Pulling onto the cement drive of my house, I kill the engine. I pop the kick stand back down and lean the bike against it, swinging my legs over. I help her take off her helmet and scoop her into my arms off the bike. I’m not about to go flashing the world the pussy I’m hoping to be buried to the hilt in tonight. Though, I am sure my perverted neighbors would fucking like that... If this house wasn’t completely paid off, I’d have already moved from this neighborhood. It’s not exactly the best area to live in anymore, but no one would dare fuck with my house. They all know what lies behind the door. I return my focus to carrying her to the door over my shoulder. I can feel her head move while she takes in the house so I know she’s confused, but even bikers have a real house. We all need our space to think and figure shit out from time to time. I may prefer my room at the clubhouse now that she occupies it with me, but I like my solitude at times. Half the guys don’t even know where my house is, and I’m going to keep it that way. Punching in the security code with my free hand, I open the door and walk her straight to the couch.

Depositing her there, I walk into the kitchen and bring her a glass of ice water and two aspirin. She’ll have a monster hangover in the morning if she doesn’t take care of shit now. Handing her the glass and the tablets, I walk back to the front door to secure it. When I return to the living room, she’s stretched out on the couch. Seeing her in my house and laid out like that sends an electrical shock down to my dick. Easy, Hero. Let’s not scare her off already. I have to keep it in my pants long enough to get this discussion out of the way. Play time can start later.

Sitting on the unoccupied end of the couch, I pull her up to a sitting position. I can’t fucking talk to her if she’s presenting herself like a prized Thanksgiving turkey on a platter. My brain won’t function long enough to accomplish what I need done knowing her short skit won’t conceal anything from me.

“Is this your house or did you break in someone’s vacation villa?” she asks.

“It’s mine, Dani,” I reply, waiting for her smart mouth to strike again.

“So this is what biker money can buy these days? What does Raze have? A McMansion?”

“The club didn’t buy me this fucking house, Dani, if that’s what you think. I had it long before I ever prospected for Heaven’s Rejects.”

“I see,” she says. “Are you a drug dealer?” she asks.

“You have to be joking with me, right? Just because I am a fucking biker that has a decent house, you automatically think it was purchased with blood and drug money?” I rant.

“I just—,” she stammers. “I didn’t mean to be a bitch. It’s just that I never see you work. You are always at the clubhouse in your little VP chair pretending to be all high and mighty.”

“Had you asked and not just fucking assumed that this cut means I’m an outlaw, I would have told you I receive retirement pay from the Army, and my family left me a trust fund. And yes, I do fucking work. I keep our club running and I manage all of our businesses, including two bike shops and our protection service company. Does that satisfy your curiosity about how the dirty biker has nice things, or would you like to see the deed or hell, my tax return?” I angrily tear into her.

Her accusation that I thieved to buy this home is a hot button issue for me. Sure, I run with some pretty nefarious and dangerous people, but it doesn’t mean I don’t walk the straight and narrow outside the club. I have money, and it’s managed wisely. I worked hard for the shitty retirement from the Army, just like my father worked hard for every cent that I inherited. This isn’t a world where free rides and loads of cash come easy anymore. You have to work your ass off and sacrifice everything to make it ahead in this world.

“I’m sorry,” she quietly responds. Fuck, I’ve sent her back into the scared-little-girl mode again. I need to run damage control if tonight will work out the way I want.

“No, I’m sorry. Biker stereotyping like that just pisses me off. We aren’t all like the 1%ers. Sure, we’ve got a trail of blood behind us, but our reasons for killing are justified. We toe the line of the law, and that’s how it’s going to stay. I don’t need some civilian trying to make me feel like a dick for having cash that was earned the old fashion way - with my blood, sweat, and fucking life on the line.”

Dani crosses her arms as anger sets in further. Just great, my goddamn mouth goes and makes it worse yet again. I need a stop-being-an-asshole implant chip to shock my ass every time I do shit like this. Not everyone warrants that kind of behavior from me, and definitely not Dani. At least not now anyway.

“Would you care to tell me why the hell I’m here in your non-drug trafficking purchased home?”

“I told you why you are here, we need to talk.”

“What exactly do we need to talk about? I assumed I was crystal clear that I don’t want anything to do with you. Thanks for saving me and all, but I’d like to pass on whatever else you have planned tonight.”

Oh no, angel. You aren’t going to brush me off that easily. I know your tricks too well now. Deflection and distraction are not going to work in your favor tonight.

“That’s not how this is going to work, Dani. You and I need to clear the air about a few things.”

“Like what?” she questions.

“Like, for instance, what the hell your last name is? I want to get to know you better, Dani. What’s your story?”

As soon as I lay down what I want to know, she freezes in place. What the fuck is in her past that she begins to panic at the slightest question about it? Does she have an abusive ex back home or hell, is she still married and on the run? Nothing about her clouded past has been easy to decipher. She’s hiding something from the club and from me, I just hope it isn’t skeletons in her closet that we can’t deal with.

“You want to know my last name? What for? Need to know what you should write down in your little black book of conquests?”

“Jesus, Dani. I just want to get to know you. Is that so bad? You’ve spent weeks in my club and now that you’re free and clear of suspicion, I want to do what I’ve been thinking about for weeks. I want to figure out what the fuck is going on in that head of yours.”

She quietly stares at me for several minutes, sending me into panic that I might have lost her again, but she finally speaks. “Espinoza. My last name is Espinoza, okay?”

Dani Espinoza. God, her name is beautiful, just like she is.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it? Judging from your last name, are you Spanish?”

“My dad was Latino, but my mom was Greek. I know, it’s a weird combination,” she says with a sigh.

“No, that’s not weird. It explains your beautiful olive skin and dark features. I know you said you were from the Midwest, but I want to know where in the Midwest? Do you have any family back there?”

Panic flashes again in her eyes. Why is it every time I mention her family or where she’s from, she starts to panic or goes silent? The only reason someone would have that reaction to such normal questions is if they are hiding something about their past. It makes me wonder what the fuck happened there and why does it make her nervous. I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something she isn’t telling me.

“I’m from Ohio, and no, I don’t have any family left. They’re all dead,” she answers coldly.

“Dead? What do you mean dead? How old were you when they died?” I ask, hoping that I’ve haven’t crossed the point of no return.

“My dad died when I was fourteen. He was killed in the line of duty during a routine domestic violence call for the local police department. He was a week from retirement when it happened,” she says, closing her eyes for a few silent minutes.

“Jesus, Dani. I’m sorry. It sounds like he was one of the good guys, a true American hero. What about your mom? Is she still around?”