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“Just doin’ what I’m told.” He pulls his helmet on and straddles his bike.
Definitely me.I need to wake up to the truth of the situation: the men are loyal to Tyke. The club wants to help me, but not for me.
For him.
The guy watching me with cool interest as I fidget with the helmet in my hands.
“You want help with that?” Tyke reaches behind him and flicks out the footpegs for me while he waits for my answer.
“Not sure yet.” I jerk the protection over my head and predictably fumble with the catch.
Maddie steps up and grabs my hands. “Feel that?” She directs my fingers to a hard plastic tab. “Feed that… here.” She guides me like a child, showing me how the tab slips and locks into the catch. “You want to release it? Pull this.” The tab slides free. “Think you can do it again?”
I nod, painfully aware her father has watched this whole pathetic interaction without so much as blinking.
I’m not made for their world.
Yet, somehow, I manage to get the helmet secured and myself ready to ride.
It doesn’t escape my attention how Graves sits atop his bike, seemingly waiting until Tyke starts his bike to do the same. In fact, nobody does a thing until Tyke has.
“Get on.” Tyke pats the seat behind him.
I eye the beast between his legs—matte black and thick in the body like a damn bull. It’s a menace of a machine fit for a king. One boot on the peg closest, I set my hands on Tyke’s shoulders and hoist myself over. His traps tense beneath my touch; his head turned slightly to watch me in his periphery.
I perch, jammed against the small backrest, careful not to get too close.
Tyke sighs, shoulders dropping. “Closer.”
I move forward an inch.
“More.”
I get as close as I dare without my inner thighs pressing against his hips.
Tyke hangs his head briefly before grabbing me by the legs and jerking me forward, much the same as Digger did at the diner. Only this time, he follows up by snatching my hands andwrapping my arms around his solid chest. “Fuckin’ grab hold of me like I mean somethin’ to you, Rae.”
My flat palms press against the firm wall of his pecs. “Sorry.”
“And whatever you do, don’t apologize for it.” He turns his head, checking the street, adding before we roar off into the warming day, “Never apologize for makin’ someone feel good.”
8
TYKE
I askedmy father once what it was that drew my parents to each other. He told me a story about a hard-headed woman who challenged him, who drove him mad with the need to get her to break and loosen up. To get her to smile.
Apparently, all it took was a ride on the back of his bike. But it wasn’t her who broke as she grinned ear-to-ear, hair whipping about her face.
It was him.
As Rae slid off the back of my Indian, I finally understood what he meant.
And it leaves me craving the ignorance of yesterday before my goddamn daughter brought trouble into our yard with her long, dark hair and big, soulful eyes.
Fuck it. I set the bike on its stand and ditch my helmet, not waiting around to fucking find out whether Rae enjoyed the short ride as much as I did. To hear how fucking grateful she is—again.
Not when it elicits fucked images in my sordid head of her before me, on her knees, telling me how thankful she is in a whole other way.
