My Older Biker (Bloomfield: Motorcycle Club #7)

Chapter 1 — Dean

Roan's call comes at eight on a Friday night when I'm halfway through a beer and thinking about nothing that matters.

I see his name. Answer before the second ring.

"Marrow." His voice is flat. "Cain tracked two prospects three blocks from Zoe's apartment. I'm heading to the clubhouse. I need you to get her and take her somewhere safe."

I'm already standing. Already reaching for my keys. "Where am I taking her?"

"Your place. You're closest. I already called her. She knows you're coming."

He hangs up before I can ask anything else. That's Roan. Efficient when it matters.

I grab my cut from the back of the chair and I'm out the door.

The ride takes twelve minutes, and the whole time I'm running scenarios.

Marrow's been quiet since we burned their warehouse two weeks ago.

Quiet means planning. Cain tracking them near residential means they're scouting civilian targets.

Means they're done playing by rules that kept the violence outside of town.

Zoe's apartment is on Oak Street. Second floor of a converted house with a wooden staircase on the exterior. I see lights in her window, park the bike and take the stairs fast.

She opens the door before I knock.

"Let me guess," she says. "Dad sent you."

I haven't seen her this close in a year.

Not since I started making sure I wasn't in rooms she walked into.

She's wearing sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt with a faded logo I don't recognize.

Her dark hair is down past her shoulders.

No bra. I can see the outline of her nipples through the thin fabric.

I force my eyes up to her face.

"Marrow was spotted near here," I say. "Roan wants you somewhere safer until we know what they're planning."

"I'm twenty years old." Her jaw is tight.

"I moved out of his house a year ago specifically so I could have some independence.

So, I could focus on finishing my degree without him hovering over every decision I make.

And now he's shipping me off to your place like I'm fragile cargo that can't handle myself. "

"This isn't hovering. Marrow was three blocks from here two hours ago."

"Were they looking for me specifically or is this just general threat escalation?"

I don't answer. Because I don't know.

"Right." She crosses her arms. "So, Dad's moving me based on something that might be happening. Just like he used to walk me to class when I was nineteen. Just like he made me text him every time I left campus. Moving out was supposed to change that."

"He's keeping you safe."

"He's keeping me controlled. There's a difference."

I don't argue. She's not wrong. "Do you have a bag packed?"

"No."

"Then pack one. Five minutes."

She stares at me, and I stare back. Her eyes are the same brown as Roan's but the way she looks at me is nothing like her father’s. She's angry. Not at the situation. At me.

"Fine," she says finally. Turns and walks back into the apartment. Leaves the door open.

I stay in the doorway. Don't trust myself inside her space. The apartment is small. Living area with a couch, a desk covered in design work, and kitchen visible through an open archway. Bedroom door open enough that I can see the edge of her bed.

She comes back three minutes later with a duffel bag. Black canvas. Slung over her shoulder, and she's pulled her hair into a messy knot at the back of her head. Barefoot and beautiful.

"How long am I staying with you?" she says.

"Don't know. Depends on what Cain finds."

"Great." She shoves her feet into sneakers by the door without untying them. "So I'm stuck with you for an indefinite amount of time. This should be comfortable."

I lock her door behind us and follow her down the stairs. She throws the bag in the saddlebag on my bike without asking how to do it. She's been around bikes her entire life.

"You ever ridden?" I ask.

"Not in a few months."

She climbs on behind me without waiting for help, and I feel the weight of her thighs against mine. The press of her body close enough that when I shift my weight hers shifts too.

I kick the bike into gear and pull onto the street.

The ride to my place is fifteen minutes. Every one of them I'm aware of her. The way her hands rest on my waist. Light pressure. Not holding on for safety. Just there. Every time I shift gears my hand comes close enough to her bare thigh that I feel the heat of her skin without touching it.

My house is three miles outside Bloomfield on Old Mill Road. Single story. Brick. I bought it eight years ago when I got tired of living at the clubhouse. I park in the driveway and kill the engine.

Zoe climbs off first, pulls her bag from the saddlebag and stands there waiting while I lock the bike. Inside I flip lights on as I go. Living room. Kitchen. She follows me. Sets her bag by the door like she might not stay.

"Guest room is down the hall," I say. "Second door. Bathroom's across from it."

"You really don’t know how long I have to stay here?"

"Could be tonight. Could be a week."

She drops onto my couch and leans back. Looks at me like she's deciding something.

"So, I'm stuck here with you," she says. "And you've spent a whole fucking year avoiding being in the same room with me. This should be fun."

The directness catches me off guard. No preamble, just the truth said out loud.

"I haven't been avoiding you," I say.

She laughs. "Dean. You left Thanksgiving dinner the year I turned nineteen because I sat next to you.

You stopped coming to Sunday dinners at Dad's unless you confirmed I wouldn't be there.

You haven't been in the same room as me for longer than ten minutes in a long time.

So, either I did something that pissed you off, or there's another reason. "

I don't answer. Don't have a lie ready that would hold up.

