Page 6 of Rolling Thunder

“Alriiiight,” he said slowly, taking her in. “The girl likes chains.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” she said.

“Honey, I’m full of ideas.”

Surely this was a terrible one, like many others she’d had. But the adrenaline rush of a big bike and a sexy man was too enticing to pass up. A ride on a loud Indian and a beer or ten might be just the thing she needed to unwind after her long day; otherwise, she would just spend it locked up tight in her little house, prowling the dark in terror, hoping Trent would leave her alone, and knowing she would have to go crawling back to him eventually.

She easily swung onto the bike behind him. It didn’t have a sissy bar for her to lean against, which meant she had to hold on to him. She instinctively slid her hands around his waist, noting the hard ridges of his abs, and hooked her fingertips nonchalantly through his belt loops. Without a word, he throttled the bike and pulled smoothly out onto the road.

He handled the big machine with ease. She never got the queasy feeling in her stomach she got with inexperienced riders who took turns too sharply or accelerated fast enough to make her knock heads. The ten-minute ride down to the little honkytonk was too brief, and when he slid the bike into a parking spot and gently leaned it over on the kickstand, she said so.

“We should have gone somewhere farther away. I like your bike.”

“I’ll take you anywhere you wanna go,” he said quietly, without looking at her. Right then, there were lots of places she wanted to go with him. A moment slipped away from her where she still sat behind him, unable to let go of him, magnetized to him. But she’d better get a handle on herself.

“Well, we’re here, so let’s see if there’s a band tonight.”

There wasn’t, so they claimed a booth off the beaten path near the bar and ordered drinks. She was torn. She wanted to knock back some bourbon to settle her nerves, because he was really making her nervous, but she didn’t want to get too intoxicated around a man she hardly knew.

“I’m surprised you don’t ride a Harley,” She commented.

“Nah. Everybody else rides a Harley. It’s not what it used to be. I mean, I was building a vintage bike with my brother, but I decided this suits me better.” That was an incredibly welcome surprise. A biker who didn’t really want to be like all the other bikers.

“How long have you lived out here?” he asked.

“I grew up on that farm. My grandmother left it to me when she died. I’ve been out here trying to make a living the past couple of years.” She had conveniently omitted approximately nine years she hadn’t been on the farm. Or how she made ends meet when she couldn’t pay the mortgage. That left her with the familiar sting of shame whispering in her ear that she shouldn’t even be on this date. If he knew anything about her, he wouldn’t want anything to do with her.

“She teach you to ride?”

“Horses? Yeah. Spent as much time on a horse as I could.” Anything to get away from her mother, Leanne. And despite being tossed, kicked, and stepped on from time to time, no horse had ever mistreated her as badly as her mother and the endless parade of boyfriends had.

“But you’re new,” she said, flipping it back on him to keep from having to share too much about her family.

“Yeah, I just moved out here to help my buddy flip some houses. It’s going pretty good.”

“So that’s what you do?” she asked.

“Yeah. My dad’s an electrician. I had apprenticed with him…when I was younger. My buddy Dan can’t wire a house to save his life, but he’s pretty good with the woodwork. We balance each other out.”

She wasn’t an idiot. He was riding a motorcycle worth at least thirty-thousand-dollars. And it seemed like he might have skipped over some chunk of his past as well.

“It must be going good. That’s some bike,” she said with mild sarcasm.

Something flashed through his eyes, something hidden, something that made her feel truly uneasy for the first time. With her luck, he was riding with an outlaw club and financing his bike with dirty money. She eyed him a little, trying to discern if any of his tattoos were tributes to a one-percenter motorcycle club.

“What?” he asked with a smirk.

“Are you a patch holder?” she asked quietly.

“I don’t ride with a club.”

She stared at him. His gaze didn’t waver. She didn’t see a lie. So then what was that dangerous glimmer in his eyes? There was something more to him that he wasn’t saying.

“You’ve been around some one-percenters, then?” he asked.

Sure, all the worst types came to Trent’s place. “Just enough to know I don’t want to be.”

He nodded. “Fair enough.”

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