mug. She's leaning against the counter, arms crossed, waiting.
"Yeah," I admit. "Thought about it. Early on, mostly. Watching normal people with their normal lives, their nine-to-fives, and weekend barbecues."
"And now?"
"Now I know better." I set the mug down harder than intended. "That life's not for guys like me. Too much blood on my hands, too many enemies."
"Sounds lonely."
"Got the club."
"But no one to come home to," she says softly. "No one to patch you up after fights. No one to..."
"Stop." My voice comes out sharp. "Don't go making me into something I'm not. Some project you can fix up like one of your bikes."
"That's not-"
"It is." I push off from the wall I've been leaning against. "You're young, Clarissa. Got your whole life ahead of you. Don't waste it thinking about domesticating some old biker."
"I'm not a child," she snaps, fire flashing in those amber eyes. "Stop treating me like one. I know what I want."
"Do you?" I step closer, using my height to loom over her. "You want a man who might not come home one night? Who's got other MCs gunning for him? Who's done things that'd keep you up at night if you knew about them?"
She doesn't back down. Just tilts her head back, meeting my gaze.
"Maybe I want someone real. Someone who doesn't pretend to be something they're not like everyone else in this town."
"You're insane," I mutter, running a hand through my hair. "Completely out of your mind."
She shrugs, a small smile playing on her lips. "Maybe. But you still haven't backed away."
I realize she's right. We're still standing close enough that I can feel the heat from her body. Close enough to see the light dusting of freckles across her nose again, the flecks of gold in her amber eyes.
"Why Steel?" she asks suddenly, changing the subject. "Of all the tough guy names out there, why that one? Could've been Hammer, or Blade, or something equally dramatic."
I let out a breath, grateful for the shift in conversation.
"Hellfire gave it to me. First night I showed up at the clubhouse."
"There's a story there." She takes another sip of her coffee, watching me over the rim.
"Some drunk asshole pulled a knife on prospects. I took it from him." I touch the scar on my forearm unconsciously, remembering the bite of steel through flesh. "Blade went right through my arm, but I didn't drop. Hellfire said I was either made of steel or too stupid to feel pain. Name stuck after that. I joined them not long after."
"Which was it?"
"Both, probably." I can't help but smile at the memory. "Hellfire made me work the bar for six months after that. Said anyone dumb enough to grab a knife by the blade needed to learn some sense first. Of course I now know every prospect has to go through that. Back then, I thought it was just me."
She reaches out, her fingers tracing the scar on my hand. "Got many more like this?"
"More than I can count." My voice comes out rough. Her touch is doing things to me, making it hard to think straight. "Each one's a lesson learned."
"And what's the lesson from today?"
I catch her hand before it can wander further. "That I need to leave. Now."
"Why?"
"Because if I don't, I'm gonna do something we'll both regret."
Her eyes meet mine, challenging. "What if I want you to?"