Page 9 of Raiden

Whatever. They need to feel like this is home because for the foreseeable future, it is.

“I’ll get my gun.”

“Gray!” Raiden appeals to his prez as I duck back into my room.

I catch a glimpse of Lark’s lemon face and barely suppress a laugh. Not a mean one, but a laugh all the same. So far, just by existing, I’ve managed to piss everyone off to unthinkable levels.

Did they think I was just going to bail on the wedding after arriving here? It’s day eight and the hate is so much stronger than the past seven days I’ve been here, combined.

“Why’d you ask her to come? She’s not—” Raiden cuts himself off when I appear with my gun and holster. I wrap it around my torso, fitting it good and proper before I put my leather jacket in place overtop to hide it.

It’s the beginning of September and still hot here, but nothing like it is in New Mexico. I’m used to baking it out in leathers. Only idiots ride their bike without proper protection. It’s all fun and games riding in a t-shirt but get a serious case of road rash just the once, and you’ll be happy for the leather.

“Ready?”

Tyrant shoots me a hard look, Bullet grins, and Raiden would probably rather ride there upside down, getting his face worn clean off by the pavement than have me come, but tough taters for him.

Outside, we mount up. It’s not just men who get that true, hedonistic pleasure that comes from having a ton of power growling between your thighs. Being on a bike, owning it and the road, is almost a religious experience. I’ve been hooked since my first ride, my first lesson, the first Harley I bought myself. I’ve never had anything compare.

Before he kicks his bike to life, Raiden stretches out the brutal knots sleeping on the floor had to have left in his muscles. His t-shirt rides up, exposing a section of bronze skin and hard abs. I just saw him in nothing more than a towel, albeit a huge one, but somehow that sliver of skin hits me right between my thighs.

He slams his brain bucket on. The way he balances his bike makes those worn-in jeans do wonders for his rock-hard ass. He’s basically walking sex, but even that doesn’t distract me from noticing the golden slant of sunlight playing over the shadows on his face as he whirls his starts his bike and wheels it around.

Don’t any of his club brothers notice that he doesn’t smile and laugh nearly enough? Maybe it’s a recent development. The demons in his eyes say it’s not. But right now? There’s more light getting in than dark. He has that look on his face that so many other bikers get right before hitting the road. Even if it’s just for a short ride, it’s a freedom that nothing else compares to.

I suck in a breath and start my own bike to follow. Tyrant heads the pack, literally the golden child with the sunlight bathing him too, glinting off the ashy hair that flows out from under his helmet. He signals with his hand, that missing finger like a red flag right in front of my face. Even if I’d somehow been allowed to be involved in club business the night my dad and his men came to Hart, I couldn’t have stopped them from hurting my brother.

Tyrant carries power effortlessly. He doesn’t even have to try, and his men love him. Even in the midst of chaos, his world seems balanced. I have to admit how strikingly different his aura is from our father’s. Zale’s is more contrived, hard won through strength, blood, and violence. Even the way he’saddressed, while Tyrant is his club name, I notice that Raiden, his old lady, and a couple of the other men address him as Gray and he doesn’t seem pissed. It’s like he’s perfectly at ease with both facets of his persona—the outlaw MC president, and the man underneath.

Raiden follows Tyrant, but Bullet waves me ahead of him. I fall into line, riding through the quiet streets of Hart.

I think about how I want to approach my marriage going forward. I’m not going to lie and say that I don’t find my husband attractive. I’m an MC princess, but before that, I was a modern woman raised by another fierce warrior goddess soul. If I want to fuck my own husband, I damn well will and think none the less of myself for it.

I keep waiting for that slightly sick feeling to accompany thoughts of sex, but Raiden is nothing like the men of my past. Whatever I’ve experienced bodily and emotionally has no play here.

For once, the rumble of my bike between my legs is more of an annoyance than it is an enjoyment. It only enhances how empty I feel there. Raiden might not be so bad, but you shouldn’t sleep with the enemy. Then again, sleeping implies intimacy and trust. Fucking is an expenditure of energy that is often an absolute must to maintain sanity.

***

The range is situated out on the edge of the city, by Hart’s golf course. It’s pretty out here in a very different way from New Mexico. The air always smells like a forest, even in the city. The trees are all different and it’s obvious from the weather that there are mountains not so far in the distance. Even today, with the sun riding high and ruling a sea of blue, it doesn’t feel hotlike it gets in Nevada, which is where I grew up and it certainly isn’t anything like the climate in Santa Fe, even though New Mexico has mountains too.

The range is all fenced off. There are outside targets, pits in the distance, and all sorts of things that are so much more delightful than just shooting at a piece of paper or cardboard. Burned out car husks and explosives happen to go wonderfully together. I imagine the office is more than just a building to get checked in, with lockers and paperwork. You can probably shoot in there too, given that Washington actually gets winter. It’s certainly big enough.

We don’t go into the office since we don’t have paperwork or check ins to do, and I guess accompanying the range’s owner means that you can skip the form filling. Bullet leads us through the main gate and locks it up. In some sort of silent agreement, he and my brother take the far lane, leaving Raiden with me.

Fuck, if that isn’t sweet. Who said bikers don’t have a sense of romance?

We get set up, eyewear and protective gear provided quickly by Bullet. Smoke’s going to be so pissed he missed an opportunity to shoot. I’ve never met anyone who loves weapons more than he does and that’s saying a lot considering I know quite a few guys down south turn into gleeful little boys when it comes time to use anything with a trigger.

I study Raiden’s choice of weapon while pretending I’m not. I really shouldn’t comment but I just can’t help myself. There’s something about my new husband that brings out the devil in me. Fitting, considering my new prez’s old lady thinks of me as Satan’s spawn.

“Nice Glock.”

Raiden wipes sweat off his brow. He’s paler out here under the sun. He should definitely have hydrated and had something to eat. Can’t imagine his head is doing anything less than getting set to self-destruct. Fuck, it’s almost like I care. I remind myself I’m not his real old lady and it’s of no concern of mine if he gets heatstroke or whatever.

“What’s wrong with a Glock?” His eyes bore into mine, his gaze steady despite the fact he looks like he was ridden hard and put away wet.

I push away the mental image that brought up and shed my leather jacket since I’m already sticky with sweat. The wind hits my soaked long-sleeve shirt, cooling me instantly. “Nothing, if you’re a cop.”

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