Chapter Four
Jenna
I was rarely a full-face-of-makeup type of woman. From a young age, my mom constantly instilled in me the most effective way of enhancing beauty was to let it shine through naturally. She taught me how to add a little to get a lot , and it had never failed me.
After applying a smidge of eyeliner and a bit of mascara, I brushed a hint of blush on my cheeks, smeared on a touch of lip gloss, and I was finished. Since my straight, honey-brown hair simply refused to hold a curl, I never bothered. I didn’t even own a curling iron. The best I could do was keep it healthy and trimmed, styled in layers to add a bit of dimension.
I did, however, wash it and blow dry it, so an effort had certainly been made.
I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, trying to decide if I still recognized the woman who looked back at me. Since Maverick’s comment, I wasn’t so sure.
The last man I dated was a real estate broker. We’d met in the emergency room after he’d come in with a broken finger. We dated a whole six months before I decided it wasn’t going to work. While he checked quite a few boxes—funny, smart, nice to strangers, wanted kids, called his mom regularly but not like one not yet weaned—I just couldn’t picture us going the distance. He was too obsessed with how great we looked together as a couple.
He never said it, because it wasn’t in his personality to be outright rude, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d love me until after I’d bore him two children; at which point, any mommy-weight I might have had a hard time getting rid of would send him on the hunt for a trophy wife. I couldn’t live with that kind of fear lurking over my shoulder, so I ended it.
Before him, there was a banker I’d met at the grocery store. We literally met in the produce section. I thought things like that only happened in movies and books, but I was wrong. Except, while he was responsible, intelligent, affectionate, and the fun uncle his nieces and nephews loved, he could only make me come once every fourth try and he was routinely late to everything. For a while, I convinced myself I could live with one but not both. Then I reminded myself forever was a long time, and I let him go.
A couple years after college, when I finally got over Brian, I dated a pharmacy tech who wore too much cologne, followed by a guy that owned a car wash who never put the toilet seat down.
There was always something —an unchecked box or a red flag—that warned me to take a step back and reconsider. Until twenty-four hours ago, I’d never really thought there was anything wrong with my approach. There was a method to my strategy. I was picky, sure, but it was only in a ruthless effort to protect myself.
I never wanted to be blindsided by a breakup again. There was nothing worse than surprise heartache. The end of a relationship was never easy. Just because I was the one who had ended a string of them didn’t mean it hadn’t hurt, but I had to keep my eyes open and pay attention to everything. I had to make sure I got out before it was too late—before I fell in love, and he ended it.
But Maverick calling me a goddess and a self-righteous barbie in the same sentence had distorted what I saw in the mirror.
Maybe I hadn’t found the one because I was always so busy looking for reasons why it couldn’t possibly work that I lost sight of all the reasons why it could. I didn’t think I was self-righteous, but I did fear I was a bit close-minded. Almost like I was over-correcting, somehow.
How many men had I dumped over a hypothetical issue as opposed to a real one?
Would I still be alone if I had settled for a few un-checked boxes?
Would I be happy?
Intent as I was to be open that night with Maverick, I still didn’t think he was the one. But if I blew him off without giving him a chance, without allowing him to show me who he really was as opposed to what I assumed, I’d only be throwing myself in the same cycle as I always did. I needed to change my tactics. I needed to try . The alternative was to go another year with only my job and my friends to keep me company.
My friend Lindsey, a fellow ER nurse, had been trying to convince me to try app-dating. Two years removed from a divorce, with two kids at home, it was the only way she could make time to meet men. Convenient as it might have been, she hadn’t talked me into joining her. Though, maybe with my new open-minded attitude, it was time to give it a try.
After my date with Maverick, of course.
I didn’t know where we were going, as he’d insisted on picking me up rather than telling me where to meet him. That said, something told me the man didn’t own pants that weren’t denim, so I figured I’d be pretty safe in a pair of jeans. For my top, I chose my fitted, black, off the shoulder, short sleeved shirt with the subtle V-cut neckline. It was a favorite of mine, and I had a totally comfortable strapless bra to wear underneath it.
