9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

ARROW

The guys are all parked in Hero's driveway, waiting for me when I pull up. The rumble of five Harley engines thunders in my ears as I slow to a stop.

Hero nods in greeting and the menacing glint of mischief in Jag's eyes tells me right off that whatever is going on has the potential for trouble.

"I hope this is damn good," I mutter, my mind still back at Lewis's place.

"More important than whatever you were doing," Tex says, his cowboy hat traded for his motorcycle helmet now as he straddles his bike.

"Or whoever," Jag quips with a smirk.

I chuckle. Somehow I doubt that, but I'll bite.

"Well? Are you going to fill me in or is it a surprise?" I ask.

"My little sister called me." Hero's eyes darken and his jaw ticks, and all the levity inside of me vanishes.

"Val?" I clarify, but I already know the answer. Hero has three younger sisters, but there's only one he's been lying awake at night worrying about for the past year and a half.

He nods sharply. "She's finally leaving the prick."

"Good," I grunt.

"A-fucking-men," Piston says, and the rest of the guys murmur their agreement.

"He's supposed to be working third shift tonight, but last week she found a camera hidden at the house and she's worried there's more she didn't find. She just needs us there while she gathers up her stuff in case he's watching some secret live feed and comes running home to stop her from taking off," he explains.

My insides thrum with adrenaline and I rev my engine.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" I jerk my head for Hero to lead the way since he's the one who has the address. He roars out of the driveway and the rest of us fall into formation behind him, with Piston just slightly behind me to one side, and Jag and Tex staggered behind him.

It's assholes like Val's boyfriend who sowed the seeds of anger inside of me from a young age. Bullies, people who think it's their right to push people around and put their hands where they don't belong. People who pick on anyone they see as smaller and weaker than they are, like their girlfriends, their own kids, or the awkward gay kid who sticks out like a sore thumb in a rural high school in the early nineties. Funny how people like that tend to shut the hell up pretty damn fast when we come around these days. It's a lot harder to feel tough when you're staring down five pissed off bikers, covered in tattoos and boiling with decades of rage.

They don't have to know how much damn work I've put into learning how to control my anger issues. Let them piss themselves wondering how hard I hit instead.

It doesn't take us long to reach her place. I didn't realize how close she lived, and now the restraint it must have taken for Hero not to come over here and drag her to safety sooner really sinks in. I'm not sure I would be able to hold back if it were my flesh and blood getting pushed around like that. But you can't save someone who isn't ready to be saved.

We pull our bikes up, surrounding her car in the driveway, just in case the guy does come back and tries to fuck with it to keep her from leaving. The tension rolling off of Hero is palpable as he dismounts and loses his helmet. We all follow suit, right behind him on the way up to the front door. I glance around for a doorbell camera or any other outdoor cameras and I don't see any obvious ones. Of course, that doesn't mean they aren't there.

A clock inside my head starts to tick down as soon as we approach the door. If there are any outdoor cameras, he'll know now that something is going on, which means our time is limited to get Val out of here without a confrontation.

Hero knocks and it takes a solid minute or two before the door is cautiously inched open.

The woman on the other side of the door has the same almond shaped eyes and bushy eyebrows as Hero, but there's a purple bruise staining her left cheek. His fingers flex into a fist as soon as he notices it and I brace for him to lose his shit. Piston reaches out before I can and puts a steadying hand on Hero's shoulder, squeezing it to let him know we're all behind him.

"Say the word and I'll kill him, Val. I swear to god I will," he says gruffly.

"Stop it, Kaid. That's why I didn't tell you sooner. He's not worth spending the rest of your life in prison," she says softly. "Thanks for coming though, I appreciate it."

"Wasn't even a second thought." He reaches out slowly and, when she doesn't flinch back, pulls her into a hug.

When Hero lets her go, she wipes a stray tear off her cheek and opens the door wider.

"I'm not going to bother taking much, just what I can fit in my suitcase. I have most of it organized already, I just didn't want to start actually packing it until you were here in case…"

He nods in understanding.

"He's not going to get through us, sweetness. I can promise you that." Jag flashes a toothy grin.

She gives him a small, appreciative smile and then holds the door open to welcome us in. I grab Tex's arm to hold him back.

"We'll hang out here in case he shows up," I volunteer.

Piston, Jag, and Hero disappear inside, and the door swings closed behind them while Tex and I take up spots on the porch like a pair of Roman guards, arms crossed over our chests, both on alert for any sign of trouble.

