“Be there in a sec. Takin’ her to see Mav.”

Her mouth twists. “Why?”

Turning to face her fully, Lily retorts, “Oh, what didn’t he fill you in?” The girl glares. “No. Then it’s probably none of your business.”

The blonde flicks her hair off her shoulder. “Well, Mav likes it rough, honey. If you can’t handle him, just come find me. Ask Rigor here, I don’t mind a few bruises in the right places. Isn’t that right, Rigor?”

Lily pats her arm. “Real classy, Star. But no need to get your crusty panties all twisted. You’re still the boy’s favorite toy, at least for twelve more days.”

Star pushes Lily’s hand off. “Twelve days, huh? Right. Like she’ll last that long,” Star scoffs. “Just like this . . .” She flutters her hand in front of Lily, motioning over Lily’s leather jacket. “I can’t wait ’til Goose smartens up and dumps—”

Rigor’s grip disappears. He grabs Star, jerks her savagely by her upper arm. She cries out and stumbles on her silver heels. Her eyes go wide with fear.

I’m also a little unsteady by Rigor’s harsh and abrupt reaction.

“What the fuck? She’s an old lady,” he growls down at her.

“Then w-what is s-she doing in this part of the clubhouse?” The words are shaky like she’s scared to speak them.

“None of your goddamn business! That’s what.” He shakes her again. “Show her some fuckin’ respect. I hear you talk to her like that again, and I don’t care how good your mouth feels, I’ll let Goose know you disrespected his woman. He’ll eighty-six your ass in a heartbeat. You feel me?”

He pushes her back and then points to the main room. “Go wait for me outside. If I still feel like takin’ you for a ride, I’ll come find you.”

“Rigor,” she calls out in a whiny tone.

He points past her. “Get!”

Turning back to me, he mutters, “That bitch better get the fuck out of my face before I lay her ass out.”

Before trudging away, Star throws a “This isn’t over” scowl at Lily.

When Star’s gone, Lily faces Rigor. “Your taste in women sucks. Just sayin’ . . . You could do so much better.”

“Woman, don’t start. I just fuckin’ stuck up for your ass.”

Lily rolls her eyes and leans against the wall. “Pumpkin, I’ll wait here.”

“C’mon.” Rigor’s fingers cinch around my arm again.

I’m tempted to pull from his grip. His hand on my arm grates on my nerves because it represents a lack of freedom and that he thinks he needs to lead me like I’m some sort of captive.

I didn’t run from one jailer just to find another.

Rigor tugs me down the hallway. A mix of fear and anxiety races through my veins as we approach Mav’s door.

I glance up at Rigor. “Are you coming in with me?”

He shakes his head.

Fabulous. I get to face Mav, the ticking time bomb, alone. I get the feeling he’s got a short fuse; and though Dozer thinks it’s about time it was lit, I’d rather not be the catalyst to set him off.

No, thank you.

Before Rigor can knock, Mav shouts through the closed door, “Send her in.” His rough baritone sends chills over my skin. I rub my arms to get rid of the goosebumps.

Rigor shoves me into the room and shuts the door behind me.

I quickly survey the office. Mav is standing behind his chair with his back slightly to me looking out a small, opened window. From here, I have a great view of his profile, and the patches on the back of his vest, or cut, as Lily referred to it. His arms are crossed over his chest, his feet spread apart. He stands about six feet tall, his lean, muscular body emanating sex and power.

Perfect. The second the word leaves my brain, I want to smack myself.

Falling for a guy like him is a highway to hell no woman who values her life should take. That’s what the jacket, patches, and knife hanging from his belt tell me.

I decide to call him Luce, for short—in my head, where it’s safe to do so—as a reminder, so I don’t forget who this man is and what he’s capable of. The nickname is also a reminder that he has a venom-like tongue too, and that he’d rather see me in Hell instead of taking up residence here. Plus, if I to have a silly nickname, then he can too.

I can already tell he’s going to be a huge obstacle blocking my path in my quest for my secret garden. It’s simple math. Angry + biker + Em = more trouble than my already complicated life can handle. Nevertheless, here I am.

He turns and our eyes meet. His face is stoic, an emotionless mask. However, the turmoil in his eyes speaks volumes. Without his cold stare chilling me to the bone, a simmering warmth cascades over my body, rushes to my extremities and between my thighs.

He’s a dream to look at when he’s quiet and contemplative like this. I almost wish for a second I had a camera so I could capture his image to look back on when I’m long gone from this place.

I wonder what he thinks of me now. I took extra care with my hair and make-up. Dolled up you could say.

I don’t know why I let his words sting so deeply when he means nothing to me. Just like I’m nothing to him. And after so many years, you’d think I’d be used to people belittling me.

Sticks and stones . . . and all that.

His words are weapons and they cut, but only if I believe them.

Minutes tick by.

He stares at me.

I stare right back at him.

The air between us charges, thickens.

We’re getting nowhere. I’m not stupid enough to think I can win this game. After all, he’s holding all the cards. It’s his clubhouse. His home. His office. He’s used to being cold. The only thing I have up my sleeve is a will to survive and the ability to bluff.

So I bluff.

Trying to portray a confidence I don’t feel, I shrug coolly and look around the room.

His office is a mess. The once white walls are now gray with fingerprints and hand-size oil smudges. Papers are strewn across his desk. Books hazardously stacked in precarious piles on every surface, and cardboard tubes litter the floor.

The temptation to organize and clean nags at me. I’ve never been able to stand disorder, even before my first real job as a maid.

A crimson flag hangs on one wall. It has the club name and insignia, and along the bottom are the initials, “UWL/UWR/UWF.” I open my mouth to ask him what it stands for, but one quick glance at his defensive stance and his stern face and that idea goes up in smoke.

He’s studying me as I study the room. I do my best to ignore him as I continue my inspection of his office.

Another wall has a collage of photos. My heart stutters as I recall losing my picture of Will today. When I land somewhere safe, the first thing I’ll do is call Sunny and ask her to send me another.

Shaking my sadness away, I refocus on the pictures. I can’t see them clearly from where I’m standing, and I’m curious. They’re closer to Mav and I’d have to walk past him to get to them.

But what better way to get him to let down his guard than to show him I’m no threat to him and I don’t feel threatened by him, even if it is only an act.

Shoving my fears back, I stride forward. Luce tenses and his eyes narrow. Otherwise, he doesn’t move.

I breathe in a calming breath once I’m past him. I’m still unsettled though. Having him at my back is like having a rabid wolf tracking you. He’s watching my every move like he’s waiting to pounce, which makes me wary.

I try to distract myself with the images by scanning them for familiar faces.

Right off, I recognize Dozer. He’s younger in most of these. In one, he’s skinny, lanky almost and has a baby face. I bite my lip to hold in a smile.

I spot Griz. The first picture I see him in is a tad blurry with a yellowish tint and rounded corners. Probably, because it was taken in the late sixties or early seventies. He has an afro and a fuller, bushier beard. He’s wearing a blue banana, bellbottom jeans, and a jean biker jacket sans shirt. His arm is around another biker who’s wearing something similar. The other guy has hideous sideburns and light brown hair, and looks a lot like Dozer, but he’s not as bulky and has a broader nose.