I tucked my shirt into my jeans and completed the look with my black leather belt. It had a big, gold buckle, and I had the perfect strappy, gold sandals with a chunky heel to match.
I’d just finished clasping the closure at my ankle when I heard it and froze .
There was no mistaking the rumble of a motorcycle.
I replayed the moment I woke up, read his text, then replied with my own. I’d made myself perfectly clear when I told him I was not getting on his bike. There was wild, and then there was reckless . I was hardly the former, but I was definitely not the latter, and I wasn’t that open-minded.
When the engine cut off, I came unfrozen and hustled my way out of my bedroom. I was through the hall, around the bend, and hurrying down the stairs that led to my townhome’s front entryway in no time. I twisted my deadbolt free, swung open the door, and stared wide eyed at what I saw.
And what I saw was Maverick, standing next to his bike, parked on the curb in front of my house.
As I stomped my way across my lawn, he called out, “Foxy, a man picks his date up at her door, not the curb.”
I was too distracted to take note that his comment was definitely worthy of a checked box.
However, for a fraction of a second, as I drew closer, I couldn’t help but notice the way his curls looked—heavy, damp and defined after a shower. I wasn’t sure if he’d put product in it, but it was irritatingly beautiful.
Irritatingly mostly because I didn’t want to appreciate his hair while I was trying to be deliberate.
“I’m not getting on the back of that thing,” I insisted, pointing flippantly at the gray beast behind him.
As I suspected, he was wearing a pair of jeans. Dark-washed and well worn, figuratively and literally, but free of any holes. The plain, sage green tee he wore underneath his kutte fit just right, and the deep V at his collarbone revealed the necklace he wore—a small pendant on a thin, gold chain. I didn’t know much about the man, but he looked different than the two times I’d seen him before. Like he’d put himself together that night on purpose.
“Been ridin’ half my life, babe. You couldn’t be in safer hands. Besides, this is Gillette, not Houston.”
I knit my eyebrows together, not understanding how our location made any difference to my decision. A decision I was not going to change.
Rather than argue with him about it, I said, “I’ll just drive myself. Where are we going?”
He opened the flaps of his kutte, took hold of his hips, leaned toward me and asked, “Jenna, you ever been on the back of a hog?”
I straightened a little, taken aback by the way he’d said my name.
Had he ever said my name before?
I couldn’t remember, and I didn’t have time to think about it.
I was certain of this as Maverick lifted his brow to express his impatience.
“No,” I replied honestly.
“Then how do you know you don’t like it?”
Mimicking his stance, I grabbed hold of my hips, leaned toward him, and said, “Never done heroin, either—pretty sure it’s in my best interests not to try it.”
This time it was him who straightened. As he stood tall, the corner of his mouth curled in amusement.
He appreciated my sarcasm.
That checked a box.
But I still wasn’t getting on his bike.
“High you’ll get on the back of my cruiser feels a whole lot better without the adverse health risks. Get your shit. Let’s go.”
I shook my head, folding my arms across my chest as I reiterated, “Maverick, I’m not joking. I’m not getting on that thing.”
“Babe—call my hog a thing one more time, and there will be consequences.”
It hadn’t been so long that I’d forgotten the last time he’d given me such a warning.
The consequences were far from horrible, but we were in the middle of something, and I didn’t feel like getting bested by a kiss.
I took a deep breath, dropped my arms to my sides, and tried to calmly explain, “Here’s the thing: Tess and I go way back. I love her to death. But I am not her and she is not me. That’s part of the reason we get on so well. She’s the yin to my yang. But she’s the crazy one, not me. I get my adrenalin kick in the emergency room. I don’t need to feel the high that comes from getting on the back of that—” I barely caught myself before I stopped and finished, “ bike. ”
Maverick stared at me a moment then turned and reached down to unlatch the lid on one of his saddlebags. He pulled out a half-helmet and held it out to me.
“Brought you a helmet.”
That was, irritatingly, kind of thoughtful.
Irritatingly because I might have been starting to change my mind.
Still, I wasn’t ready to relent.
“Mav—”
“Found myself on a motorcycle,” he interrupted. “Struggled all my life to figure out where the hell I belonged, until I rode in formation with a pack of my brothers. Greatest feeling in the world. Didn’t know it until I did it, babe—and you won’t know what you’re missin’ if you never try it.
