Chapter 12 #2
His voice is calm, steady, like he’s thought it over and this is his answer.
“If we decide to sleep together,” he continues, “I need you to know that it wouldn’t be pretending for me.
I know from the outside looking in, it probably seems like club culture is rough and ready bikers having meaningless sex with club girls, right, left, and center, but you’re no club girl and that means I’m not gonna treat you like one.
If we get together, it’s gotta be because we’re lookin’ for something real.
Do you understand where I’m comin’ from? ”
This is Onyx being honest and careful with me because he respects me. That part is coming through loud and clear. He didn’t jump at the chance to have sex with me. Whatever this is between us is important to him as well.
Trying to get my head around what he’s saying, I murmur, “This sounds an awful lot like those people who describe themselves as dating to marry.”
He gives me a lopsided smile. “Let’s not totally jump the shark here. All I’m saying is that real emotions and shit come with this dick.”
I blink in surprise. I like everything about this man.
Every damn time he opens his mouth, he says profound things that make me like him more.
I don’t know quite how he does it, but he’s snaking himself right into my heart.
Something about this big tatted-up biker wanting emotions and not just sex gets to me.
Onyx isn’t good at talking about his feelings and emotional needs.
I try to keep my voice steady. “You think of me as old lady material. Is that what you’re saying?”
His gaze holds mine. “Not just anyone’s old lady,” he says with his voice tight.
Swallowing thickly, I respond honestly, “I guess I never thought I was the kind of woman to be involved with an MC,” I say finally.
Onyx shifts beside me. “What’s the kind of woman to be involved with an MC? You mean a woman that’s smart, strong, and loyal. One who hangs tough with her man and trusts him to keep her safe even if the world is falling apart around them? I happen to think you’re exactly that kind of woman, Emily.”
I don’t know quite what to say to that. I’m all the things he said, but I’m worried about not being enough for him. He’s used to beautiful, sassy club girls. Saying that out loud seems too much like fishing for reassurance, so I ask a question instead.
“Do you think that us sharing emotions and hooking up would complicate things?”
His shoulder deliberately brushes mine, and he smiles. “Probably, but it would also be worth the complication.”
I can’t keep the smile off my face. “It would be worth it for me as well. We might even fall in love.”
“If we ever become more, it won’t be a casual or halfway, Em. Not with you.”
I struggle to hold onto my emotions because Onyx is talking about everything I’ve ever dreamed about having—him, a family, a place to belong. “This started out being about safety. I worry about distracting you when danger is near.”
“Everything is always all about your safety,” he says quietly. “I’d burn the whole damn world down to keep you safe. That’ll never fuckin’ change.”
My throat goes tight, but I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
The breeze shifts, rustling the tall grass near the edge of the pond.
Onyx reaches for me and pulls me into his lap. Tucking my head under his chin, he murmurs, “We can take our time. There’s no rush. As long as we’re both still breathin’ we’ve got all the time in the world.”
We stay like that for what seems like a long time. When he whispers, “Are you ready to head back to the clubhouse?” I scramble out of his lap and walk back to his bike hand-in-hand.
Onyx swings his leg over the seat of his bike like he’s done it a thousand times.
To be fair, he probably has. The motion is smooth, confident, and completely unbothered by the weight of the world he carries around on a regular basis.
I watch the leather of his cut shift across his back as he settles in.
I pull the helmet on, adjust the strap under my chin, and step up beside the bike. It’s sleek and powerful and louder than anything I’ve ever ridden. But I don’t hesitate. I swing my leg over and settle onto the seat behind him. My knees brush the outside of his legs as I settle into place.
My arms go around his waist automatically, and the moment I lock them in place, my entire world tilts back into alignment. I’m starting to feel like I belong at his side.
The bike eases onto the road, and the wind picks up slowly, brushing over my clothes. I hold on tighter because I realize there is no place I’d rather be.
When the road opens up, he opens the throttle a little more, and I press in a little closer, resting against the strength of his back. As we crest a hill, the road curves towards familiar territory, and I know we’re almost home.
Seeing the clubhouse from this angle, it looks magnificent.
The building rises out of the land, two stories of thick concrete with reinforced walls that look more military than motorcycle club.
Or it would, if the stucco didn’t soften the general appearance.
The California sun glints off the tinted windows, making the place look like a virtual fortress.
The gates are already swinging open as we approach, a prospect I don’t know waving us through.
He’s armed, and my pulse increases at the reminder of how seriously they take securing their property.
The guns and show of force should rattle me, but it doesn’t.
It makes me feel protected and safe. We pass a few more prospects stationed along the wall, some watching, some nodding.
Inside the compound, we glide into the inner lot where only patched members park, and I realize I’m not an outsider anymore. Not with this cut on my back and his name stitched into the leather. I finally feel like nothing can touch me.
We park beside the other bikes. I pull off the helmet, still buzzed from the ride.
When we head inside, I notice the clubhouse is quieter now.
We bypass it all, moving towards the hallway that leads to the back offices.
In the office, he unlocks the door and pushes it open, flipping on the lights.
I drop my messenger bag near the desk I use and hang up my jacket before pulling out the next set of files from the box I left half-finished yesterday.
As we work, Onyx tells me one fascinating story after another about his family’s colorful history. “Did Queenie ever tell you about the wedding brawl in Modesto?” he asks, casual as he drops down in his chair and fires up his computer.
I blink at him, trying to figure out what he’s talking about. “You mean on your parents’ wedding day?”
“Yep. Some rival club crashed it trying to stir shit. My mom wore white with a switchblade hidden in her cleavage.” He grins, eyes distant with memory.
“Wait, weren’t your parents already married by the time she had her kids?”
He snorts a laugh. “Hell no, we were all half grown by the time they tied the knot. For the longest time my old man said he didn’t need a fuckin’ wedding band to remind him that he had an old lady.”
“Wow, I did not know any of that. What happened?”
“I was ten. I got sent under a table with a piece of cake and a pocketknife in case anyone made it that far. They didn’t.”
I laugh, more startled than anything, and he just shrugs. To him, his family’s antics are perfectly normal. He was born into the chaos of the Sons of Rage. And somehow, despite all of it, he turned out to be a decent man.
He glances over, mouth quirking. “Are you surprised by that story?”
“No,” I say, sliding a folder towards me. “Not even a little. It seems like par for the course around here.”
We settle in and begin plowing through work.