Chapter Fourteen
Sunny
“Is it always this quiet here?” I ask as we pull inside the compound gates.
“No,” Spike answers. “I’ve sent everyone who doesn’t live inside the compound home. We need to get you secured and have a meeting before I open the gates back up.”
Parking the truck, the men get out and open the back doors.
“This isn’t going to be fun,” I whine.
I start to twist to undo my belt but Jack beats me to it.
“I’m going to lift you and hold you against my chest, Sunny,” he says. “It will be the least painful way.”
“Really?” I laugh. “You want to lift me into your arms and walk me to your house?”
He doesn’t respond.
“I mean, if you think you can lift my fat butt, go for it.”
“Oh, girl,” Riley groans. “Wrong thing to say. Dang it, I should have warned her.”
“What?” I ask, trying to look around a scowling Jack to see my friend.
It’s no use.
“That’s the last time you’ll say anything bad about your body,” Jack says. “You’re fucking perfect, Sunny. I’m not a gentle man in anything I do. If you were any smaller, then I’d break you in half when I fuck you.”
I’m sorry…what?
“Speechless,” Riley laughs.
“I’m picking you up, baby. Got it?”
“Got it,” I whisper, still not sure how to respond.
Does he want to have sex with me? I know he said that he wants us to be in a relationship, but sex? Am I ready for him to see me naked?
With that perfect body? Heck to the no am I ready for him to mine.
When he reaches for me, my instinct is to wrap my right arm around his neck.
Big. Freaking. Mistake.
“Damnit, Sunny,” he says as I scream in pain. “Don’t move, baby.”
It takes several minutes for the pain to subside enough for me to focus. This time, I tuck my hands in my lap and hold my breath as Jack lifts me effortlessly out of the truck.
“Oh, that’s not so bad,” I sigh.
“Riley, will you go ahead and open my door?”
“On it,” she says, rushing forward.
A soft breeze blows and I close my eyes as it tosses my hair back. A smokey scent hits me, and my nose twitches.
“Oh no,” I say.
“What?” Jack stops looking down at me.
“I have to sneeze,” I say wide-eyed. “I can feel it coming, Jack. What do I do?”
“Fuck,” he says. “Spike, come here, quick. I need you to brace her!” Jack barks.
Spike’s already moving.
“What’s happening?” Riley calls from the porch.
“She’s gonna sneeze!” Jack says.
Spike blinks once. “Shit.”
I can feel the sneeze building. Has a sneeze ever taken this long to happen before? Then again, I’m trying everything in my power to hold it back.
Spike positions himself in front of Jack, me sandwiched between them. Their hands move with practiced calm. One arm goes behind my shoulders…another gently anchors my left arm against my side.
“Try to hold still,” Spike says, his voice suddenly gentle, like he’s talking to a skittish horse. “Don’t fight it, just breathe slow. You hear me, Sunny?”
I nod. My eyes are watering. My nose twitches again.
“Don’t do it,” I whisper to myself. “Be strong. Be brave. Be…ah-ah…”
“Think of… math!” Riley calls helpfully from the doorway.
“Are you kidding me? ” I squeak out.
Too late.
“Aaah-choo!”
Agony.
White-hot, searing pain slices through my chest. I make a sound I’m pretty sure only banshees and dying possums make.
“Breathe, baby, breathe,” Jack murmurs, adjusting his hold, and pressing a kiss to my temple. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
“You liar, ” I wheeze. “I saw the light.”
Spike winces. “Let’s get her inside before something else causes her to sneeze.”
***Bones***
“What do you mean you don’t own a TV?” Shaking my head, I tuck the blanket tighter around my new burden. “Waste of time,” I mutter.
“It is most definitely not a waste of time,” she argues. “Movies are therapy. Like, actual soul-soothing, heart-hugging therapy. I can’t just sit in this room with no TV. That’s psychological warfare.”
I grunt, shaking my head. “I’ve got books.”
Her eyes light up like I just told her I had a litter of puppies hiding under the seat. “Really? What kind?”
I fight the smirk crawling up my face. “The kind with words in ‘em.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, and damn if that doesn’t make my chest feel tight. “You don’t say. That narrows it down to every book ever written . Are we talking thrilling crime novels? Broody biker memoirs? Spicy romance with surprise weddings and shirtless cowboys?”
I huff a laugh. She’s ridiculous. And somehow, perfect.
“Mostly classics,” I admit. “Some history. War stuff. Poetry. A few cookbooks Patch gave me that I’ve never opened.”
Her mouth drops open in mock horror. “You mean you’re not a biker chef? What a tragic waste of potential.”
“I grill,” I say with a shrug.
She gasps like I just announced I’d climbed Everest. “You grill ? Oh no. A man of mystery and meat.”