"Which is it?" she asks.

"You didn't do anything wrong."

"Then what?"

I walk to the kitchen. Put distance between us because the way she's looking at me is making it hard to think. I open the fridge and pull out a beer I don't want.

"You want something," I say.

"An answer."

I close the fridge. Turn to face her, and she's still on the couch. Arms crossed. Waiting.

"I needed distance," I say.

"Why?"

"Because you were nineteen and I was noticing things I had no business noticing."

She doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Just looks at me like she's processing what I just said and deciding what to do with it.

Then she stands, walks into the kitchen and opens a cabinet like she's been here before.

Pulls out a mug and pours herself coffee from the pot I made this morning and forgot about.

"What kind of things were you noticing?"

I don't answer. Can't. Because the answer is everything. The way she moved. The curve of her hips in jeans that fit too well. The soft fullness of her body. The fact that she looked at me sometimes like she was aware I was looking at her.

She sets the mug down, walks closer and stops three feet away.

"Things like the way I look?" she says. "The way I move? Whether I was looking at you the same way you were looking at me?"

"You need to stop."

"Why?"

"Because you're twenty years old and I'm forty and your father is my best friend."

"I know how old I am. I know how old you are. I know who my father is." She takes another step. Close enough now that I can see the rise and fall of her chest. The way her t-shirt clings to her curves. "Are you avoiding me because you don't want me, or because you do?"

I should lie. Should tell her I don't want her. Should make this easy for both of us, but I don't say anything. She sees the answer in the silence. Steps closer and puts her hand flat against my chest. The touch burns through my shirt.

"Tell me you don't want me," she says. "Say it and I'll believe you."

"This is a mistake."

"That's not what I asked."

"Zoe."

"Tell me you don't want me."

I can't. The lie won't come. Not when she's this close. Not when I can see the way her pupils are dilated and the way her breath has gone shallow.

"This is a bad idea," I say.

"Probably."

"Your father would kill me."

"That's his problem."

"I'm twenty years older than you."

"I know how math works."

"You don't know what you're asking for."

"Yes I do." Her hand is still on my chest. Pressing now. Not pushing me away. Anchoring herself. "I've known for a year. And I'm tired of waiting for you to give yourself permission."

"Permission for what?"

"To stop protecting me from yourself."

She's close enough that I feel the heat coming off her skin. Close enough that I see the pulse beating in her throat. Close enough that if I moved six inches I could kiss her.

"If we do this," I say. "We can't take it back."

"Good. I don't want to take it back."

"I'm not going to be what you think I am."

"You mean you're going to be exactly who you are. Rough. Violent when you need to be. Someone who puts the club first sometimes." She doesn't look scared. Looks certain. "I know who you are, Dean. I've been watching you for thirteen years. I'm not naive."

"You're Roan's daughter."

"I'm also twenty years old and capable of making my own choices. So, stop hiding behind my age and my father and tell me the truth." She leans closer. Her mouth six inches from mine. "Do you want me or not."

I should say no. Should put distance between us. Should tell her to go to the guest room and stay there.

Instead, I say, "Yeah. I want you."

"Then stop talking."

I kiss her before I can think about it. Before I can list the thousand reasons this is wrong. My hand goes to the back of her neck. Fingers tangling in her hair. Pulling her head back so I can kiss her deeper.

She makes a sound. Soft and hungry. Her hands fist in my shirt.

Years of wanting compressed into one point of contact. Her mouth under mine. Her body pressed against me. The soft give of her stomach against my abs. The fullness of her breasts against my chest.

I walk her backward until her back hits the wall. She doesn't resist. Follows the movement. Her hands sliding from my chest to my shoulders to my neck.

I pull back enough to look at her. Her lips are swollen. Her eyes are dark. Her chest is rising and falling fast.

"We should stop," I say.

"We should." She pulls my mouth back to hers.

The kiss turns rougher. My hands slide under the hem of her t-shirt. Bare skin. Warm and soft, and I feel the curve of her waist. I move higher. Cup her breast. No bra. Just skin. Her nipple hard against my palm.

I'm close to taking this further. Close to sliding my hand into her shorts. Close to finding out if she's wet, but I force myself to stop. Pull my hands out from under her shirt. Step back.

She's breathing hard. Staring at me. "Why'd you stop?"

"Because I'm supposed to be keeping you safe."

"You are keeping me safe. From Marrow. Not from yourself."

"Zoe."

"I'm not fragile, Dean. Stop treating me like I am."

I run my hand over my face. Try to get my breathing under control. Try to think past the want that's fogging everything else.

"You need to go to the guest room," I say.

"And if I don't want to?"

"Then I'm going to do something we'll both regret."

She pushes off the wall. Walks past me. Stops at the hallway entrance. Looks back.

"For the record," she says. "I wouldn't regret it."

Then she's gone. Door closing behind her. Leaving me standing in my kitchen hard and shaking and knowing I just crossed a line I've been holding for years.

And knowing I'm going to cross it again.