8. Riley

eight

Riley

An energetic knocking broke through the cocoon of sleep that wrapped around me. I was warm and comfy, snuggled down in a bed that smelled of clean sheets.

My bed is in storage.

Something weighed my brain down, made it hard to wake. I didn't want to get up, or to acknowledge that I needed to be awake. For the first time in months, I was warm, safe.

My eyes flew open. Several terrified seconds ticked by as I placed the pale blue paint and Americana art on the walls. I was in Archer's guest room. The foggy bliss was the remainder of the alcohol in my system.

The limo brought me back, and I'd stumbled in here, leaving my shoes and jeans somewhere in the kitchen, my shirt on the floor by the bed. I'd barely managed to tug on a t-shirt before passing out.

I stood, stretched, and the knocking sounded again.

"Crap." I jerked a pair of shorts from my bag and hopped into them.

My heart raced, but not from fear. As I rounded the corner, it slowed. Cam wouldn't need to knock, would he?

Dylan waved through the glass, holding up a brown bag with a smile on her face and dark sunglasses hiding her eyes.

"Morning," she said as I let her in, dark ponytail swinging behind her. "I come bearing pastries and coffee." She dropped the bag, and I peeked inside as she went back out.

Croissants, the chocolate filled kind, and several types of Danish.

"Just save one of the cherry ones or Savage will get all in my ass." She brought in a tray with four foam cups.

"I like mocha, I got you one too. That okay?" She plucked one out and handed it to me.

"Perfect." I settled in at the table as she moved around the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets until she found some plates and put them on the table.

In the distance, the hum of a motorcycle crept closer until it became a wall shaking roar up the driveway and reverberated in the carport. The sound drowned out the fluttering of the butterflies that kicked up in my chest.

When Dylan handed me a plate and napkin, I dug out a croissant. And another bike pulled in behind Cam's.

"My brother." She shrugged and sat beside me. "They both ended up crashing at the clubhouse last night."

Having seen the slew of willing women there, that didn't surprise me. But I didn't like the ugly little feeling nestled in my stomach.

Cam came in first, Merc right behind him. Dylan's brother was prettier than I remembered. His dark hair framing his handsome face. He wasn't as tense here; the edge gone. The half-grin was natural, easy.

Cam took the cup Dylan offered and stopped short of digging through the bag, his gaze landing on Archer's leather vest, neatly folded over the chair under the old land-line phone on the wall. There was that momentary flash of vulnerability usually hidden beneath the surface. The grief, as his daughter, I should feel.

The bite of chocolate croissant in my mouth soured, and I placed it back on the plate and chased the nausea inducing bite with sweet latte.

"I still can't believe he's gone." Dylan's tone was forlorn.

Merc grunted, though there was a gentleness to the sound as he hopped onto the counter and pulled a bag of weed from his pocket, breaking it up to stuff a cigar shell.

Cam said nothing, instead ran a hand through his hair and sat down, digging into the bag and pulling out a cherry Danish.

He looked over the edge of the bag and caught me watching him. His lifted brow held a touch of arrogance challenging me. To what, I didn't know. I flicked my gaze to my lap.

Or maybe you do.

Dylan mentioned something about the party the night before, changing the subject, though I missed most of what she said. I found it increasingly difficult to focus when Cam was around. Especially when he seemed edgy and pissed off, like now.

His deep rumble joined the fray, and something broke free in my chest. These three, they loved each other. They were comfortable here. This was the family Archer created when he'd left me behind.

You don't belong here.

Forgetting my hangover, I stood so fast my head spun. But I clutched the back of the chair long enough to steady myself before walking out. I'd made it as far as the guest bedroom when Cam caught up.

"What's up?" He started from the doorway, lifting a hand like he was going to reach for me. A battle waged in his expression. Concern softening his eyes and something else, something darker hardening the line of his mouth. He was caught between wanting to comfort me and not trusting me.

"I …." My voice came out in a croak and I ducked into the tiny half bath and locked the door. Once there, I let the emotion wash over me.

My life was shit. Any dreams or desires, any plans I'd made, were long gone. I was just some piece of desert white trash sleeping in her car. That's where I belonged. Not here, intruding on their grief.

Fuck.

The hot water beat down on me, each scalding drop washing away more of my self-pity. I'd tried so hard to be good my entire life. Maybe if I was, my dad would come find me. Maybe if I'd been smarter, my life would be better. Maybe if I'd tried just a little harder—Mom wouldn't have died.

These people didn't know me, wouldn't understand what it was like to be alone, lost. They had their connections to each other, some of them since birth. I had nothing. No one. Not even a memory of my dead father. What had been a sad day for them, had been one of the happiest I'd had since Mom's diagnosis. I was a trespasser here, but part of me didn't want to leave.

The other part wanted to run like hell.

I don't know how long I stayed in the shower, but I heard the guys move outside talking near the bathroom window. Probably going up to Cam's or the garage.