I shake my head, but I’m not even trying to hide the grin now. She could make sunshine blush, this woman. And somehow, she’s looking at me like I hung the damn moon.
God help me. I think I’m gone for her.
“You’re a pain in the ass,” I mutter, even though my chest is damn near warm from just looking at her.
She grins, all sunshine and zero remorse. “A pain in the butt without motion picture entertainment.”
I arch a brow. “You always censor yourself?”
“I’m injured, not uncivilized,” she says primly, then immediately ruins it by wiggling her brows. “Now warm that voice up, book boy. I’m gonna need entertainment if we’re skipping TV.”
I groan, but I already know I’d read her every damn book on my shelf if it means I get to see that smile again.
“I’ll go and get you a TV tomorrow,” I mutter, shaking my head like I’m annoyed, even though I’m not. Not even close. “Here, take these.”
“What are they?”
“Pain meds and something to help you sleep.”
She eyes them like they’re little miracle pills. “Actually, both of those sound amazing right about now. But… would you still read something to me while I’m falling asleep? I like the timbre of your voice. It’s relaxing.”
Damn her and that soft little smile.
“Yeah, baby,” I say quietly, handing her the pills. “You close those eyes, and I’ll read whatever you want.”
Even the back of a cereal box, if that’s what she asks.
Tossing the pills back, she takes a drink of water.
“You choose,” she says, laying her head back and closing her eyes.
I grab the first book my hand lands on. Motorcycle Mechanics 101 . Not exactly a bedtime story, but hell, she told me to choose.
Pulling a chair close to the bed, I flip it open and clear my throat, voice dropping low and steady.
“ Chapter One: The Heart of the Machine. The engine is the soul of every motorcycle…its beating heart. Whether it’s a thumping single-cylinder or a roaring V-twin, understanding your engine means understanding your ride.
Combustion, compression, spark, and exhaust. It’s not magic, it’s mechanics.
And when you get it right, that engine doesn’t just run…
it purrs, growls, and tells you a story with every mile. ”
I glance over.
Her lips are curved in the faintest smile, eyes still closed, and her hand curls loosely in the blanket.
“Respect the machine,” I keep reading, “and it’ll take you anywhere. Abuse it, and it’ll leave you stranded.”
I look at her again, soft and still and beautiful in my bed, and I swear the universe just nodded like yeah, man, this is it .
My voice goes quieter.
“You’re my favorite kind of stranded, doll.”
“Weird thing to write in a book about motorcycles,” she says, a soft laugh in her voice.
“Did you know that the engine of most motorcycles is referred to as a powerplant?” she murmurs, eyes still closed, voice hazy with sleep and pain meds.
“I read that somewhere. Thought it sounded kinda poetic… like the bike grows from it.”
I huff a laugh, setting the book on my knee but not closing it.
“That’s exactly what it is. A powerplant. Feeds the beast…keeps it moving. Without it, the whole thing’s just a pretty corpse.”
She hums. “That’s broodingly dramatic.”
“You like broodingly dramatic things,” I say, softer this time.
There’s a pause. Then…
“Yeah,” she whispers. “But only when you do it.”
I lean back in the chair, watching her breathe. She’s drifting, slow and easy, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything look so right.
The girl who thinks she’s too soft for a world like mine, curled up in the middle of it like she was always meant to be here.
And God help me... I think I believe it.
I glance down at the book again, thumb sliding over the dog-eared edge like it’s sacred text. Maybe tonight it is.
My voice drops low, more breath than sound, but steady enough to carry.
“Internal combustion engines operate by igniting a mixture of fuel and air in the cylinder. This reaction creates pressure, pushing the piston down, and turning the crankshaft. This is what drives the bike forward. Every spark, every stroke, is precision. Trust. Rhythm.”
She doesn’t respond this time. Her lashes are still against her cheeks, her mouth soft and slack with sleep. But I keep reading. For her. For me.
“A motorcycle is more than a machine. It’s an extension of the rider. A partner on the open road. When properly maintained, it becomes a seamless link between man and motion. A dance of gears and fire.”
Outside the window, the sky’s dipped into that deep, velvety blue that comes just before full night. Quiet. Calm.
“To understand a motorcycle, one must respect the balance. Between strength and surrender. Between control and freedom.”
I pause, looking over at her one more time. She’s gone under, completely. But I swear… her lips twitch like she heard that last line and agreed.
I set the book down on the nightstand and lean forward, brushing a kiss across her forehead.
“You’re my favorite kind of freedom, doll,” I whisper.
Then I turn off the light and let the silence settle around us, steady as the purr of a well-tuned engine.
Shooting off a quick text for Foster to find the best place to buy a fucking TV, I lean back and fall asleep.