Chapter 1

Ella

If I'd known this morning that my seemingly ordinary Saturday would include me threatening a biker at knifepoint, I probably would have stayed in bed.

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As I finished putting aluminum foil over the top of one of the pans of now-cooled salted caramel brownies I'd baked this morning, I noticed the rumble of a motorcycle coming down our mostly quiet little street. Mostly quiet, that is, unless Pop or his club brothers were coming or going from his house next door. I glanced out the window, expecting to see Pop pulling into his driveway, since he'd mentioned last night that he had to run some errands before his son and grandsons arrived for a cookout this afternoon.

Instead of my seventy-something year-old neighbor, I saw a man who appeared to be in his mid-forties or so, rolling to a stop in front of Pop's garage door. As he shut off the engine and swung his leg over to dismount the bike, I took a second to admire the view of those faded blue jeans molded to thick thighs and – holy shit, a really nice ass. He smoothed his hands over his dark hair as he turned and headed for the front door with a swagger that bordered on cocky, and I noticed his leather cut had the same 5 th Circle Guardians emblem that Pop had on his.

Virgil Morgan, or Pop, as I'd been instructed to call him within hours of meeting him, was my next-door neighbor, as well as being my landlord. He was also someone I'd come to count as a friend in the almost four months since my kids and I had rented this three-bedroom house from him.

Pop insisted on calling me by my full name, Eleanor, rather than shortening it to Ella as everyone else did. His first girlfriend – at the whopping age of ten – was named Eleanor, and he claimed it brought back good memories for him. It was a sweet story, so I didn't object, even though I didn't care for my name much. I'd been named after my grandmother, and even though I had loved her fiercely, it had always felt like an old person's name to me.

Pop was a widower who happened to be the founder and now-retired president of a motorcycle club, and I'd initially been a little concerned about renting from the somewhat grizzled man who still wore his leather cut proudly. By the end of our first meeting, I'd walked away feeling entirely at ease with him though. Despite his rough edges – and his MC road name of "Sinner" according to the patch on the front of his cut - he was a gentleman to the core. He'd quickly jumped in to help on the day we'd moved in, calling in two young men from his club to help us haul in our belongings from the rental truck. He'd explained they were prospects, whose job it was to do " whatever the hell they're told to ," as Pop had gruffly put it.

I hadn't argued much, since I'd been exhausted at the time, and I'd known that my kids weren't much better off than I was. So, the addition of those two strapping young men had been a welcome relief for which I'd been immensely grateful. I'd tried to slip some cash to both of them, but Rod and Lincoln, who I'd learned was also one of Pop's grandsons, had refused to take it. I'd sent a big batch of cookies to them at the MC's clubhouse, via Pop, the following week to show my gratitude.

That had been the start of Pop looking out for us, and us looking out for him. I'd invited him over for dinner a few nights after our move as a thank you, and he'd raved about my cooking.

"You know, my Frankie was a damned good woman. She could do just about anything she put her mind to, except for bakin'. The woman couldn't bake for shit, but she was a pretty good cook. I miss her cookin' almost as much as I miss her, and that's sayin' somethin' because I miss her every second of every day," he'd told me as he'd snagged another piece of fried chicken. "I should have paid more attention to what she did in the kitchen. Now, if I can't throw it on the grill, I'm livin' on take-out food and frozen pizza, unless I get invited to eat with my grandsons and their wives. I don't like to impose on them too much though, especially now since Rome fucked up and he and Abby have divorced."

That was the night that we had worked out a plan to benefit us both. Pop paid me to prepare dinners for him, which gave me some extra money in my pocket and ensured he ate something more healthy than fast food. Some nights, that meant he joined us for dinner. Other nights, he would eat one of the many meals I'd prepared for him ahead of time and stored in his freezer. I also provided baked goods and a few breakfasts here and there, as a way to show my appreciation for everything he'd done for us.

We'd bartered a few other things as well. Pop bought the gas for the lawnmower, and Hunter mowed both yards. Hunter borrowed his ladder to clean our gutters and cleaned Pop's gutters out in return. Mia weeded the flower bed by his front door and Pop bought flowers for her to plant there as well as in our small flower bed, telling us how much his Frankie had loved having a yard full of flowers.