When I opened the door, I found Dylan sitting on the freshly made bed, crisscross applesauce with a photo album in her lap.

"The guys are outside, smoking," she said, and then glanced up at me with a hesitant smile. "You looked like you needed a friend."

"Thanks, I think?" I fumbled, before busying myself with my suitcase and clinging to the towel wrapped around me.

At least it was Dylan in the room waiting for me, not Cam. The blush crept hotly up my neck.

"You should unpack, you know." She nodded toward the suitcase I stood beside. "Archer wanted you to stay, or he wouldn't have set things up this way."

But he'd never tried to see me, never been a father to me the way he had to Cam. And how much did I tell her? I had a brief recollection of opening up to Cam, telling him where I'd come from. Sick to my stomach, I clutched a hand there. "I don't know."

I considered hiding in the bathroom again but turned my back to her and put on my clothes.

As I changed, Dylan continued companionably. "I checked the laundry room. There's detergent and stuff. If you find anything else you need, I can go get it for you."

"I can get what I need. But I appreciate the offer."

When I finished, she patted the bed beside her. "Come here, I know Jester gave you a bit of a rundown yesterday. I figured you'd want the real story."

I sat and listened as she told me about Archer and AP, and their brotherhood that started when they were in diapers. Only children, best friends. Archer had been the best man at her parents' wedding.

"What happened to her?" I pointed at the pretty woman with brownish hair who reminded me a lot of Dylan, especially in the flare of her hips and slope of her sleepy eyes.

"She lives outside of Vegas. They divorced when I was a kid. Jace and I lived with her until we were teenagers. I was always a daddy's girl, so when Jace moved to Dry Valley, I did too."

"I was a royal bitch when I was younger. Thought I was queen bee around here." Dylan's chuckle lured me in, put me at ease.

"I imagine you still are."

"Nah," her voice changed, almost resigned now, "I learned really quick that there isn't a queen here. It's a boys' club. Our job is to stay out of the way and not ask questions."

And it was obvious she wasn't happy about it.

There were pictures of a younger Dylan, one even of a bunch of teenagers in a smoky room, Dylan curled up in Cam's lap, his hand very comfortable between her thighs. I wasn't jealous, couldn't be…not with how she'd treated me since I'd got here. But I couldn't help but meet her gaze, surprised.

This time, her raspy laugh was full bodied, and she fell back on the bed. "God, that was so long ago. We were young, stupid kids. It didn't work, for a bunch of reasons."

Her blue eyes were bright with laughter. "Damn, we were teenagers. Nobody else really thinks of it anymore. I don't. I doubt he does."

"You've never hooked up since?" Maybe I was more than a little jealous.

"Hell no. To be honest, we only messed around." She sat back up, wiping at tears with the back of her hand. "Cam was more about quantity over quality back then."

Then she grew somber. "Cam's always been running from something. I'm not sure what it is. I don't even think my brother knows. It made him…different."

He was, indeed.

"What about the rest?"

"Of the guys?" She brightened a little. "The best of them is Puck. Don't let the name throw you. He's not some Shakespearean wanna be. He played minor league hockey for a few years. The name stuck because of that. He's a single dad, works hard, bleeds Desert King gold."

There was a softness and love in her voice when she spoke of all of them. Dylan served as my deeper introduction to people I'd barely shaken hands with. Even laughing when I told her about the situation in the tribute hall—as I'd learned it was called.

"Cam's VP now. Power trickles down from position to position. All the guys are supposed to do what he says outside of the table, unless Preacher says otherwise." When I looked confused, she explained further. "The MC governs itself, a sort of fuck you to the establishment. Patched members vote on officers who make decisions for the entire charter. And that's about all I know, because…" She gave me an exasperated look before continuing.

"Jester is Road Captain, so he's in charge of long rides. Dad is Treasurer. Drop Top is Secretary, my brother is Sergeant at Arms, Puck is Enforcer. There's usually a few at the table without titles, alternate delegates. Like Paul. He's new, voted to the table a few days ago."

"Puck enforces all the rules?" I couldn't see anyone forcing Cam Savage to do anything.

"Nah. Jace or one of Preacher's goons usually does that."

"Members really have to do whatever the officers say?" It seemed archaic but oddly sexy.

I thought of those two intricate wooden doors. Of Cam behind them, holding court. One seat away from President. "Cam told Jester to leave yesterday when he was with me, and he did."

"Probably a good thing—Jester is a freak." But she said it with a smile.

"Is there really a throne?" I asked the question I'd wanted to ask since Cam told me.

"Oh yeah. There's an entire sex dungeon at his house."

"You been in there?"

"No." She answered so quick we both burst into giggles. "He wishes. Again, I say—freak."

When she talked about them, everyone seemed so normal, and I felt more like I wasn't an outcast.

"You're wrong though," I said as I rolled up on an elbow. "I can't see you ever being a bitch."

"Not to you, not yet." She winked and swatted at my knee. "Now, let's go find these two assholes and see what we are doing today."