CLINT REED
M ost men in my line of work suffered through rough childhoods, leaving them hard enough to face danger without flinching.
That wasn’t me. My childhood was idyllic. I suffered no abuse, knew very few disappointments, and reached adulthood as an unbroken man.
Growing up spoiled was likely why I chose to start my own club rather than remain a soldier in another man’s crew. My dad and uncle didn’t mind taking orders. They were rough men with hard childhoods. Being one of many was enough for them, but I demanded more.
My spoiled nature also explained why I had a blonde goddess wrapped around me as I raced away from a Missouri gas station. A man I assumed was her uncle watched us leave. He called out her name. My goddess was named Ivy.
Hearing him call out to her, Ivy hesitated and seemed drawn to him. She glanced at me as if begging me to stop her worst impulses. That was why I kept her hand trapped in mine and guided her to my motorcycle.
Ivy was a petite woman, maybe not even five feet tall. With her fair blonde hair and pale skin, she looked like a damsel who’d spent too long locked away in a dungeon. I was playing the role of hero. Nothing about our situation felt particularly wrong to me.
Before we rode away, her uncle stepped away from his car. He seemed sick. His eyes bounced back and forth like his brain was misfiring.
He said Ivy’s name again once my engine rumbled. I saw her little hand lift and offer him a sad wave. Her uncle mimicked the gesture. I noticed a pistol in his other hand.
A less seasoned asshole would have sped from the scene in a panic. However, I kept my cool and slowly pulled away to prevent Ivy from falling off.
I drove three miles with my gaze locked on the rearview, waiting for someone to tail us. Eventually, I accepted I was alone on the road with a stranger.
Two exits from my hometown, I pulled off the highway and into another gas station. Ivy trembled wildly against my back. I helped her from the bike and then held her still while I climbed off.
Her gaze was unreadable. She was the type to hide in her head. I sized up her clothing, trying to piece together more of her story. She wore a knee-length, black-and-gray plaid skirt, a black turtleneck sweater, and shiny black shoes like kids endured at church.
At the gas station, her hair had been tied back with a black headband. She must have lost it during the short ride. Ivy’s hair was now wild from the wind.
I had no fucking clue why she was dressed like a fussy schoolgirl. Her uncle had been decked out in overalls like an old farmer. I wouldn’t be shocked to learn they were on their way to a costume party.
As she shivered in the early spring weather, I slid out of my jacket and gestured for her to wear it.
“Your name is Ivy,” I said as we stood in the quiet parking lot. “If trouble were to show up right now, tell me what that would look like.”
“I don’t understand.”
I wrapped my hand under her jaw and lifted her chin. “I want to know who might show up and grab you.”
Ivy’s armor dropped immediately. Her eyes widened as she searched the road for trouble.
“Uncle Linus owes men money. They came to our house in Reno and tried to take me. Uncle Dwight and I ran. We had a plan. A bad one,” she explained, struggling with her words. “I don’t know what happens next. I only know the world from my TV, but the real one is chaotic and sad. How am I supposed to survive?”
Brushing my thumb across her soft cheek, I placed her words in context and filled in the blanks.
“Do you have a phone?” I asked. “Can Linus or those men track you with it?”
Ivy tugged her phone from her beige purse and examined it like the damn thing was a bomb ready to go off. I took it from her and had her open the screen. I checked to see if the phone was set to be tracked.
“It should be fine for now, but I think we should ditch it.”
Ivy’s face went pale. She seemed ready to faint.
“Who do you want to call?”
“No one,” she said, sounding like her throat had gone dry.
“Why do you need the phone? I’ll get you another one.”
Ivy tried to hide in her head. My fingers brushed across her lips, filling her with the power to answer me.
“My family photos,” Ivy explained, seeming shaky.
“We’ll have them moved over to a new phone. Then, you need to ditch this one. I don’t want to risk someone tracking you down.”
Ivy stared at my hand holding her phone. I imagined her fear of losing something important to her.
“Give me your bag,” I said without offering any leeway for her to disagree. “I’ll stick it in my bike’s storage, so it’ll be safe.”
Ivy obeyed me, but I could almost feel her rethinking her decision to take a ride with a strange man. She watched her phone disappear inside her purse before I stuck it inside my saddlebag.
“Why are you helping me?” Ivy asked.
“For the same reason you asked me for help instead of the clerk or the elderly couple a few aisles over from me.”
Ivy’s gaze hid nothing. She was trapped between dangerous men hunting her and a stranger offering her a risky escape route.
“Do you have anywhere you can go?” When Ivy shook her head, I asked, “And you have nothing to go back to, right?”
“Uncle Dwight was the only one who cared about me, and he’ll be dead soon.”
“Well, my hometown is minutes away,” I said and paused to watch two motorcycles ride past. “Those women are in my club. I run with a big group. If you don’t want to stay with me, I know plenty of people who will help you start over.”
Ivy’s lips turned downward, signaling she might cry. Her eyes remained dry, though.
“If I saw a woman like me running off with a strange man, I’d call her an idiot,” Ivy muttered before losing her fire. “But I still want to trust you. What’s the right answer?”
Her words added a piece to the Ivy puzzle. I felt a little closer to this woman already burrowing her way into my heart.
My gut didn’t warn me to stop. I grew up too safe, maybe. I hadn’t suffered any consequences for my big plays. In fact, good fortune often fell into my lap.
I got patched into the Little Memphis Motorcycle Club when I was eighteen. I rode with my dad and uncle for years, learning the way the city breathed and bled. When our president—a funny bastard named Joker—got busted up in a nasty wreck, I didn’t hesitate to make my move.
The Little Memphis club was always going to belong to his boy Tricky, who’d been groomed to run things. If I wanted to become president, I’d need to build a new club.
Jaded, harder men would have worried about the consequences, but I never hesitated. Ever since I was a boy, I had two goals. One was to wear a president’s patch. The other was to have my sister Elle ride next to me.
Neither would ever happen in the Little Memphis club. That’s why I made my move, snapping up members from the Little Memphis club, along with people from our allies—Rawlins Heretics Motorcycle Club and Everything Nice Crew. By the time Tricky stepped in for his busted-up dad, I’d laid the groundwork to become his equal.
Little Memphis and the entire state of Arkansas had a new power broker to reckon with. I never doubted I’d end up with what I wanted. My sister claimed “audacious” was a good look on me.
“Things work out for me,” I told Ivy and took her hand. “You don’t know how the world works. Let me show you how to get what you want.”
Ivy stared at me with the same skeptical awe worn by my parents after I told them I’d built my club over a long Memorial Day weekend.
Like with Ford and Shay, Ivy seemed to recognize I knew how to get things done. The corners of her lips flipped upward, leaving her with a soft smile.
“Let’s get back on the road and to my place. We’ll figure out our next steps there.”
After I helped Ivy onto the back of my bike, she slid her arms confidently around me. Her body soon moved with the motorcycle’s motions as we left the gas station and raced toward the only place I’d ever want to call home.