I made a fairly decent living as a graphic designer for a small marketing firm, but every little bit helped. Since my douchebag of an ex-husband had dragged out our divorce and had taken me back to court once since then in an unsuccessful effort to get his child support reduced, I'd racked up a hefty bill with my attorney that I had been slowly paying off. I hated having that debt hanging over my head, but with my deal with Pop, I was able to pay extra on the payment plan my attorney had agreed to and should have it paid off by the end of summer.

When we'd married, I would never have believed Clayton would turn into such a petty, vindictive, deadbeat asshole. Of course, when we'd married, I'd never have believed he would cheat on me repeatedly, either.

I shook off those memories as I watched the stranger head toward Pop's front door, then realized that it was King, Pop's son. I hadn't met him yet, but I recognized him from the pictures I'd seen in Pop's house. I could see the resemblance to not only Pop, but also to Pop's twin grandsons, Rome and Jagger. They were a handsome bunch, and the Morgan men seemed especially blessed with good genes. King was no exception.

The photos I'd seen had proven that he was rugged, manly, and sexy as hell. His dark hair was shorter on the sides but a little longer on top, just perfect for a woman to run her fingers through if she were so inclined. His hair as well as his close-cropped beard and mustache had a little bit of gray sprinkled in it, just enough to qualify him as a silver fox. His skin looked like it was perpetually tanned, partly due to the Italian heritage Pop had mentioned once, and partly due to long bike rides on sunny days, I suspected. He had piercing dark eyes with a hint of laugh lines, which belied the serious expression on his face in most of the photos.

One picture of King had shown him sitting astride his Harley, wearing a white short-sleeved T-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders and thick, ink-covered biceps, clinging to his solid chest and hinting at muscles that men a decade younger would kill for. He had a wide grin on his face, as if the photo had been snapped mid-laugh. I'd had to subtly wipe my mouth to make sure I wasn't drooling when I'd spotted the framed picture on Pop's wall. Now I knew that the view from the back was every bit as drool-worthy.

I'd met his son, Rome, several times since his divorce from Abby. Mia and I had both watched their son, Ethan, and newborn daughter, Everly, a few times when Rome had needed a babysitter. I'd met his twin brother, Jagger, and their cousin, Lucky, a couple of times, as well as a few other members of the MC, but hadn't ever actually met King for some reason.

I knew he'd taken over from as the MC president, since Pop had stepped down when Frankie got sick, and from the sounds of it, King was busy keeping on top of the various business the MC owned around the city. He'd also been out of town for several weeks dealing with some kind of " club business " that Pop had never elaborated on. His grim expression when he'd mentioned it didn't seem to invite questions, so I didn't bother asking any. I'd seen enough episodes of Sons of Anarchy to know better. Even though the 5 th Circle Guardians weren't one-percenters and had a decent reputation around the city, I doubted they were strictly law-abiding angels either. Again, I didn't ask.

I pulled my gaze from the window as King let himself into the house next door, then turned toward the stairs as I heard Mia calling for me.

"Mom, are you ready for yoga? Jessie and Hannah will be picking me up in a little while, so we'll need to hurry if we're going to get a workout in before I jump in the shower."

"Yep, I've been ready. Just waiting on you, sweetie."

She bounded down the last two steps and joined me as I headed to the back door. I eyed her with a smile, thinking not for the first time that she was my mini-me. Her wavy, deep brown hair was longer than mine, falling to the middle of her back whereas mine was just past my shoulders. We had the same heart-shaped face, with big blue eyes surrounded by thick lashes and a pert nose, finished off by lips that were a bit too full. She was the image of me as a teenager. Now, at the ripe old age of forty – and after giving birth twice – my figure wasn't nearly as trim as it used to be. My sweet tooth didn't help, hence the almost daily yoga sessions in our backyard. Mia usually joined me for a workout if she was home.

She ended up cutting her workout short to shower and get ready to go shopping and to the movies with friends, so I continued on my own. I cleared my mind and focused on my breathing as I moved my body through the positions, ending my session with Downward Facing Dog and then Standing Forward Bend, before doing a few cool-down stretches.

