Chapter Eight
Derby
My Harley’s name is Widowmaker.
Not because I named her that.
A man shouldn’t name his own bike something that dramatic unless he’s trying too hard, and I have many flaws, but that ain’t one of them.
I bought her half-wrecked off a man in Bowling Green who needed bail money more than horsepower.
Blacked-out Softail, old-school bars, pipes loud enough to make church ladies clutch pearls three counties over, and an engine with a temper worse than mine.
First week I had her, the throttle stuck and nearly sent me through a tobacco barn.
Second week, I laid her down in gravel avoiding a deer and came up with half my arm bleeding and one boot missing.
Third week, I outran two deputies, a hailstorm, and a woman in a red Camaro who claimed I had promised to marry her after a parking lot quickie behind a steakhouse.
I had not.
Probably.
By the end of that month, Oaks said any woman jealous enough to compete with my bike better have a funeral dress ready, because the Harley would win.
Widowmaker stuck.
Now she sits in my driveway shining black and mean under late afternoon sun, chrome catching fire where the light hits, and Amelia is looking at her like I have asked her to climb on the back of a dragon with commitment issues.
“No,” she says.
I lean against the seat and cross my arms. “No what?”
“No.”
“That was clear as mud.”
She points at the bike. “We are not riding that.”
I look at Widowmaker, then back at her. “You got something against American engineering?”
“I have something against dying before dinner.”
“She won’t kill you.”
Amelia gives me a flat look.
I shrug. “Probably.”
Sophie, standing on my porch with August tucked against her hip, says, “Derby.”
“What? I’m building trust through honesty.”
“You are doing something through honesty.”
August leans forward, eyes wide. “Is it loud?”
“Very,” I say.
He grins. “Can I hear it?”
“No,” Amelia says.
“Yes,” I say at the same time.
She turns that look on me, the one mothers use when a man has just proven he was raised in a barn and might still be emotionally living there.
I clear my throat. “Later.”
August sighs like I have betrayed him personally. “Grown-ups lie.”
I point at him. “I said later. That’s different than maybe.”
He considers that. “Okay.”
The kid is already learning biker law faster than half the prospects.
Amelia stands near the porch steps in dark painted on jeans, boots Lottie found somewhere, and a soft orange top that fits her like a glove.
Sophie gave her a leather jacket too, cropped and worn enough that it doesn’t look like a rich-girl costume.
Her hair is down for the first time since I met her, falling past her shoulders in dark loose waves that make her look less like a woman who ran for her life and more like the kind of woman a man starts trouble over.
I have been trying not to stare for ten minutes.
Failing, mostly.
She has red lipstick on.
Not bright. Not fancy. Just enough color to make me think about her mouth in ways that would get me killed by my president if she really turns out to be his sister.
Hell, maybe even if she doesn’t.
Amelia catches me looking and tugs at the hem of the jacket. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t a nothing look.”
“That was a checking-for-weapons look.”
“On my face?”
“Dangerous place.”
Her cheeks color.
Good.
Then they pale when her eyes return to the bike.
Less good.
Sophie notices because she notices everything. “You don’t have to ride with him. We can take the SUV.”
I push off Widowmaker. “We can.”
Amelia looks surprised I said it.
That irritates me for reasons I don’t care to inspect.
I add, “But every person in town saw us come back here in SUVs and cars and enough security to transport a governor with mob debts. If we’re telling a story, we tell it right. Derby rides a Harley. If you’re supposed to be with me, you show up on the back of my bike.”
Sophie’s brows lift.
Amelia’s eyes narrow. “With you?”
“Our fake relationship,” I correct.
“Funny. That correction did not make it less annoying.”
“Most of my corrections don’t.”
Her mouth twitches, but she looks at Widowmaker again and swallows.
I soften my voice because apparently I do that now.
God help me.
“You ever ridden before?”
“Once.”
“With who?”
“My mother’s boyfriend when I was thirteen.”
I go still. “He have permission?”
“My mother’s? Probably. Mine? No.”
The air changes.
Sophie’s face hardens.
Mine does worse.
Amelia sees it and shakes her head. “Nothing happened. Not like that. He was just drunk and thought it was funny to scare me. Went too fast. Took curves too hard. Told me if I held on tighter, I might learn to like dangerous men.”
I want to dig that man up just to kill him again, and I don’t even know if he’s dead.
“He ain’t me,” I say.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
She looks at Widowmaker.
Then at me.
“No.”
Fair.
I nod once. “Then we do it different.”
August wiggles in Sophie’s arms. “Can I ride?”
“No,” Amelia and Sophie say together.
“Rude,” he mutters.
I crouch near him. “Kid, when you’re older, taller, got your mama’s permission, my permission, Sophie’s permission, Legend’s permission, and a notarized statement from God, maybe.”
August frowns. “Who’s God?”
Sophie makes a choking sound.
Amelia closes her eyes. “We are not doing theology in the driveway.”
“He has questions,” I say.
“He has too many questions.”
“Smart kids do.”
That one makes her look at me different.
Soft.
Too soft.
I stand before that look gets under my cut.
August points at the bike. “What’s her name?”
Amelia’s brows lift. “The motorcycle has a name?”
“Of course she does,” Sophie says. “Men who claim they can’t discuss feelings will name an engine and call that healthy.”
I ignore her. “Widowmaker.”
Amelia stares at me. “Absolutely not.”
August gasps. “That’s cool.”
“It isn’t cool,” Amelia says. “It’s ominous.”
“It’s a bike, not a prophecy.”
“You named your motorcycle Widowmaker and expect me to climb on the back?”
“I didn’t name her.”
“Who did?”
“Oaks.”
Oaks, checking the tree line near the driveway, lifts one hand without turning around. “You’re welcome.”
Amelia points at him. “I’m not thanking you for that.”
Oaks grins over his shoulder. “Yet.”
Sophie sighs. “This family was raised by wolves and bad bourbon.”
“Pretty much,” I say.
Amelia looks from Widowmaker to August.
There it is again. Guilt. The kind that sits behind her eyes every time she remembers she is about to leave her kid for an hour or two.
August is safe. Hell, he is safer than most children in Kentucky right now with Sophie, Lottie, Brittany, two prospects, Oaks, and Wildcat in orbit.
Still, Amelia looks like stepping off the porch without him is abandonment.
Sophie steps closer. “He is staying here with me. Lottie is making chicken strips. Brittany found dinosaur sheets. Wildcat is fixing your truck. Oaks is outside. Legend has men on the road. I promise you, August won’t be alone for one minute.”
August waves Blue Rex. “We’re making a fort.”
“With blankets,” Sophie says. “Not weapons.”
Oaks mutters, “Shame.”
Sophie points at him. “Don’t.”
Amelia laughs under her breath.
That laugh.
I’m starting to wait for it like a damn fool.
She kneels in front of August, smoothing his hair even though it doesn’t need smoothing. “I’m going out for a little while, okay?”
“With Derby?”
“Yes.”
“On Widowmaker?”
Her face twists. “Unfortunately.”
“Can I hear it later?”
“We’ll see.”
August’s eyes narrow. “That means probably no.”
Derby, don’t get involved.
I get involved.
“She means yes if you eat dinner and do what Sophie says.”
Amelia turns her head slowly. “Do I?”
“You do now.”
She glares.
Sophie smiles.
August grins like he has successfully manipulated a room of adults, which he has.
Amelia kisses his forehead. “Be good.”
“I am good.”
“You are sometimes good.”
“That counts.”
She hugs him too tight for a second.
He lets her.
When she stands, her eyes are wet, but she doesn’t cry. She walks down the porch steps toward me like she has decided terror ain’t a good enough reason to stay put.
That is bravery.
The real kind.
Not the kind men brag about because they got into a bar fight and kept their teeth. The kind where a woman puts one boot in front of the other while every part of her body remembers running.
I hand her a helmet.
She takes it and frowns. “It says Queen Bitch.”
“Borrowed from Lottie.”
“I’m not wearing this.”
“Then you’re not riding.”
She looks at Sophie. “Do you have another?”
Sophie shakes her head, lips pressed together.
Traitor.
Amelia looks at the helmet again. “This feels like a setup.”
“It’s safety equipment.”
“It says Queen Bitch.”
“Accurate enough for tonight.”
Her mouth opens.
Closes.
Then she laughs.
Fuller this time.
I grin before I can stop it.
She pulls the helmet on, red mouth curved beneath it, and damn if she doesn’t look like trouble I would gladly let ruin my week.
I put mine on before I say something stupid.
Then I swing onto Widowmaker and start her.
The engine roars awake hard enough to shake the air. August screams in delight from the porch. Amelia jumps and grabs the helmet strap with both hands like she may yank it off and run.
I cut the throttle down and look back. “You good?”
“No.”
“Honest answer. I like it.”
“I might throw up.”
“Try not to do it down my back.”
“Derby.”
“Right. Comfort. Forgot.” I pat the seat behind me. “Left foot on the peg. Swing your right leg over. Hands where you want them. If you need off, you tap my shoulder twice. If you want me slower, tap once. If you panic, hit me. I’ve had worse.”
She studies me.
“You’ve done this before,” she says.
“Taken women on my bike?”
“Taken scared people.”
I shrug. “Everybody’s scared of something.”
That ain’t an answer.
It’s the only one she is getting today.