“It’s one ride, foxy. It won’t kill you.”
I looked from Maverick to the helmet, to the bike, to the helmet, to the bike, then to Maverick before I murmured, “There are no doors. It’s not safe.”
“Won’t be trapped in a cage in the middle of summer. You either trust me to keep you safe on my hog, or you don’t trust me at all.”
“Gosh, are you always this stubborn?” I asked on a huff.
He grinned, and my chest tightened as he retorted, “Are you? ”
I stared at him for a full minute and then decided I’d been bested, but without the luxury of a kiss. I’d already fought and won a battle with myself, agreeing to go on the date at all. If I had to wave a white flag and go on said date on the back of a motorcycle, at least he’d been kind enough to supply me with a helmet.
Without saying another word, I turned on my heel and marched my way back inside. I was wearing the perfect gold, strappy sandals, but there was no way I was leaving my toes exposed out on the road. I didn’t care how safe Maverick insisted he could keep me.
Lucky for him, I had a pair of close-toed, stiletto ankle boots that were an acceptable alternative.
And if anything happens to these boots, he’s going to pay for it , I thought to myself as I dug them out of my closet.
Before I headed back outside, I pulled on a denim jacket for good measure. It was still warm out, and I didn’t love the denim on denim I was sporting, but I wasn’t going to wave the ultimate white flag and stay home.
I grabbed my purse, made a second trip down the stairs to my front door, and gasped in surprise when I found Maverick waiting for me on my stoop.
He looked me up and down, then smirked victoriously. “Lock up, babe. Let’s go.”
I locked my front door. Then, because I was a sore loser, I didn’t bother waiting for him before I started for his bike.
Not that I could ever really get a head start on him.
With his long legs, he caught up with me in a single stride.
My stomach was in knots as we approached his Harley. I hadn’t tried to argue my way out of this for the sake of my pride. I worked in a hospital. I’d treated patients with awful cases of road rash. The thought that such a fate could befall me was terrifying.
Granted, I’d never treated a Stallion with road rash—but that was beside the point.
“Purse, babe,” he demanded.
I looked up at him, then reluctantly handed it over so he could store it in his saddlebag. He gave me the helmet, and I was quick to strap it on. I may have looked ridiculous, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t going anywhere without it.
To his credit, he didn’t blink an eyelash before he mounted his hog .
He pointed down at the foot peg as he instructed, “Step on that, hold my hand, throw your leg over.”
I looked at his hand, at the foot peg, at the bike, then at him.
“I’m scared,” I admitted on a whisper.
“Babe—swear on my life, I’d never let anything happen to you.”
He’d said exactly what I needed to hear.
I took hold of his hand, carefully secured my foot on the peg, then hoisted myself up, throwing my opposite leg over before I settled in the seat behind him.
No further instruction was required. I wrapped my arms around him without prompting, and I held on tight. I didn’t need him to tell me I’d done the right thing, but I knew I had when he reached down and gave my thigh a squeeze.
Then he pressed a few buttons, the motorcycle roared to life, I held on tighter, and we took off.
I closed my eyes at first, thinking that might make me feel better.
It did not.
But when I opened them, while the fear was still definitely there, so was Maverick.
Rather than look at the road we sped over, or the houses we passed on our way out of my neighborhood, I stared at his profile, and I concentrated on the solid nature of his frame. He was in control. He was cool and calm. Moreover, I felt like he might have been absorbing some of my inner panic, and it felt really nice.
The wind in my hair wasn’t bad either.
The wind in his filled my nose with the scent of coconuts.
Before I knew it, we were pulling into the parking lot of the Prime Rib Restaurant.
It was one of my favorite spots in town.
I loved their pasta.
He hadn’t even asked me where I wanted to go, and his first instinct was to take me to the place I would have chosen.
Another box had been checked.
“You can let go now, foxy,” he said, speaking over his shoulder.
I pulled away with a start, feeling a little embarrassed I hadn’t jumped off the Harley as soon as we came to a stop.
“You good?”
“Yeah. Fine,” I insisted. “What’s the best way to get off?”
