Road Rage - Dark Shadows MC 1

6 months earlier...

Silver

The courtyard is quiet. Peaceful.

It’s a direct contrast to the muffled sounds of the Dark Shadows MC–throbbing bass of music and loud voices that sneak past the closed door. I’ve come around here enough times that it all fades into the background, but being out here always gives me this strange sense of serenity.

I still think it’s strange that an MC would’ve built a courtyard like this, smack in the middle of their clubhouse. It doesn’t really fit with the vibe they throw out–leather, bikes, tattoos and illegal activities. This place…surrounded on all sides by the walls of the clubhouse, it’s big enough that I could easily fit my entire apartment in here.

The cobbled path, lined with solar lights, curves the way between two doors–one that leads into the main section of the clubhouse and the other into Ash’s private quarters. Garden beds, filled with different varieties of flowers of all different colors and types, cover each side of the path. In the middle, there’s a grass area with a tree planted in the middle, its branches stretching out above my head, cutting into my view of the sky. In one corner, there’s a dedicated vegetable garden that Tanya, an old lady, uses for all her cooking.

I love this place during the day, but at night? When the air is cooler and the stars are out in force…this place fills me with absolute peace, albeit a temporary one.

I’ve been coming around the clubhouse for six months now, but I always feel safest out here. Maybe it’s knowing that if we’re out here, me and Ash, no one else will come out. Not without his permission, anyway.

This might be the place I feel safest out of anywhere.

It’s a sad thought that gets trapped in my throat. I swallow hard, forcing it down, not wanting to think about that sense of safety and who it’s connected to.

Ash…he can’t be my safe place. I know that.

It’s strange that I’d find this oasis, something so unexpected, when I got caught up in a motorcycle club, and I’ll be sad not to see it again. The urge to ask Ash about it, to find out who built it and why, has been on the tip of my tongue every time that we come out here, but I’ve always resisted the urge.

Our…relationship, for want of a better word, doesn’t exactly invite questions. About a month ago, I’d overheard someone suggesting that they get rid of it about a month ago. They’d wanted to add another bar onto the clubhouse and had the terrible sense to talk about within the president’s hearing. Ash’s expression had turned stony, his voice low and calm, as he’d told the guy to shut the fuck up before he got himself shot. No doubt that it’d been a serious threat, especially the way the guy had run, practically leaving skid marks on the ground.

I don’t know how I ended up here. I’m the girl who grew up in a trailer park in a shitty town an hour away from Willowbank. I got out when I turned eighteen by working two jobs while I was in school, knowing there was no way I’d make it to college, but I needed some escape plan. I caught a bus to Willowbank the day after graduation, but life didn’t magically get better. Instead, I’d found myself working at a crappy diner, barely making enough to break even and sleeping in a studio apartment with a busted lock and a rodent problem. I was just surviving, day by day, until one day the Dark Shadows MC had gone for a ride before deciding to come into the diner. Ash had taken a seat in my section, his eyes trailing over my ill-fitting uniform as I’d served them all coffee. When I’d met his stare, I’d frozen, unable to look away, even when he’d smirked, rubbing his thumb over his lower lip.

I’m not the girl who ends up with an MC president. I never wanted to be, either. Growing up, the way I did, with the mother I had, all I wanted was normal and being with a guy who doesn’t blink at threatening to shoot someone…that’s as far from normal as I can get.

Shaking off the thoughts, I shift, realizing that my legs have started to go numb from where they’re tucked under me. I glance at Ash out of the corner of my eye, but he’s silent, leaning back against the tree trunk with his eyes closed. His legs stretch out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, and, as I watch, he lifts his beer bottle to his lips and takes a large pull.

It feels like he’s forgotten that I’m even out here with him, which makes irritation swell. I tried to avoid coming tonight, knowing I’d already set my plans in motion, but he’s a hard man to say no to.

And sometimes a dangerous man to say no to, according to rumors.

When I’d texted that something had come up, he’d showed up at my apartment, basically manhandling me onto the back of his bike. If I’d lived in a nicer area, my neighbors might have called the cops about a kidnapping. As it was, they’d probably give Ash an alibi.

I trail my eyes over his body, taking in the battered bike boots, dark jeans and black, short-sleeved shirt under his leather cut. I loved it when he didn’t wear long sleeves. There was just something about his ink-covered arms that just got me going. It was the first thing I’d noticed about him–his tattoos. They were all dark and grim, skeleton heads, black flames and images that acted like keep the fuck away warnings.

If only I’d listened.

Even so, he was a piece of art from the neck down, almost every inch of skin covered in inked art. I’d never looked too closely at his legs, too focused on other things, but the idea of studying every inch of him, every piece of art, fills me with butterflies.

My eyes flick up to his face, all hard angles with a rough jaw, and another thing I could spend way too much time looking at. There was a scar dissecting one eyebrow, cutting just past his eye. That was one question that slipped out early on, but he’d fobbed me off, changing the subject.

Maybe it’s better not to know, like so many other things.

His dark hair is a touch too long, curling around his ears and neck. I always seem to forget just how soft it feels until the next time I’m sliding my hands into it, tugging on the strands as his body moves over mine.

