Biker Chicks: An Anthology of Hot MC Romance (26 page)

I shook my head.
You’re staring. Quit it.
I yanked my eyes back to the book I was supposed to be reading. I made it about five paragraphs before I found myself looking up again...

This time his hard blue eyes met mine. He smiled at me and nodded.

My insecurities ganged up on me and I looked away, letting my hair fall across my face to hide a deep blush. I was acutely conscious of how frumpy I looked, what with my wrinkled hippie skirt and sweater and my hair messy because I’d forgotten to brush it before leaving my apartment. Even my unshaven legs bothered me. Like that even mattered.

I sighed and went back to my studies, still aware of both his presence and my slovenliness. Part of me wished he’d go away. Part of me wished he’d act more like the heroes in my romance novels and walk up to me, devouring my figure with his cold indigo stare...

Oh stop it.

An hour later I found myself in the bathroom, fussing in the mirror, brushing lint off my clothes and combing my hair with my fingers. My hair was the one thing I liked about myself; chestnut brown and glossy even though I didn’t do much to take care of it. I’d let it grow to waist-length, both because I liked it and because it made a handy wall between my face and the world every time I blushed, which was way too often.

I sighed. “Now you’re just being silly. Go back to your table and
study.
”

When I got back, the biker was gone. I sat down at my table, my mind churning through the same argument that had gone on while he’d been around, only in reverse. Part of me was glad he’d left. Part of me was disappointed. At least I could get some studying done, which I did.

On my way out I paused at the front desk. “The biker...you said he comes in a couple of times a week.”

“Yes that’s right,” she said.

I made myself sound as nonchalant as I knew how to. “What days?”

“Tuesdays and Thursdays usually.” She paused and eyed me over her glasses. “Why do you ask?”

I shrugged. “Oh, just curious.”

“You trying to avoid him?”

“Something like that,” I said.

When I got home I took a shower and shaved my legs. And I made sure to brush my hair.

I sat at my library table, doing what had become my habit over the past three weeks; pretending to study psychology 302 while directing most of my attention to studying the big biker whose name I still didn’t know. He’d caught me at it a few more times, and each time all I’d gotten had been a smile and a nod.

On the last time I’d found the courage to smile back.

Re-arranging my study time for Tuesdays and Thursdays had been easy enough, but doing something about my appearance had been trickier. When I’d gone through my paltry makeup collection I’d found most of it was expired. I couldn’t afford to replace much, and even what I could buy I was clumsy with.

I had the same problem with my closet; it was full of stuff designed to cover up as much of me as was possible. My mom had always told me to read fashion magazines for tips because that’s what they were for, but I hated reading them because the models all made me feel like a whale.

I did my best with what I had and what I knew, ignoring the part of me which considered it all a waste of effort.
That day I had on my nicest skirt and blouse and had put my hair up into a half-bun with some bobby pins and the hardwood chopsticks my grandmother had given me.

As I watched he turned another page in his book, stare intent on the words. With him it was always either pop-psych or true crime, never fiction. Thanks to my major, I’d have something to talk about...if I could ever find the guts to start a conversation, of course.
Just go up and talk to him,
I told myself for the hundredth time; my butt stayed planted firmly in my chair.

According to what my mom had said about the dating game, I was supposed to make myself as pretty as possible and be obvious, so that the guy I liked would notice me. I’d done that and he
had
noticed me, but that’s as far as it had gone. I sighed and went back to my studies.

This is why you don’t have a boyfriend.

Another hour ticked by, and I went to find a book one of my assignments referenced. When I turned the corner, there he stood, thick arms folded, staring at the shelf in front of him. “Come on,” he muttered, scanning the shelves. “The hell is it...”

“You look a little lost,” I said before I could stop myself.

He turned. “I surely am,” he said with a rueful grin. “Can’t seem to find what I’m looking for.”

You and me both.
“I know the library,” I said. “What’s the title?”

He told me what he wanted. “That’s at the other end of the aisle,” I said. “I’ll show you.”

“Thanks.”

I walked toward where what I knew he wanted was, and he fell into step next to me. A drop of sweat ran down my spine.

“I see you in here a lot,” he said.

“I’m a student. Up at the UW.” I forced more words out of my mouth. “Psychology major.”

He perked up. “That so,” he said, eyeing me again but keeping his gaze on my face. “That’s what I’m here about.”

“Are you a student?”

He shook his head. “Just interested. Helps me with my job.”

I found the shelf in question and pulled the book he wanted off. “Here you go,” I said. After a pause I kept talking. “I’m Alyssa.”

“Gabriel.” He stuck out his hand. “Gabriel Stark.”

“Alyssa Smith.” I shook it; his swallowed mine, his palms as rough as un-sanded lumber. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” he said, letting go of my hand.

“You said psychology helps you with your job,” I said as we walked back to our tables. “What do you do?”