"Did Hero really interrupt you in the middle of a hookup or was he just being a smartass?" Tex asks.

I huff and shake my head. A lie forms on the tip of my tongue, but it's Tex. He's not a gossip, so I decide to just be honest.

"Yeah."

"Really? Has anyone won the bet yet?" He chuckles.

"No," I bark.

Tex gives me a coy, crooked smile. "Piston has a theory."

I raise my eyebrows, then glance over my shoulder at the house. Fucking Piston has always been able to read me like a book, but I have no clue what kind of theory he could have right now. I haven't said a word to them about Lewis except the vague answer the other night in Jag's garage.

"Care to share?" I prompt.

Before he can tell me what Piston's theory is, the door swings open behind us again. The sound of tires screeching against pavement breaks through the quiet night at the same second. My muscles tense, all of us going on alert in an instant. Hero steps in front of his sister and I pivot to see a silver sedan slamming to a stop at an odd angle across the end of the driveway. The driver's door flies open and a man jumps out. He's wearing a security guard uniform, a heavy flashlight hanging from his belt, his face purple with rage.

I pull my shoulders back, taking full advantage of my size, while Tex and Piston move closer on either side of me so we're shoulder to shoulder, blocking him from even setting eyes on Val.

"Better to just turn around, mate," Jag says with his signature taunting drawl, sauntering around to stand in front of the three of us.

"Who the fuck are you?" the dickhead growls, his eyes skating over Jag for just a second before settling on me. "This is between me and her. Fucking move."

"No," I say simply. "Like my friend here said, just turn around and go back to work."

He scoffs and takes a threatening step forward. None of us flinch.

"Valerie," he shouts in the same tone someone might use when calling a misbehaving dog. I grind my teeth together.

Hero leans in to look at him over my shoulder.

"She's done with your shit. Don't make this any harder than it needs to be."

"Mind your fucking business," he spits, reaching for the flashlight in his holster.

"My family is my business," Hero barks.

" Our business," I correct.

Piston grunts in agreement and Jag takes his own step forward, invading the asshole's space and cracking his knuckles threateningly.

"You don't want to do this," Jag warns.

The man scoffs and in a blink, he has his heavy metal flashlight unsheathed and is swinging it like a club in Jag's direction. My reflexes are faster than Jag's just this once, a hiss escaping between my teeth as the bludgeon cracks into my knuckles. I ignore the pain that sears through my hand and up my arm, flipping my hand around to wrap my fingers around the flashlight. I manage to wrench it out of his hand while Jag puts his years of Jiu Jitsu into practice, taking the fucker out at the knees before he even knows what hit him.

He lies on his back on the lawn, coughing and trying to catch the breath the fall knocked out of his lungs. There was a time long ago when I wouldn't have been satisfied to leave it at that. I would have been on him in an instant, giving him a taste of his own fucking medicine, because fuck knows he never stopped when Val was vulnerable.

But she was right before. It's not worth it.

I flip the flashlight in my hand, hiding the wince at the swelling I can already feel starting in my knuckles. Jag steps forward and puts his foot on the dude's chest, grinding the heel of his boot down probably a little harder than necessary.

"Why do shitbags like you never listen?" He clicks his tongue and shakes his head. "Now, we're going to go. You be a good boy and stay right here until we're gone. And then, do the smart thing and don't come sniffing around Val again, or you're going to have a problem."

He lets up, then struts across the lawn, pulling open the door to Val's car with a flourish.

"Right this way, babycakes."

I expected more of a fight from the boyfriend, but he does as he's told and stays on the ground while Hero puts his sister's bag into her car and watches her get in. Since the dude parked like an asshole, we have to drive over the lawn to get out, but landscaping is his problem, not ours.

We flank Val's car down the quiet suburban street with a sense of pride and purpose. Val is safe tonight thanks to us. That's more than worth the swollen knuckles.

LEWIS

Slumping on my couch with my bare feet propped up on the coffee table and an episode of Good Omens I've watched a dozen times already playing in the background, I open and close the text thread I have with Arrow, trying to decide whether I should text him or not. It's perfectly reasonable for me to ask if he's planning to come back over tonight, so why does it feel like such a clingy thing to do?

