I loved our room. I’d gotten inspired. It was totally biker meets biker babe from birth. Black furniture. Deep purple sheets. Chrome accents. A black-and-white picture of me and Shy on his bike, taking off from the Compound, my arms around him, my chin to his shoulder, Shy looking badass cool in mirrored shades.
Sheila had taken that picture and I’d had it blown up to nearly poster size, framed in a black-and-chrome frame and it was hanging over the dresser. It might seem conceited to have a big poster of us looking awesome cool on our bedroom wall but I didn’t care. I thought it was the bomb.
Shy did too. I’d kept him away as I was doing up the room and when I unveiled it, he’d shown me he loved the whole thing by starting a marathon session that began on our purple sheets, moved to the floor and ended on that dresser. There was a handprint on the glass of that poster, mine, put there when my hand flew back to steady me as Shy gave me an orgasm. I didn’t have it in me to get out the Windex. I wanted to remember giving Shy a room he liked that much for a good long while. That handprint might stay there forever.
The last touch to the room was a wonky ball of pressed-together Christmas candy wrappers that I’d had put in one of those cases where you normally display signed baseballs. They were the wrappers Shy had cleaned up after my Hitchcock marathon right before what was not officially but still was (kind of) our first date. I’d found that ball of wrappers and saved it. I’d buried the reasons why in my pit of denial but I’d kept it and then had it mounted when we moved into our house. It was sitting on my nightstand.
When he saw it, Shy didn’t celebrate that in his normal way. He just cupped my jaw, slid his thumb tenderly along my cheekbone, held my eyes, his soft and warm as he muttered, “You were gone for me too.”
He was right. I didn’t admit it at the time. It was crazy.
But I’d saved a ball of discarded Christmas candy wrappers.
I was gone for him too
Firepower.
Shy took off with zero word from me that I wanted him to do so. He just went off to save Natalie, dragging the brothers with him.
He was off saving Natalie from a drug dealing p**n kingpin.
Firepower.
With trembling but quick hands, I dressed thinking if Shy got hurt, if any of my boys got hurt because my best friend was an idiot, no holds barred, I was going to go apocalyptic on her ass.
* * *
Two hours later, I was in the deserted Compound, drinking coffee I’d made and fighting back the urge to mainline tequila when Rush stalked in.
My brother looked like my father, save for the fact he got Mom’s light blue eyes which, fortunately for Rush, were one of the few good things she had to give.
Rush had always looked like Dad but, as time passed, he was looking more like him. He’d always been tall but lean, like Shy. Dad’s frame held more bulk. As Rush matured, and especially recently, being a recruit and spending time with the brothers in the storage room at the back of Ride’s auto supply store that held a bunch of weight equipment, his body was bulking out like Dad’s. It had more power and his muscles were more defined.
He was my brother and I was prejudiced, of course, but I also knew with the amount of dating he did and the fact that if he didn’t want to be alone he simply wasn’t, he was hot. He was also lucky that he was one of those hot guys who was hot young and got hotter as he aged.
Just like, from photographic evidence and memories, Dad.
I hadn’t seen him much recently, because being a recruit for Chaos wasn’t easy. They were on call to the Club 24/7 and still had to do their stints at the store and the garage.
Making matters worse for Rush, he only had one other recruit to help bear the load. The boys had christened the new guy “Joker” mostly because he didn’t smile often and never laughed. Club names were random and often ironic. Case in point, Shy was named Shy by the Club because back in the day, with women especially, he was anything but shy.
Although I didn’t see Rush much, Shy told me he was “settling in,” though he didn’t explain this phenomenon. He just said, “Doesn’t bitch, gets shit done, is always available, and keeps his mouth shut. He doesn’t share but way he’s actin’, it means somethin’ to him to pass that test. Both him and Joker are goin’ all out. They’ll get through, get their cuts, their ink, and, the way they’re showin’ their loyalty, it’ll be good having them at the table.”
This was positive news, so I left it at that, which was good because I knew Shy didn’t intend to give me more even if I wanted it.
But right then, I didn’t feel positive vibes mostly because my brother looked like he wanted to kill someone.
He, also like Dad, had a short fuse, and looking at his face, I knew the sparks were close to the dy***ite.
This meant that Shy and Dad were likely close to the blast.
“Your girl,” he pointed at me, stalking behind the bar and heading toward where I sat on a stool, “is a pain in the f**kin’ ass.”
Not a good opening.
“Is everything okay?” I asked, as he reached up to a shelf and brought down the tequila.
He turned to me. “No.”
Crap!
“Are Dad and Shy okay?” I pressed.
“They were when I left,” he answered ominously. My heart tripped and before I could ask another question, Joker walked in.
I’d met Joker but I didn’t know him mostly because when I was around, he was busy.
That didn’t mean I hadn’t noticed he was seriously good-looking in a scary way that reminded me more of Lee Nightingale than Chaos. It wasn’t learned. It didn’t come from dealing with a tough life. It was a part of him.
Joker was tall, built, not bulky but also not lean, just muscled in a powerful way. He held his body and moved like he knew exactly what his frame was capable of and what it was capable of was a lot.
He also had a natural confidence that was kind of bizarre, considering he was younger than Rush, who was twenty-six. He had a thick head of black hair with more than a small amount of wave to it. He wore it long, hanging in his face and down to his shoulders. He also had a full beard that, unlike most of the brothers who sported facial hair, he kept trimmed. The beard made him appear older than his years. The tan he had made him look weathered and again older than he was.
But it was his steel-gray eyes that told the tale. That steel was like a shield, holding everyone back from the mysteries that lay within. This was kind of a weird coincidence, since his name was Carson Steele. And I didn’t know him, but I knew from those eyes there was no doubt there were mysteries that lay within.