He held out his hand, and I accepted the invitation, climbing off the same way I’d mounted. When my feet were firmly planted on the ground, I removed the helmet and ran my fingers through my hair.
Before he moved to dismount, Maverick’s brown eyes locked with mine, his eyebrows lifted in expectation.
“Well?”
“Well…what?”
He smirked. “You gonna tell me that wasn’t fun?”
Truth be told, fun wasn’t the adjective I’d use to describe our short trip.
It wasn’t horrible—but I wasn’t ready to admit that, yet, either.
“Verdict is still out,” I replied.
His crooked smile stretched into a full one as he nodded.
“Noted,” he said before he stood and threw his leg over the bike. He then reached for the helmet, swapped it for my purse in his saddlebag, and proceeded to lead the way inside.
It being a Saturday night, the place was far from empty. Rather than wait for a table, Maverick asked if I’d be alright sitting at the bar. I had no objections, which was how we found ourselves sitting at a high-top table for two. We both perused the beverage menu while we waited for our server to arrive. When she did, I ordered a glass of red wine and Maverick ordered a beer.
I already knew I was going to order the sun-dried tomato chicken pasta, so I didn’t bother looking at the dinner entrees.
“You plan on eatin’?” he asked, his attention still directed at his menu.
“Yes. I always order the same thing.”
He peeked over at me. “You come here often?”
Speaking through a smile, I assured him, “Only enough to know I love their pasta. Not enough to get sick of it and order something else.”
He nodded and went back to hunting the menu. As he did, I took the liberty of studying his kutte. I wondered if it was a requirement he wear it all the time. I wondered a lot of things about what it meant to be a Wild Stallion. Until Tess took me to Steel Mustang, I barely thought of the motorcycle club at all. At present, it sort of felt like they were inescapable.
Maverick had three patches sewn onto the right side of his chest. The top one was his name; and for the first time, I wondered if Maverick wasn’t his given name.
The patch below it read Road Captain , and the one below that said Gillette .
When Maverick finally set his menu aside, I decided that was my opening to start asking questions.
“What does road captain mean?”
He casually leaned back in his chair and answered, “Means, we gotta ride, I lead the pack.”
“Really?” I murmured, genuinely intrigued. “Always?”
“Always. I plan the route. I lead the run.”
I remembered what he said about riding in formation with his brothers. I pictured a school of fish, a flock of geese, and then a group of men on their motorcycles. If what he was telling me meant he rode at the front of the pack, that seemed like a big deal.
“Sounds important.”
He shrugged, and I totally read into his nonverbal response. He didn’t say I was wrong, so I took that to mean I was right, and he was merely being humble about it.
Humility always checked a box.
Our server returned with our drinks, I ordered the pasta, Maverick ordered a steak, and as soon as we were left alone again, I continued with my questions.
“I’m assuming the Gillette patch means there are other Stallions in other places? Or is that standard that clubs put their town on their chest?”
He smiled, as if he found my inquiries endearing.
“Yeah, there are other chapters. One down in Cheyenne, one in Missoula, Montana, and one in Boise, Idaho.”
“Oh,” I murmured, surprised to hear just how widespread they were. “Do you guys, like, get together sometimes or something?”
“We don’t have sleep overs and braid each other’s hair, if that’s what you mean. We spread out for profit reasons. The bigger a chapter gets, the more you have to split the pie.”
I nodded, overlooking his sarcasm, my curiosity piqued.
“And does each chapter have a compound with a garage, an auto-parts store, and a bar?”
“A garage, yes,” he answered patiently. “Stallions are mechanics. We’ve got a shop in Missoula, but not in Cheyenne or Boise. And Steel Mustang was Mustang’s idea. That’s one of a kind. Brothers roll in for that shit.”
“And—is Maverick your real name? I mean, I know Mustang isn’t Mustang’s real name.”
This time, he leaned toward me, propping his forearms on the table between us as he asked, “Babe, is this an interrogation or a date?”
I laughed softly as I replied, “I’m just trying to get to know you.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Tryin' to get to know me, or demystify the club?”
I sobered a little, not having considered that.
