Cyclops
He'd seen plenty of women on the run before.
The club had a way of attracting trouble, and trouble usually came with a pretty face and a sob story.
But Trixie was different. Those weren't amateur slash marks on her tires—they were professional.
Someone wanted to strand her, not just piss her off.
Someone wanted her stopped but not damaged.
That meant they wanted her alive, which in his experience, was usually worse than wanting someone dead.
"You good back there?" he called over his shoulder as they hit a red light.
"Peachy," she shot back, but he could feel the tension radiating off her like heat from asphalt in August. The light turned green, and he gunned it, taking the long way around.
His bike's mirrors stayed clear, but that didn't mean shit.
If someone was really hunting her—someone with the skills to get that close to the bar without any of his brothers noticing—they wouldn't be stupid enough to follow them directly.
"Where are we going?" Trixie's voice was muffled by the helmet, but he caught the edge of suspicion in her question. She seemed like a smart girl. At least she was paying attention to the route.
"Somewhere safe," he called back.
Her grip loosened slightly, and he felt her shifting behind him like she was considering jumping off at the next light. "I didn't ask for safe. I asked for a ride to the nearest motel."
"Yeah, well, plans change." He took a sharp left, feeling her body press against his back as she compensated for the turn. Christ, she felt good back there, all curves and coiled tension. Focus, asshole. "That motel you were heading to—The Paradise,” he said. “The Russian mob owns it. They run girls through there, and a woman checking in alone, and I’m assuming that you were going to pay in cash, doesn’t last long in that place.
" He shook his head. "You would have disappeared before morning. "
"I can take care of myself," she snapped, and there was steel in her voice that made him almost believe it.
"Never said you couldn't." He downshifted as they approached another intersection, scanning the cross streets out of habit.
"But whoever slashed your tires isn't playing games. If you’re asking me, it was a professional job.
People who take jobs like that have resources.
You would have needed more than a locked door and harsh language to keep them out, sweetheart. "
She was quiet for a moment, and he could practically feel her weighing her options. Then her arms tightened around him again, but this time she didn’t let go. It was like she was holding on to him specifically, not just staying on the bike.
“I’m going to take you back to my clubhouse. You’ll be safe there, and if things go sideways, the guys there will have our backs,” he said.
“And why would they do that for me?” she questioned. That was a simple question to answer, but one she might not understand.
“Because they’re my brothers,” he simply said.
“And that’s what brothers do for each other.
” He could feel her sigh against his back, and he knew that she was still weighing her options.
Cyclops didn’t want to tell her that she didn’t really have any.
He had a feeling that she’d figure that out for herself sooner or later.
"One night," she said finally. "I'll crash at your clubhouse for one night, and then I'm gone."
He smiled, though she couldn't see it from where she sat behind him. "Sure, sweetheart. One night, and then, you’re gone." They both knew it was a lie.
The clubhouse came into view. It was a converted warehouse on the outskirts of town, surrounded by a chain link fence and bikes.
The parking lot was still half full despite the late hour.
Some of his brothers never went home, and tonight, that might work in his favor.
Safety in numbers and all that bullshit.
He pulled through the gate, nodding to Prospect, who was on watch duty. The kid's eyes went wide when he saw Trixie on the back, but he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. Cyclops parked his bike in his usual spot, killing the engine.
"Home sweet home," he said, pulling off his gloves.
Trixie climbed off the back of his bike stiffly, yanking the helmet off and shaking out her hair.
The parking lot's security lights came on, making her dark hair gleam. She looked around, taking in the bikes and the patched members smoking by the door. The place had cameras mounted on every corner, and it was the safest place he knew. He just worried that whatever or whoever was coming for Trixie wouldn’t stop once they saw the cameras.
"Are you sure that it’s safe here?" she asked, one eyebrow raised.
"Safest place in three counties," he said, swinging his leg off the bike. "Nobody fucks with the Road Reapers on our own turf."
"Nobody except whoever's after me," she pointed out.
"You really want to bring my trouble to your club's doorstep?
" There it was—the thing that had been nagging at him since he'd seen her slashed tires.
She was right to worry. He was potentially bringing hell down on his brothers' heads for a woman he'd just met. His club’s Prez, Mace, would lose his shit if he were there.
But Mace wasn't there, and Cyclops had learned a long time ago that sometimes doing the smart thing meant missing out on the right thing.
"Let me worry about that," he said, heading for the door.
She grabbed his arm, her grip surprisingly strong. "No. This is exactly what I need to worry about. I don't know you. I don't know your club. But something that you should know about me is that I don't take charity, and I sure as hell don't let strangers fight my battles for me."
He turned to face her fully, stepping into her personal space.
She didn't back down, just tilted her chin up to maintain eye contact with him.
Fuck, she was something else. Most people took one look at his patch, his size, his scarred face, and found somewhere else they needed to be.
But Trixie stood her ground like she'd been doing so her whole life.
"First off," he said, voice low enough that only she could hear, "this ain't charity. My club has a code—we see a woman in trouble, we handle it. That's just how it is. Second, I'm not fighting your battles, I'm evening the odds in your favor—there's a difference."
"I don't see one," she said, but her grip on his arm loosened a bit.
"The difference is," he leaned in closer, close enough to catch the scent of her—whiskey and something floral, like jasmine, "when you fight your own battles, I'll be standing beside you, not in front of you.
I'm not trying to save you, Trixie. I'm trying to give you a fighting chance.
" Something flickered in her eyes—surprise, maybe, or recognition.
Like she hadn't expected him to understand the distinction.
Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and his gaze tracked the movement without permission from his brain.
"You don't even know what you're signing up for," she said, but her voice had lost some of its edge.
"Then tell me." He covered her hand with his, keeping it on his arm. "But tell me inside, where it’s safer. It's more secure in there, and you can have a real drink and something to eat. Then you can tell me what kind of shitstorm is coming, and we can figure out how to weather it."
"We?" She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "There is no 'we,' Cyclops. There's me and my problems, and there's you and your hero complex."
"I don't have a hero complex," he said, grinning. "Heroes wear capes and shit. I just wear an eyepatch and have a thing for beautiful women with trust issues and dangerous men on their tail."
"That's a very specific thing," she said. He laughed and caught her shaking her head at him. He looked her over and was sure that a smile was almost tugging at her lips.
"I'm a very specific kind of guy." He started walking toward the door, pleased when she fell into step beside him instead of pulling away and taking off for the highway. "Besides, you already owe me for the ride. I might as well let you buy me dinner and get a meal out of it, too."
"I don't owe you anything," she said quickly. "You said it was just a ride."
"It was. But my bike doesn't run on good intentions and pretty promises. Gas costs money, sweetheart," he said.
She stopped walking. "You're seriously charging me for gas?"
"Of course not." He held the door open for her, which earned him a suspicious look. "But you looked like you were about to rabbit, so I figured giving you something to be pissed at me about that might keep you here long enough to eat something. When's the last time you had a real meal?"
The question caught her off guard. He could see her trying to remember, which meant it had been too long. "That's not your concern," she said, but she walked through the door with him. He’d count that as a win, but Trixie was going to probably keep him on his toes the whole night.
The clubhouse's main room was exactly what most people expected—pool tables, a bar, couches that had seen better decades, and brothers in various stages of drunkenness.
Conversations stopped when they walked in, and every eye tracked to Trixie, then to Cyclops, then back to her.
It was almost comical watching them trying to figure out what the hell was going on with him and Trixie.
"Brothers," Cyclops said, his tone making it clear that questions could wait. "This is Trixie. She's under club protection tonight."
Ink looked up from behind the bar. "Since when do you make that call?"