Maybe it's all about the phrasing. If I keep it flirty, it won't sound desperate, right? I chew on my bottom lip and stare at my phone, trying to conjure the exact right words, but my mind is a complete blank. Well, that's not true. It's just not full of anything helpful. If I wanted to text Arrow and tell him that I can still taste him and my dick has been hard for hours since his friend cockblocked us, I definitely have the words for that. If it even was a friend. " Daddy's busy. " I grit my teeth and chew on my thumbnail, my teeth clicking together.

If I wanted to really embarrass myself, I could tell him I've been thinking about him all fucking week and I'm wondering if he's thinking about me at all too. Or I could tell him about the boiling pit of jealousy in my gut about whoever kitten is.

I groan, tossing my phone down on the cushion next to me.

This calls for a drink. I haul my ass up off the couch and shuffle into the kitchen. In the cabinet over the fridge I find the rest of the bottle of rum that Row left here a few weeks ago. I pull it down and unscrew the cap, but before I can bring it to my lips, the obnoxious, shrill beep of the door buzzer makes me jump. My gut explodes in a flurry of butterflies and my heart breaks into a gallop against my ribcage. Fuck, Arrow cannot know how much he's starting to get to me.

I hurry through the living room to the door and press the intercom button.

"Hello?" I answer sweetly.

"If you pretend not to know who this is again, I might start developing a complex." Arrow's voice is a low purr. How does he sound sexy even through an intercom? These things usually make everyone sound like a robot with a sinus infection.

"Of course I know who it is…" I smirk, dragging my tongue along my bottom lip. I tap my finger against the panel for a second before I hold the button down again. "It's Daddy , right?" The jolt of jealousy I felt earlier rises in my chest again. I didn't even mean to bring it up, but apparently my mouth had plans of its own.

There's silence for a second before he answers.

"It's just a joke between my friends and I. If you want to be my kitten though, I think you'd look cute wearing a collar with a little bell on it."

Arrow follows his response with a rumbling, confident chuckle that raises the hairs on the back of my neck… among other things. I bite my bottom lip and lean against the wall by the door for a second. Do I believe him? Experience has taught me how easily some guys lie, but for some stupid reason there's something in Arrow's voice that makes me want to trust him.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. With a sigh, I hold down the button to speak again.

"No pet play necessary." I press the button next to it to unlock the door downstairs and then I pull open my apartment door and wait.

The heavy clomp of Arrow's boots coming up the stairs echoes in the hallway. I swear I can smell the familiar combination of lavender and motor oil before he even reaches the top of the stairs. As soon as he comes into sight, a slow grin spreads over my lips before I can even try to play it cool. I rake my fingers through my hair and lean against the doorframe, dragging my eyes over him like I didn't just see him a few hours ago. He's still wearing the thigh hugging jeans and a Smashing Pumpkins t-shirt under his unzipped leather jacket.

He reaches for me as he closes the distance between us, and my gaze snags on his hand.

"What the hell happened?" I catch his wrist with my free hand, realizing I'm still holding the bottle of rum in the other.

Arrow winces as I turn his hand over to look at the back. The skin is deep red, and his knuckles are swollen. When his friend called him earlier, I heard him say there was "club business." Are these guys some kind of criminals? Is he in a motorcycle gang full of sexy hitmen or a bunch of petty drug dealers? My gut clenches. That is so not the flaw I was hoping Arrow would have. Fucking fuck.

I hold my breath and search his eyes, bracing for a lie, an evasion, some excuse for his fucked-up hand.

"I'll tell you about it for an ice pack and a drink." He nods at the bottle.

I only hesitate for a second before letting go of his wrist and stepping back to let him inside.

"Make yourself comfortable." I gesture towards the living room then go into the kitchen to get an ice pack and pour a couple of drinks.

Arrow is sitting on the couch when I come back, his boots and jacket left in the hallway, his socked feet up on the coffee table, and his attention fixed on the episode of Good Omens that's still playing. He chuckles quietly at Crowley's antics and the knots in my stomach loosen. Whatever he's into, he's not a criminal. Maybe I'm being naive, but I just can't see it. I set the drinks down on the coffee table and then sit down on the couch next to him.

"Here." I grab his wrist gently and put the towel-wrapped ice pack on his hand.

He hisses through his teeth again and his fingers twitch.

"Thanks," he murmurs, then frowns. "Fuck, if that dickhead broke my hand, I'm going to sue him for all the missed work while I heal."