After I put away the yoga mats, I headed upstairs to get my own shower. Once I'd dried my hair and applied some moisturizer, mascara and lip gloss, I pulled on a pair of shorts and a dark red T-shirt that was a little tight across the chest after being laundered probably hundreds of times. I refused to admit that it was more likely that my love of baking – and eating said baked goods – was the culprit, rather than the dryer. Whenever I gained weight, it always went straight to the three B's – boobs, butt, and belly. According to my ex, that was why he'd developed a wandering eye.

" What the hell did you expect, El? You've let yourself go, so you can't exactly blame me for looking elsewhere, " he'd told me nastily during our last fight, almost three years ago.

At the time, I'd just discovered he'd been cheating on me for years, after finding him in our bed with the receptionist at his cosmetic dental practice. I'd come home a few hours early from an overnight trip to Chicago to go to visit my cousin Kim. I'd tried to call Clayton to let him know I would be home earlier than planned, but he hadn't answered. I had assumed he'd gotten up early to go play golf, as he often did on the weekends. I was sort of right. The game he was playing did involve balls and holes, just not the way I'd imagined.

I'd filed for divorce the next day and had discovered in the weeks that followed that Sabrina was only the latest woman in a long string of affairs he'd had over the years. I'd also learned that he had a particular affinity for threesomes. I'd heard from several so-called friends and acquaintances, who'd all shared variations on the same theme – " I should have told you, but I didn't know how ".

Apparently, almost everyone in our social circle had known about Clayton's wandering eye – and wandering dick – for quite a while, but not a single damned one of them had felt the need to clue me in. It turned out, he'd slept with everyone from the masseuse at our country club to the neighbor's dog-walker.

The only people besides me who hadn't known about Clayton's wayward dick were Kim and my best friend, Camille. Since Kim lived in Chicago, she was out of the loop. Camille wasn't part of the group of friends that Clayton had carefully cultivated for us over the years, so she'd been in the dark, too.

I looked in the mirror one last time, giving myself a nod of approval. I wasn't a supermodel by any means, but I wasn't the frumpy hag that Clayton implied I was either. All in all, I looked pretty damned good, and was often mistaken for being younger than my forty years, so Clayton could just go fuck himself as far as I was concerned.

I rummaged through my closet to find my favorite pair of sandals and slipped them on before making my way downstairs. I needed to run the pan of brownies over to Pop's house before I headed out to the grocery store to pick up a few things. I'd already taken over the potato salad, baked beans, and coleslaw earlier, along with the marinated steaks for Pop to put on the grill once his family arrived. He'd paid extra for the food for today, despite my protests that it wasn't necessary since he'd done so much for us already.

As I stepped into the kitchen, I heard the rumble of more motorcycles, and glanced out to see Pop pulling into his garage, with Rome and Jagger trailing him and parking behind King's bike in the driveway. Jagger's wife Molly was hanging on tight to him from her position on the back of his bike.

I snatched the pan of brownies off the counter and stepped out of the back door. As I headed across the yard to Pop's house, I spotted him walking out onto his deck carrying the platter of steaks. Molly followed behind him, carrying the grill utensils, and I greeted them both as I walked up.

"Hey, you two, I see you found the steaks. I made brownies for your dessert," I called out, lifting the pan in front of me so they could see it.

"Hi, darlin'. You didn't have to do that, but we surely do appreciate it," Pop said with a grin, as he set the steaks down and turned the knob to light the grill. Molly set the tongs and utensils down on the table next to the grill and greeted me with a smile. She was a nice woman – a kindergarten teacher who had Jagger wrapped around her little finger. The love and devotion between them was obvious to anyone who saw them together.

I motioned to the patio door with my elbow. "I'll just set this in the kitchen and be on my way."

"I wish you'd stay and join us, Eleanor. You know you're always welcome," Pop offered gruffly.

"I appreciate it, but your family needs time together, and I need to run to pick up a few groceries."

He huffed and shook his head at me as I stepped into the house and made my way over to the kitchen counter. I heard male voices coming from the living room and had just set the pan of brownies down when I registered just exactly what one of those voices was saying. A blind rage gripped me, and without further thought, I grabbed the filet knife from the knife block on the counter and charged into the living room.

"You fucking pervert !"