Chapter Twenty-One
“Tomcat,” Marigold calls out, a sudden, fragile wobble cutting through her voice.
I stay silent, my back to her, sliding into my boots. I figure she just wants my opinion on whatever photo she’s picked for our background.
“Tomcat, who the hell is this? Where was this photo taken?” she asks, her voice hitting a harder, much more forceful register this time.
That sudden, razor-edged shift in her voice snaps my head up. She’s gone ghost-pale, eyes darting frantically over the screen. The phone trembles so hard in her grip I half-expect it to crash to the floor.
I’m at her side in a heartbeat, my hand finding the warm nape of her neck, grounding her. “What is it, baby?”
“This,” she says, her finger stabbing frantically at the glass. “Where was this?”
One glance at the screen and I recognize the photo instantly. A heavy sigh escapes me as I step back just a bit. “Babe. That’s official club business.”
“Dammit, Tomcat,” she snaps, whirling on me with eyes that shine with a frantic, maddening light that freezes the blood in my veins. “I don’t give a single flying shit what your club is up to. I want to know where you saw Damon, and I want to know why the fuck you have a picture of him.”
I look down at the screen, staring at the cold, hollow profile. “You’re entirely sure this is him, Goldie? We looked up his file. I didn’t recognize him from the old descriptions.”
The bitterness in her voice is so raw, so jagged, it scrapes down my nerves and sends the hair on my arms standing straight up.
“Of course I fucking recognize him,” she rasps, her eyes flashing with old nightmares. “I will never forget that little heart-shaped pigmentation loss in his right iris. I always found it so twisted and ironic that a man that evil had something so beautiful as a part of him.”
The room drops to ice. Damon is with Ghost's crew. That phantom choke I felt at the docks, the gut-deep warning in my bones, jolts through me like a live wire.
“Get dressed, little shadow,” I command, my voice hardening to steel. The banter vanishes, replaced by the lethal weight of a club officer. “We need to get to the clubhouse. Now. The man you just pointed out? The club is doing business with his boss.”
Marigold squeezes her eyes shut, dragging in a ragged breath that rattles through her chest. When she opens them, panic is gone, replaced by a cold, steely resolve.
My woman is terrified, yeah, but she is also pissed the fuck off.
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned about a thoroughly pissed-off Marigold? She is fucking terrifying.
She stands by the couch, fists clenching and unclenching, eyes gone distant. I can almost see the gears grinding, her mind racing through a thousand ways to destroy Damon the moment she gets close.
Grabbing her discarded shirt from the hardwood floor, I move to stand directly in front of her, gathering the soft fabric up in my hands and getting it ready to pull over her head. “Arms up, baby.”
Her eyes lock onto mine again, but she’s still drifting in the storm of her own fury.
“Arms up,” I order again, keeping my voice incredibly gentle this time, a soft anchor in her storm. “Let’s get you dressed.”
She does exactly what she’s told, raising her arms high above her head. I slide the cotton shirt over her skin, and the exact second her head pokes through the collar, I lean in and brush a firm, reassuring kiss over her lips. “Good girl.”
Next are her leggings. I kneel, guiding one leg, then the other, sliding the dark fabric up her thighs with careful attention to her still healing wound. “You’re doing great, little shadow.” I rise, kiss her nose, and ask, “Think you can handle your shoes, baby?”
A sharp, defiant smirk tugs at her lips, her eyes narrowing through the tension. “Of course I can. I’m angry, Tomcat, not helpless.”
“Never thought you were,” I chuckle, pride rumbling in my chest as I kiss the crown of her head and step back. “You riding queen seat behind me, or taking your own bike today?”
She freezes, hands suspended above her laces. Surprise flashes across her face, then melts into a fierce, radiant happiness.
“Really?” she breathes.
Fuck.
Seeing her happy has my pulse racing, a hard, protective thrum in my chest. Joy looks beautiful on her, a sharp contrast to the pale woman she was a second ago, and I vow right then to do whatever it takes to ensure she stays that way.
She’s healed a hell of a lot quicker than I thought she would.
It was the exact same story after she got shot last year.
The woman is made of some kind of unbreakable, elite-grade wire.
Marigold thinks I’ve been banning her from her bike because I didn't want her to be an open target on the asphalt. I’ve seen her ride, and while it’s hot as fuck, that’s not the sole reason why I put her on lockdown.