“Every time I’ve seen you, you’ve been wearing that,” I said, gesturing toward his vest. “Seems fair to say being a Stallion is a major part of who you are.”
“You’re right. It is. But it’s nothin’ to be scared of. We mind our own. We’re not troublemakers or rebel rousers.”
It was my turn to raise an eyebrow as I reminded him, “I watched Mustang beat a guy unconscious.”
He shook his head. “You’re gonna have to let that go. Besides, you want to sit there and tell me he wasn’t justified in his actions?”
I reached for the stem of my wine glass, twisting it between my fingers absentmindedly. “I just think—there are other ways of doling out justice.”
“Yup,” he muttered with a nod. “But if you’re gonna be a dumb ass and assault a woman on Stallion property, you’re askin’ for a beat down. Simple as that. Doesn’t make us monsters.”
My fingers froze as I held his steady, brown gaze.
I had to be honest with myself. There was a reason I’d been apprehensive about going on a date with the man across from me—and it wasn’t just because he had tattoos and rode in a motorcycle club. It was because I’d seen first-hand, whatever world he lived in wasn’t the same as mine. On the compound, at the hospital, it was impossible to ignore.
“So, you’re a bunch of otherwise law-abiding citizens?” I challenged.
“What do you want to hear me say, Jenna?”
I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something about the way he used my name that made me feel chided somehow. While I liked my name, and much as I preferred some men use it more often than not, it felt unsettling when he wasn’t calling me one pet name or another.
Given this was our first date, I didn’t understand the feeling, but it was indisputable.
Moreover, it wasn’t the only indisputable thing that made him so different—that made us so odd a pairing.
“Why did you want to go out with me?” I blurted.
He didn’t even blink before he answered, “Like lookin’ at you. Like kissin’ you, too. Hopin’ for more of that. Don’t hate the sass either, babe.”
“I’m not sassy ,” I insisted.
He grinned.
My chest constricted.
I had to admit, that grin checked a box.
Facts were facts, and the rules of the checkmark could not be disputed.
I also couldn’t ignore the other things he’d said, and the no-nonsense way he said it.
I wasn’t sure how to sort through all the complexities that made up this particular man.
“You mentioned earlier you get your kicks from workin’ in the ER. How long you been doin’ that?” he asked, turning the tables on me.
“It was my first job out of college. I guess I jumped in with both feet and never looked back.”
As he brought his beer to his lips, he pressed, “Why do you like it so much?”
“Sometimes, I don’t,” I admitted on a half-hearted laugh. “It’s hard and exhausting. But I guess that’s the give and take. It’s hard because you have to think on your feet and problem solve constantly. That part, I like. It’s exhausting because every time someone comes in the door, you have to do it again. But the fact that I can do that? I can help the next person, and the next person, and the next? It’s rewarding beyond measure.”
I took a sip of my wine, then followed him down his chosen path of conversation.
“What about you? What do you like about being a mechanic?”
“I’m good at it,” was his simple reply. He didn’t bother expounding on his answer before he asked, “You from around here?”
“No. I grew up on a farm in Cody. My parents still live there. And you?”
“Born and raised.”
“And your parents?”
“Never knew my dad. Mom skipped town when I was nine. Only family I’ve got is Gran and the Stallions.”
“Oh,” I murmured on a breath.
I stared at Maverick, and I saw him in a whole new light. He’d shared so much in three short sentences, making him more down to earth and relatable—not that I knew what it was like to grow up without my parents. Quite the opposite, actually. But the man underneath the kutte was revealing himself to me in fascinating ways.
“You got any siblings?”
“Uh, yeah,” I muttered, shaking my head clear. “I have a younger brother. We’re not very close. At least, not anymore. He lives in Denver, now. He got married a few years ago, and his wife—I don’t know. She thinks she’s better than us or something. They have a son we hardly ever get to see.” I waved my hand, as if to wave away the topic. “Not that you asked for all those details.”
Our food arrived, and as we each reached for our silverware, I circled back in my mind to Maverick’s comment about his family. Tess had said something similar about Mustang—about how the Stallions were all he had. The Stallions and Mary-Kate, of course.
Sounded like Maverick’s story was much the same.