It's on the tip of my tongue to ask what he does for work. I can feel myself dancing right on the edge of something dangerous. If I open the floodgates and start asking about his life, will there be any turning back? I hold my curiosity at bay while I focus on his hand for a minute, looking down at the ice pack in my grip, even though I'm sure he's perfectly capable of holding it himself.

"So, who's the dickhead?" I ask, watching his face while I wait for the answer. Is he going to lie? Change the subject? Try to gaslight me into dropping it or distract me so I stop asking? "Some kind of club business?"

"My motorcycle club," he answers, shifting closer to me.

"Like the Hells Angels?" Okay, so maybe I wasn't that far off before.

He chuckles low in his throat.

"Not exactly."

"What then? That's pretty much the only point of reference I have. Oh, except for Sons of Anarchy . Do you hang out with hotties like Charlie Dunham?" I hum, putting on a dopey smile, and a growl comes from between Arrow's clenched teeth. Fuck, why is that so hot? "Wait, I know, your club is full of badass but generally toxic hotties like in the gay romance books Rowan is so obsessed with."

"None of the above," he says. "Although, I haven't read any gay romance. Sounds like something Jag would be into, I'll have to ask him."

"Are you going to make me keep throwing out fictional examples until one of them lands right?"

"No." He bumps his knee against mine and drags his good hand through his beard. "We're really just a group of friends with a shared love of Harleys who wanted an excuse to hang out more and work on our bikes together. We do charity rides when we can, and we've gone to a lot of Pride parades so we can represent and show people that bikers aren't all homophobes. And we like to go to places where shitbags are protesting so we can show them that not all queers are easy to push around and intimidate."

"And tonight there was an emergency charity ride where you broke your hand?" I ask blandly.

"My buddy, Hero… his sister needed some help." He nods at his hand and flexes his fingers. "This was courtesy of her now ex- boyfriend. Fucker tried to hit Jag with a flashlight and my hand got in the way."

My eyebrows fly up.

"Um, why?"

"We were helping her get her stuff out of his house and he showed up," Arrow explains. "Jag mouthed off to him."

"Wow. Jag sounds like he's interesting." You'd have to be to get the nickname ‘Jag,' right? "So, you guys do charity rides, go to Pride events, and offer your services to help battered women escape their shitty boyfriends? You sound like saints."

So much for finally finding a flaw. Still nothing but green flags over here. I should be happier about that, right? Not that I'm un happy that Arrow is such an incredible guy, it would just be so much easier to remind myself not to actually fall for him if he had some more glaring faults.

"Not sure a saint would have had such a delightful fantasy about pounding the guy's face in," he says.

"Okay, now we're getting somewhere. Do you have a violent streak? Anger issues?"

Arrow's forehead creases and he looks at me like he's trying to figure out if I'm crazy.

"Now we're getting somewhere?" he repeats, and I cringe. Oops, yeah, I said that out loud.

I focus my attention on his hand for a minute. I'm looking for his crazy and accidentally flashed my own instead. Great. But, fine, if we're doing this, then we're doing it.

"I have trust issues," I say with a weak laugh. "You seem kind of perfect so far, and bitter experience has taught me that usually means someone is hiding something really fucked up."

He's quiet for a beat and then he barks out a laugh. "I'm far from perfect."

"Oh yeah?" I arch an eyebrow and lean in a little closer. "Go ahead then, try to scare me off."

"I do have a history of getting into fights. I almost got expelled from high school for fighting and in my early twenties I spent a couple of nights in jail for drunken brawls," he confesses.

"What, twenty-five years ago?" I scoff. "Not sure that counts as a flaw." Our noses are nearly touching now, the smell of his skin and the warm puff of his breath against my lips making my heart race.

I can feel the hesitation thrumming through him. He has one he's holding back, something he really does think will scare me away. I'm starting to doubt that he could.

"How about if I promise to work on some more obvious flaws?" he teases, hooking his good hand behind my neck and pulling me in another half inch.

"I would really appreciate that," I murmur, ghosting my lips over his. He chases the light touch with a rough, needy sound in his throat, making heat rise inside of me and electricity dance over my skin. "Do you still want a drink?"

He drops his grip on my neck and sits back a little.

"Actually, I'd better not. A beer is one thing, but I can't ride after hard liquor."

I think about what he's saying for a minute, then lean over and pick up his glass from the table, holding it out to him.

"Then stay."