She wasn’t healed enough to take a corner, and I refused to chance her pulling her stitches open.
But if I’d told her that, she’d just pretend she was tough, burying the pain and acting like I couldn't see her jaw tighten every single time she put pressure on that leg.
She’s so damn excited to have her freedom back that she’s forgetting the most important part of the gear.
“Leathers, baby,” I remind her, pointing a finger.
“I knew that,” she sasses, rolling her eyes as she yanks the heavy gear out of the hall closet.
They’re not her usual solo leathers, but I always keep a spare set here for when she rides at my back, pressed tight against my spine.
I lean against the couch, watching her shimmy into the leather, loving the way her curves move with every twist. But when she pulls on the jacket, a dark, possessive scowl tugs at me.
It’s not the one I want on her shoulders.
She should be wearing one that marks her as mine.
Property of Tomcat. That has a wild ring I crave.
Boots laced, helmet under her arm, she bounces on her heels, that wild, manic smile lighting her face. It’s the first unburdened look I’ve seen since the alley, and it thaws the cold in my chest.
“What’s your actual pain level?” I ask, stepping into her space and running the rough edge of my knuckles down her soft cheek.
“Zero. I’m totally fine, Tomcat. Doing great. Fantastic. Come on. Let’s gooooo,” she drags out the last word, practically vibrating with restless energy.
I laugh low, give her a hard, lingering kiss, then make a quick sweep of the house, shutting off lights and locking down the perimeter. On my way past, I smack her leather-clad ass, nudging her toward the door.
Ducky rode her bike over the other day and wouldn’t shut up about how badass it is.
He spent an hour trying to get me to beg her to sell it for those days he didn’t want to wrestle his Fat Boy through traffic.
Marigold just laughed in his face, then let out a sharp, high-pitched squeak that turned Ducky’s cheeks fire-red.
I knew exactly what she was mocking. The whole club does.
Years back, on a long club run, we crashed at a roach-infested motel in some backwater town.
A carnival was passing through, and after endless miles, we all needed a little fun.
Ducky found himself a local woman and, somewhere in the night, won her a giant, obnoxious pink squeaky duck.
He brought her back to his room, forgetting the walls were paper-thin.
We heard everything from room five that night.
Hell, the next county probably did. At some point, that stupid duck got wedged behind the headboard.
For an hour, we endured a relentless squeak-squeak-squeak, perfectly in time with the woman’s moans.
Every time Ducky picked up speed, that fucking rubber bird hit a wild crescendo.
How the hell he kept going with that racket, I’ll never know.
When he finally emerged, exhausted but smug, the brothers erupted in squeaks.
That’s how Maximus ‘Newbie’ Barclay became Ducky.
In the driveway, I lean on my handlebars, watching Marigold run her hands lovingly over her bike’s tank, murmuring to it like it might answer. She swings her leg over the saddle, settling in with effortless grace. Over her shoulder, she flashes me a wicked wink and snaps her helmet into place.
She fires up the engine, pipes coughing to life with a deep, mechanical growl as she backs out of my garage. Not wanting to miss a second of her commanding that machine, I fire up my own and roll out beside her.
Watching Marigold ride is fucking mesmerizing. The raw control she has over that beast of a bike, hugging Coral Cay’s curves like she owns the road, is hot as hell. It hits me like a drug.
If we didn’t have a life-or-death meeting with Pope waiting, I’d have her off that bike, bent over the seat, fucking her senseless right here on the roadside.
Instead, we tear down the asphalt, wind whipping past, until we roll into the gravel lot of the compound.
“You’re late,” Pope barks, his massive arms crossed over his chest as he leans back heavily against the weathered brick of the clubhouse wall.
“That’s my fault, boss man. I mesmerized him with my vagina. She’s a hard one to resist,” Marigold quips smoothly, shaking her hair out of her face and hooking her helmet over the handlebars.
Pope just shakes his head, groaning low and scrubbing his hands over his face like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. I don’t know why he’s still surprised. The woman is always dropping off-the-wall shit to throw people off balance.
“Sorry, Pres,” I say, stepping into her space and planting my boots firmly onto the gravel right next to her. “Shouldn’t have ignored your call.”