Twisted Steel: An MC Anthology: Second Edition Elizabeth Knox (cheapest way to read ebooks .txt) 📖

“Yeah. I haven’t missed an afternoon since I moved in here. It’s kind of our thing. She can’t leave the house because of the illness she has.” He shrugs. “It’s a simple thing, and her mom says she looks forward to it every day. Can’t let her down.”

“I imagine eventually the MC will interfere with your afternoons.”

“Probably, though we’re usually doing things nights and weekends. A lot of the guys work jobs during the week.”

“And what about you?”

“I was doing security system installs with Wolf, but since my grandmother died, I’ve been working less hours, trying to figure out what I want to do with the money she left me.”

“Oh, I see. You mean like invest it or start a business of your own?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

His phone sounds, and we pull apart. He digs it out of his pocket and puts it to his ear. “Yeah?”

He grunts out a few words. When he disconnects, he looks me in the eye and asks, “You want to go to a club party?”

11

Sara

The ride over the Santa Cruz Mountains on the back of Tim’s bike is exhilarating and beautiful. As the wind whips around me, I cling to Tim’s lean waist, and feel the muscles of his abdomen and back as I press against him and hold on for dear life. He reaches back with one hand to grip my thigh, giving me a little squeeze, and telling me it’s okay, he’s got me. Surprisingly, or maybe not so surprisingly, I feel safe with him. I completely trust his skill with the powerful motorcycle beneath us.

At the top of the mountain, he slows and turns into the parking lot of a little roadhouse he once took me to in high school.

We dismount and enter the A-frame structure. Big glass windows overlook the view. Fortunately the place hasn’t changed in twenty years. Back in the day we would come and sit out on the deck and eat food. Now we’re old enough to drink at the bar.

We each take a stool, and the bartender comes over.

“What can I get you folks?”

Tim orders us each a longneck beer while my eyes drift over the décor. The place has a ski chalet vibe that I’ve always loved.

When the bartender brings our drinks, Tim clinks his bottle to mine.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers,” I reply.

“Remember the first time I brought you here?” he asks.

I think back to the day, and nod. “My Grandmother had just died. You brought me up here after the funeral to try to cheer me up.”

“I just wanted to be there for you, to give you the space to talk if that’s what you wanted, and also to get you away from the depressing atmosphere back at your house. You seemed like you couldn’t breathe that afternoon when everyone ended up back there for coffee and cake.”

I look over at him and smile. “I couldn’t. Maybe I never said it but thank you for that.”

He lays his hand on my knee. “Wasn’t fishin’ for gratitude.”

“Nevertheless, you were always there for me when I needed it.”

“Not always. I wish I could have been though.”

I lift the bottle and take a sip. I’ve always tried to keep my crappy home life from Tim. Right now, it’s the last thing I want to remember or talk about. I paste on a smile and turn to him, changing the subject. “So, this party we’re goin’ to, what’s the occasion?”

Tim leans on his elbows. “Birthday party. Red Dog’s son is turning eighteen.”

“Oh. Were we supposed to bring a gift?”

“Nah. Not that kind of party. Most likely the kid will get drunk and end up with one of Sonny’s girls.”

“Sonny? Who’s he?”

“Run’s the local strip club.”

My stomach drops. “The one where Misty works?”

Tim looks down at his beer bottle and scrapes the label with his thumbnail. “Yeah.”

“Is she going to be there?” I’m sure there’s an edge in my voice as I say it.

“Maybe.” He studies my expression. “That gonna be a problem?”

I take another sip of beer, not answering because I think maybe it will be.

“Sara, I told you, she’s nothing to me.”

I meet his eyes and ask him point-blank the question burning in my brain. “Have you slept with her?”

“Slept with a lot of women. I’d be lyin’ if I said otherwise. But that’s the past . . . if you want it to be.”

He holds my gaze so steadily that I believe him. Do I want it to be? Yes, I think I do. But I have no right to ask that. I have no claim on him. And if I wanted to make one, how would that work? We live in two different cities, over three hundred miles apart. Something stops me from pointing out the obvious, maybe because I want to hope, maybe because I don’t want the dream of us to die just yet.

When I stay quiet, he downs his beer, stands and digs a twenty out of his pocket, tossing it on the bar. “We should get going.”

I take another sip, stand, and let him guide me to the door and out to the bike.

Twenty minutes later, we turn down a side street of a not-so-nice section of San Jose and pull into an old industrial park. We ride to the dead-end and roll onto a lot surrounded by a tall, chain-link fence.

Tim pulls around behind an old two-story, red brick warehouse. Row after row of motorcycles are parked, their chrome gleaming in the moonlight.

A sign over the door displays the same emblem that’s on the back of Tim’s cut. He rolls the bike to a stop, and we dismount. I pull off the helmet he gave me, and he hangs it off his handlebar. Before we head inside, he grabs my hand.

“Sara, no one here knows me by Tim or Irish. When we’re in the clubhouse, call me Green, okay?”

“Okay,” I reply hesitantly.

He grabs my waist and pulls me to him.