“I’m a bouncer at Honeys, over in Sea-Tac.”

“A bar?”

“Strip joint.”

“Oh. That...must be a fun job.” He spent his nights around naked women who were way better-looking than me. Great.

He laughed and shook his head. “Everybody thinks that, but it’s not. It’s really not.”

I raised my eyebrows at him. “Seriously? Most guys I know would think your job’s a dream come true.”

“Most guys do, right up until they try their hand at it.”

“I’m curious how psychology applies to being a bouncer,” I said.

“Rare that it don’t apply.” He gestured at the chair across from where he’d been sitting. “If you want to sit down I can explain.”

I fought a bad case of stomach butterflies and won. “Sure.”

My conversation with Gabriel morphed into a long, loose spiral of mutual exchanges; I lost track of time as he told me of the ins and outs of the security trade, interspersed with my questions about biker life and his about college. I had to rein myself in more than once as I didn’t want to put him on the spot, but I was too curious to avoid asking more questions than was polite. If my prodding bothered him he didn’t show it; indeed most of his answers came with either a self-effacing smile or a warm chuckle. His easy laugh was as infectious as a pop song, and somewhere in our talk I forgot to be nervous, forgot how the man who sat across from me was an outlaw.

All the while he kept his eyes on my face, and I got the distinct impression he was actually listening to what came out of my mouth. That wasn’t what I was used to, as one of the side effects of being a bigger girl was D cup breasts and despite all I normally did to cover them up, guys always stared. Gabriel didn’t even look once. I didn’t know if I was happy about that or not. I’d worn something with a low neckline for a reason.

“What does that mean, exactly?” I pointed at his “1%” patch.

“It’s an old biker thing,” he said. “Ninety-nine percent of guys who ride are law-abiding citizens. One percent ain’t.”

“And those are outlaws?”
“Yep.”

I leaned forward. “How does someone...you know, join up?”

“Simple.” He tapped the patch with his finger. “They put this on and they don’t let nobody take it off ‘em.”

“And if someone tried to take yours...”

“They wouldn’t get it.”

Something about the way he said it sent a shiver down my spine, the spidery chill that made kids want to tell ghost stories around the campfire, only different. “So there would be a fight.”

“No officer,” he said, a wolfish grin playing about his lips.

His answer silenced me. I glanced down at his hands; they were nicked and scarred, knuckles swollen, black crosses tattooed on his middle fingers, “1:13:11” scrawled across the back of his right hand and “6:4” on his left. I didn’t know what the tattoos meant. I wanted to ask.

Ms. Peterson walked up to our table, a small frown on her face.

I winced. “Are we being too noisy?”

“No, but the library is closing in five minutes,” she said. “You two had best pack up.”

I blinked and glanced at the clock; sure enough, almost three hours had gone by. I winced; not only had I failed to get much studying in, I’d also managed to miss my bus. Crap. Ms. Peterson walked back to her counter, but not before feeding Gabriel an
I-disapprove
glare. He ignored her and looked at me instead, brows coming together in concern.

“Something wrong?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I missed my bus.”

“Want a lift home?”

Yes.
“Oh no, I can get a cab or...or something.” I stared at the tabletop.

“Ain’t what I asked,” he said.

The butterflies in my stomach mutated into an angry Mothra, beating against my ribs. “Yes,” I said. I made myself meet his eyes. “I’d like a ride home.”

After three blocks on the back of Gabriel’s Harley I regretted my decision to dress up. The wind kept trying to sneak up my skirt and down my blouse like a pushy date; I found myself sidling up against his broad back despite how he’d told me I didn’t have to, just so I could stay warm. He’d given me a brief speech on how to be a passenger; where to put my feet, how to sit, how he’d signal when turns were coming up and what to do when they happened. I did my best to remember it all. I didn’t want to make him crash.

Twenty five miles an hour in a car was boring, but the same speed on the back of a bike felt like twice that, more so with the slipstream howling in my ears and freezing my cheeks. Between that and the stuttering rumble of the engine talking was impossible; no wonder signals were given by taps on the knee. At least my ears stayed warm, the helmet he’d given me covered them. After another few blocks went by I relaxed...

...and then we hit I-5.

Gabriel took the bike through the sharp curve of the on-ramp, leaning
way
over to handle the turn, pavement a foot from my knee-

-
OhmygodohmygodohmyGOD-

-Then the road straightened, and he twisted the throttle.

Twenty-five had been exciting. Sixty plus put my heart in my mouth and took the bottom out of my stomach; I bit back a scream as we barreled up the interstate like a bullet from a gun. It wasn’t a scream of terror, but rather the visceral brand of joy a roller-coaster rider expressed on the last plunging incline. I forgot about the cold, forgot about the fear, about the weird path which had led me to be on the back of a strange man’s motorcycle; the hot rush of the moment was all I cared about. That, and one clear thought: