3. Riley

three

Riley

For the first time in weeks, I slept. But not until I was reassured by the low rumble of Cam's bike as he parked it out back. Something about being alone, but not alone, in the house, was soothing. No worrying about some rapist or robber breaking the window in my car and pulling a gun on me. The fear of resting in parking lots in my car—gone.

At least my father had given me that.

The sound of Cam's motorcycle, leaving before the funeral, woke me.

There was a text on my phone, sent before he left. A weird bubble of excitement caught in my throat, then quickly deflated when I read it.

Desert Kings are sending a car to pick you up. Be ready by 10:30.

What had I expected? I'd not even known the guy twenty-four hours. I stood and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. He probably left every woman he met excited and chasing after him. He had the fuck boy swagger down, better than any I'd ever seen.

Not that I'd met many.

I turned my focus to the things that mattered, not the sexy biker next door. What was I supposed to wear to the funeral of a man I'd never met?

My father's funeral.

I settled on a modest black dress that swayed around my knees. Nothing remarkable, something that should blend. Though, the only shoes I had to match were knee high black leather boots. My club shoes. I snorted at my reflection. Wearing these, I'd fit in even better.

The car that arrived was a black stretch limousine. The sort of thing celebrities were carted off to award shows in. I looked up one side of the street and down the other before a driver in a crisp white shirt climbed from the front seat.

"Riley Bowman?" He made his way to the back door.

I blinked at the pomp and circumstance. "Yeah." This was definitely over the top.

He swung an arm toward the door. "I'm Tommy. Sorry to hear about your dad."

What was I supposed to say to that? I knew Tommy as well as I had my father. Archer Bowman was a stranger. The more reminders of that I was hit with, the more I second guessed coming here at all. "Thank you."

I tucked myself into the limo and tried my best to settle in. Tommy had closed the partition between us. I was grateful, because small talk wasn't something I was good at. Alone, hidden from the outside world, it was easier to gather myself and prepare for what was coming.

They were all strangers. People he'd chosen over me. And here I was, fulfilling his warped last wishes for what—money?

That you desperately need.

I could hear Mom's voice now, warning me how dangerous he was—they were. To get out while I still had the chance. I trembled. Not because I was afraid, but because I should be and wasn't. Her illness had changed me, broken a part of me.

To keep from thinking about all the things I was missing, all the things I could have had—I stared out the dark tinted window at the Nevada desert. It had been full dark when I arrived in Dry Valley, so the brilliance of the sun shining off the hard packed earth and the red hills in the distance was unexpected. I could see why Archer chose to make his life here.

I fought back the tears that threatened. I hadn't lost just my future, but the only parent I'd ever known. She'd been as steady for me as any rock, and I missed her so much I ached. Since it was just the two of us, there'd been no funeral for her, just a pretty wooden box filled with her ashes.

A spitting, rumbling reverberation jerked me from my thoughts. Two rows of bikes passed us on each side. Each rider giving the limo—giving me—a two-finger salute as they passed.

An odd, warming emotion started in my chest and worked its way up the back of my throat. I wouldn't say I was soothed, but the show of respect hit me in a way I hadn't expected. I liked that it made me feel important.

I needed to meet with the lawyer and get the hell out of here. Cam was dangerous. Hadn't he proved it in the way he'd grabbed me, attacked me? It was practically assault and yet I spent all night remembering the brief contact of his hands on my body. Gooseflesh covered my skin and pleasure tingled between my thighs each time I brought up the memory, making it dirtier than it was.

I liked it.

Daughter of the outlaw biker shouldn't be such a shock. I wasn't a total prude.

The bikers flanked the limo all the way to the funeral chapel. What was it about Rick Bowman that made him so important? Why the big fanfare? All I'd known was that he'd been part of a biker gang—Motorcycle Club. But this amount of reverence was a lot. Especially for a notoriously violent drug dealer that Mom had been terrified of.

The knot in my stomach twisted around an anchor and held me molded to the seat. The limo pulled in behind the hearse under an awning. I didn't get out. My heart throbbed in my ears, and that weight in my stomach bobbed up and down in the acid that churned. It was too late now, I couldn't turn and run.

My door opened and a tall masculine form blocked out the bright desert sun. It wasn't until he bent into the car and extended his hand that I realized it was Cam.

"Come on, Riley." His grip was warm on mine as he helped out. Metal winked from his leather vest as he did.

All around me, Harleys were shutting off as those that rode with the limo pulled in behind us. Those already there, leather vests covered in patches, milled about and all stared openly at me. Cam caught my elbow and held me steady when I stumbled as trepidation seeped in.

"You okay?" There was a slight tenderness in his expression that hadn't been there the night before.

"They're all staring at me," I whispered.

"It's about to get worse." He snorted, but stopped at the hood of the car when he noticed my reluctance. He shifted, so that his body blocked me from their view, and leaned down so that it seemed as if he were consoling me.

"Most of them had no idea you existed until this morning. Archer…" He trailed off with a whispered curse and rubbed a hand over the blond hair that surrounded his mouth. "He didn't tell many people.

"There'll be some push back, but not today. They'll all show you more respect than anyone in the room."

For what? Coming here was a bad idea. I needed to leave. Mom was right, these were bad people. "What do I tell them?"

"Whatever the fuck you want, darlin."

I opened my mouth to tell him—what, exactly, that I didn't want anything? But a large, broad shouldered, potbellied man interrupted me. His handlebar mustache was flecked with so much gray I couldn't tell what color it had originally been. And his hair was coarse, likely looking unkept seconds after he'd tried to do anything with it.

Across the right side was a bright, new patch that read President . I flicked a glance to Cam's. Vice President.

That surprised me. Cam was so much younger than all the others.

"Hey there, Riley. I'm Greg Lowell, but everyone calls me Preacher." He sucked his tongue across his teeth like he was picking them.

The way he hovered and leered put everything into perspective. This was the sort of man who scared women, the sort that should scare me. Gathering myself took a lot more effort than it should have. But after several long seconds, I managed a facade of calm deference and shook his hand.

Then I scooted closer to Cam, fighting for an appropriate mix of fascination and sorrow. When all I wanted to do was run. I turned myself into what they needed to see. Pretty, decorative, and questionably devastated. The things expected of a young woman who had never met the man she was here to bury.

Cam took a few steps away, half hugging a man who approached. They were all dressed the same, one leather vest blurring into the next. Two rows of gleaming Harleys flanked the hearse, but there was one sitting out front all alone, sunlight glinting off the polished chrome. A group of them stood around it, as if somehow they were saying goodbye.

"You have our deepest condolences." Preacher pounced into the space between Cam and me, leaning in, brushing his handlebar mustache against my cheek as he kissed me. I jerked when he pressed a hand to the small of my back.

I flinched and caught Cam's eyes over Preacher's shoulder. His gaze was hard but searching. As if with one word, he'd barrel over there and jerk the other man off me. I blinked once and Preacher straightened and smiled down at me, asking something about the ride over. He wore too much cologne and it clung to me enough that I almost gagged.

Uncomfortable, I murmured what must have been a suitable answer, because with his hand still on my back he led me toward the chapel. I looked around as we went, trying to ignore the skin crawling sensation that traveled up from his touch.

Cam stood at the end of the row, lighting a cigarette as he studied the motorcycle in front of the hearse.

I didn't need anyone to tell me that the gleaming machine was my father's.

***

Inside, there were more people than I could have imagined. I'd never suffered from stage fright, but as Preacher guided me between the pews toward the front, my palms were sweaty, and my knees wobbled.

At the first long row draped in a gold tasseled banner that read RESERVED , a few people huddled together. Two were men dressed similarly to Cam and Preacher. The other, an attractive woman about my age.

"AP, this is Archer's daughter, Riley." Preacher spoke at a respectable volume, ensuring that anyone close heard him. Like he was parading me around as some sort of macabre trophy.

A man about Preacher's age, with shaggy dark hair that hung over his ears, extended his hand. The gentle smile that spread on his handsome face hinted at how good-looking he'd once been. "I'm sorry we're meeting this way, Riley. This is my son, Jace, and daughter Dylan."

He gestured to a younger man, quite obviously his son, who extended a long fingered, calloused hand. Yeah, AP was definitely smoking hot as a younger man—considering his son was practically a clone. Complete with the snug-fitting jeans and black leather vest.

But he was different. Jace Merrick looked like a man simultaneously comfortable in his own skin but uncomfortable in the room. He was constantly tense, ready for a fight and likely marking every avenue of escape.

A dark beard covered his face, as if he needed more than the shaggy hair to hide behind. And yet, he stood tall and unafraid. He'd just rather be anywhere else. A kindred spirit, it seemed. I shook Jace's hand as he sized me up in a different way than his father. But unlike Preacher's ogling, I almost wanted to preen as he gave a short, approving jerk of his chin.

I hadn't been found wanting.

Then he looked over my shoulder and smiled with the ease of long friendship.

I followed his gaze to see Cam right behind me. His blue eyes were dark like impending rain, his mouth twisted in a half-amused smirk.

My gaze shifted between the two of them as Jace snickered a little and ducked his head, hiding it with a cough. It's like they had a silent conversation and had done so countless times before. I was intrigued.

Preacher rubbed a small circle on my back and I stepped away as tendrils of cool apprehension skittered across me. I stood closer to Jace, right between he and Cam now and immediately felt safe.

"Hi, Riley." The young woman shouldered in between us with a dramatic elbow to Jace's side. She brought us all back to the moment.

Dylan Merrick put the capital Vs in Va Va Voom . She wore a pretty, maroon dress with white flowers that hugged more curves than a back road. The dark red lipstick seemed brighter against the chocolate hair that framed her face and bright blue eyes.

For the first time, the expression staring back at me was understanding. She put me at ease immediately. I relaxed even more when Preacher ambled off with AP. The air suddenly easier to breathe.

"It's customary for the family to wait near the coffin, let the guys come through and pay their respects." Dylan's husky voice was soft and coaxing. "A lot of them came from other states. Archer was the founding father of the club."

My eyes snapped toward the coffin, one end open, dozens of flower displays surrounding it. More than a few draped with Desert King banners. But none of that mattered, only the casket itself and the body memorialized inside it.

"I…" panicked, unable to form a real word I stuttered. I hadn't seen him in life. Walking up to the casket itself would make me a fraud.

A warm hand took mine, squeezing a little. The rough pad of a thumb brushed a soothing rhythm over my knuckles. "You don't have to look, but we would appreciate it if you would greet people for a little while before we start." Cam's voice was so buttery smooth that I wanted to brush against him and purr.

The back and forth of my emotions made me dizzy.

Then he brushed his lips across my ear so only I could hear. "Remember, they don't know you or anything about you. They have nothing to judge."

Gooseflesh rippled in the wake of his warm breath and I managed to nod once. Cam led me hand in hand to an area just past the coffin. I was a fraud, an imposter. The letter from the lawyer had said I was supposed to show up, not be paraded around like some sort of freak.

I could leave, go back sleeping in my car, pretend none of this happened, and nobody would stop me. But when I peered at Cam, he had glanced into the coffin. His chest hitched and pain seeped into his features. I might be a fraud, but he wasn't.

I stayed.

One person's face faded into the other until I was adrift in a sea of pitying glances and half-hearted hugs. Cam stayed close, though, and held court. He knew this was a ruse, a show, and he was the one directing it. Every person that approached was eating out of his hand before they walked away.

The easy confidence was sexy.

As Cam led me to the reserved row, the entire chapel stared at me with pity as they took their seats. Men in leather vests stood along every wall and in every corner. Panic bloomed in my chest and my skin grew hot. These were the boogeymen of my childhood. Every time she'd seen a man on a Harley, Mom had stopped to tell me how dangerous they were.

Cam squeezed my hand and pulled me toward the padded bench. As I sat, he draped his arm over my shoulder and the panic faded. How could he be that dangerous?

The service itself didn't take long. I sat between Cam and Dylan on a wooden pew in the first row, as if they were afraid to leave me alone. Maybe they were. The preacher talked, then AP gave the eulogy. Emotion threaded each story he told, painting a picture of a fun loving, larger-than-life character that cared for his biker family very much.

But abandoned his only child.

After a final prayer, six leather clad bikers picked up the casket and carried it outside. Dylan did her best to usher me past the remainder of offered condolences, but it still took us so long that when we made it through the crowd, the hearse and limo were ready. I stopped, watching as they closed the door on the flower draped casket. It seemed so formal for the jovial, partying man AP had spoken of.

Cam had mounted the large, gleaming Harley in the front. The throbbing of the engine reverberated through the awning.

"He's riding Archer's bike?" My question held no accusation.

Dylan gave a solemn nod of her head. "All the patch members give their burial wishes. Archer's was that if anyone rode his bike after he died…it be Cam."

I didn't know my dad, but I understood the pain I'd seen on Cam's face. I'd lost the only family I'd ever known, too. That was a kinship forged in a sort of pain that couldn't be described.

If I wanted to say a proper goodbye to the man he'd loved, the man who'd given me life, I couldn't do it tucked away behind tinted glass, alone.

Without a word to Dylan, I moved toward the group of bikers that had surrounded Cam. I didn't need to ask them to move; they parted for me without question. He killed the engine, his brow knitted with curiosity.

"Can I ride with you?" I looked outward, down the highway, unable to look at Cam or face the gazes that had all turned to me. "I figured it's a good way to say goodbye."

"Fuck." He cursed under his breath and stood, swinging his long leg over the bike. He popped the helmet off his head and shrugged out of his vest, handing both to AP, whose eyes were bloodshot from unshed tears.

"Glad you wore boots." The older man mumbled through his grief.

Cam unbuttoned the black and white flannel shirt he wore, then tossed it over my shoulders like a matador. "It'll be cooler than you think."

"And the bugs suck." Jace gave a somber grin.

Cam buttoned the shirt down my front with quick, precise motions of his long fingers, while I shoved my arms through the sleeves. When he took his vest back, AP pushed Cam's helmet onto my head and tightened the chin strap. It was heavy, but open faced and not as cumbersome as I'd imagined.

"What about him?" I gestured to Cam.

"He's hardheaded." AP patted my helmet.

Cam had already fired the bike back up but stayed standing astride it as I gathered my skirt between my thighs and threw my left leg over behind him.

"Put your feet on the pegs, don't burn your legs on the tail pipes."

I did as I was told, tucking my skirt between us. It would fly out some, but at this point I didn't care.

When he sat and kicked up the kickstand, other bikes fired up all around us. The throbbing cacophony grew so loud it swallowed up every other sound for miles. Cam reached back and pulled both my arms around his waist, so I was forced to press my body closer to him.

He caught my gaze in the rear-view mirror on the handlebars. Hang on.

And I did, Cam idling the bike to the entrance to the funeral home before letting it rip on his way out. The bike roared to life between my legs, and the earth suddenly zipped by so fast I couldn't do anything but cling to his waist.

Then I turned my face to the sun.

A normal person would be scared. I wasn't. This was exhilaration, this was a thrill that soared up from the vibration of the motorcycle all the way to the tips of my fingers that trembled against Cam's abdomen.

At a large curve, I held tighter to him, pressed my body against the warm leather that covered his strong back. The bite of the wind blistered at my cheeks but wasn't unpleasant. I could feel—everything. For the first time since Mom died, I felt alive.

On the back of that bike, I could feel .