“Oh, they’re lovely! Did you pick them yourself?”
Colby gave an enthusiastic nod.
“Thank you, Colby. That was kind of you.”
I ruffled his hair and unlocked the gate, ushering him into the play area. After Colby was out of hearing range, I turned my attention to Clint.
“You’re raising a very polite young man,” I said.
“Don’t jinx it,” he replied, with a hint of drawl from his Southern roots. “There’s still a chance he might grow out of it. I was hell on wheels as a teenager.”
I gestured to his cut.
“Is that how you ended up joining the Blackjacks?”
“Nah, that wouldn’t happen for a few more years down the road. I had to get my head screwed on straight first before I associated with those heathens.”
Questions welled on the tip of my tongue, curious to hear more about the Blackjacks. Ryker rarely talked about the club in detail, even though it took up so much of his life. He claimed it wasn’t special and he could be voted out at any moment on a whim. But I had my doubts about that.
Despite serving in the military for years, he didn’t associate with other veterans often. When he needed backup, he didn’t call on fellow soldiers. He brought another biker with him for extra muscle.
Clint’s gaze flicked past my shoulder toward the other staff members. Two of my co-workers weren’t being subtle about their wary glances in our direction.
“I don’t usually wear my cut around the day care,” he said. “Makes people uncomfortable.”
“Clearly you changed your mind today though,” I replied.
Clint pulled his gaze away from my co-workers and settled on me.
“Gatling texted earlier. He knows my son comes here and he asked me to check in on you. I didn’t think you’d appreciate it if Istarted getting nosy out of the blue. So, I guess you could say that I wore my cut as a calling card.”
Gatling. Ryker’s road name.
To me, he would always be Ryker.
But to Clint, to the Blackjacks, he was Gatling, Sergeant-at-Arms. A completely different man.
Ryker was usually patient and lenient with me, but I couldn’t help wondering what he was like among these bikers. Ever since I was little, Ryker and my brother had been best friends. When Noah wasn’t around, I could count on Ryker to show up when I needed him.
There were still so many aspects of his life that remained a mystery to me though.
“I’m all right,” I replied. “You can tell Ryker—Gatling—that the only threat I’ve dodged this morning is sticky fingers covered in fruit juice.”
Clint chuckled.
“I’ll pass the message along. Is everything okay otherwise? Gatling doesn’t make requests like that unless he has a good reason to.”
I hesitated. My own brother didn’t know about my stalker. It didn’t seem fair to tell Clint who was virtually a stranger. I didn’t like the idea of Ryker telling his entire club about my personal problems either. Even if he trusted them to have his back, that didn’t mean I felt the same way.
“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” I replied lightly.
Clint nodded and lingered for a second or two longer, looking skeptical. But he didn’t push the issue. Backing up, he nudged the door open with his boot and stepped out.
I watched through the window as he crossed the parking lot and climbed into his truck. It was hard to imagine mild-mannered Clint with his charming little boy as an outlaw biker. He seemed too chill and laidback for that.
When I returned to the play room, my co-worker, Marcy, sidled over with a wicked gleam in her eye. She was about my age—maybe a year or two younger—with a dating history that rivaled the most dramatic soap operas.
“Look at you, girl,” she crooned, low enough so the kids couldn’t overhear it. “You’ve got all kinds of hot guys swarming around you.”