The silence feels heavy tonight, my chest tight as I work to keep my breathing even and calm. I wish he’d talk to me or just say anything at all. The silence between us–the lack of conversation and questions–it used to be companionable, but it feels like it all changed.

Or I changed.

I’m not sure if Ash knows. I don’t think he does, but now I’m sitting here with him and nerves are getting the best of me. My palms are sweating as I fight the urge to break the damned silence, even though I know that isn’t what he needs from me right now. So, like always, I keep my mouth shut.

It’s a skill I learned early on. Talking isn’t what I’m here for. It isn’t what he wants me for, but I knew that when I signed up for this.

Casual, no-strings fucking.

We aren’t in a relationship; we aren’t dating. I think he prefers my quiet company, especially knowing I won’t ask anything of him. I’ve never pushed for more, even though dreams started plaguing me of what more could look like. I was so sure I could do this without catching feelings or getting attached, but I was wrong. Now, I’ve buried those desires down deep, knowing that if he knew, he’d duck out faster than I could blink. It’s for the best, because he isn’t what I want for myself, no matter how my heart aches at the idea of leaving.

He’ll be okay. His club is filled with club girls or hangarounds, all desperate for a dirty fuck with a brother. Ash is the top prize around here, everyone vying for a piece of him. More times that I could count, my insecurities had gotten the better of me, especially when he’d bought me round those girls.

There were so many of them–some skinny, some voluptuous, all confident, sexy and knowing exactly how to treat the men that they’re with. Me? My chest and ass are both flat, and I wouldn’t know the first thing about dressing or acting like them. Honestly, I didn’t even want to try, especially when every single person in that clubhouse knew I didn’t belong.

I never should have followed him out of the diner that day, entranced by his dark eyes and wicked smirk. Not just because of the patch on his chest labeling him as the president, but because I could sense that he’d have the ability to turn my world upside down. Even back then, I knew he’d make me fall hard and fast, as much as I convinced myself otherwise, and I knew that he’d have non inclination whatsoever to catch me.

No one could ever say that I hadn’t gone into this with my eyes wide open, if not just a little delusional. Didn’t mean this wasn’t going to hurt like hell, though.

My heart was racing in my chest, my thoughts swirling faster as if caught by a tornado that just kept growing and growing. The silence out of my head is deafening, and my heartbeat is roaring in my ears. My breath catches in my throat as I try to inhale, my chest burning like I’m not getting enough oxygen.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

A tremor shakes me when movement catches my eye. I turn to look at him, my breath still stuttering in my throat, and find eyes so dark they’re almost black fixed on me. His expression is impassive, one brow raising slowly when he sees he has my attention. Part of me wants to throw myself at him, beg for mercy, but the other half feels like a bug he’s about to stomp on. I fight the urge to shrink back, knowing he won’t like it.

“What do you need?” The question is a deep rasp. It feels like a physical touch–a scrape against oversensitive skin–and a shiver runs down my spine. I don’t look down, already knowing I’ll find goosebumps dimpling the skin of my arms. I don’t answer, staring back at him, my harsh exhales the only noise in the quiet courtyard–coming too hard and too fast for someone who’d just been sitting here.

He sighs and I realize too long has passed since he asked me his question. I shake my head at him, unable to trust my voice, and his eyes narrow. He’s so hard to read, and I wonder whether the impassive mask he uses is hiding impatience or annoyance. I sink my teeth into my lower lip, my insecurities, my anxiety, spiraling out of control.

This is not why he bought you out here, the voice in my head lectures. This isn’t what he needs. If you’re too much of a problem, he’ll decide to be done with you.

The one logical brain cell I seem to have is screaming at me, telling me to cut the shit. It knows that it doesn’t matter if he reaches the end of his patience with me tonight. It won’t matter tomorrow, anyway. I can see the thoughts, hear them, but then my breathing catches again, and they fly away. Right here, in this moment, the thought of never seeing him again is devastating and I hate that I’ve turned into a girl who centers her whole life around a man who doesn’t truly want her.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Need to get out of here.

“Silver.” There’s no ignoring the demand in his voice, but before I can move, his hand is reaching up and prying my lip loose from my teeth. He smooths his thumb over the indents left behind in the soft, reddened flesh. I blink, unable to look away from his face, even though his expression never changes.

His hand lowers, so slowly it’s almost warning me of his intentions, before he grips my jaw tightly. That midnight stare trails over my face, seeing more than I want him to, and I fight the urge to fidget, torn between the urge to close the distance between us or run away. Some instinct tells me each option is the wrong choice and I freeze, the perfect prey for a circling predator. Those strong fingers drop to my throat, holding me in place. His grip is firm, although I know I’d be able to get away if I truly wanted to. He doesn’t cut off my breathing, but the threat is there as his fingers twitch against my flesh.

“I see you,” he murmurs, his mouth kicking up as I struggle to pull a full breath in. “I see all those thoughts flickering behind your eyes, baby girl.” Leaning towards me, his lips coast over mine teasingly–almost touching, but now. “You want my help?”