The bike slows as we near the line of Harleys backed up against the fence near the clubhouse’s entrance. Ian places his heavy feet on the ground and backs us into a wide opening in the middle of the lineup. He cuts the bike off and waits while I slowly realize it’s time for me to get off. I don’t want to, but I can’t very well just sit here all night. If I thought he’d even remotely let me get away with that, I’d huddle in closer to him and never let go. But I’m not that brave and don’t know his limits well enough yet to be that obstinate.
Ian’s abs flex under my touch as I slide my arms from around his middle and up to his shoulders. I steady myself with his solid, masculine frame as I climb off the bike. The ride was only a few minutes, but it was so addictive. My inner thighs feel a little strained by the position, but in a good way. In a way that tells the story of a woman who did something new. I like this Mindy a hell of a lot better than the Mindy I was even a week ago.
On the pavement, I back up a few feet to allow Ian room to put the kickstand in place and swing off the bike. He’s behind me now as I walk toward the door to the clubhouse. There are random people hanging around on the worn wooden picnic benches, some smoking and all drinking. The parking lot is full of cars and bikes and men standing around in leather vests appraising the Harleys and the women. I like the scene before me. Nothing is particularly scary or awful, despite what my parents would say about the lifestyle the club perpetuates. Ian’s eyes catch my attention, and they’re focused on something to my right. I follow his gaze to find a black Mercedes sitting at the end of the lot, hogging up two spaces. If he’s surprised by the presence of such a pretentious car in the lot, he doesn’t verbalize it. We look away and our eyes meet. I see something in his expression that I dislike immensely. His deep-brown eyes watch me closely, and even though he’s not speaking, he doesn’t really need to. He wants to say something, but he doesn’t know how.
“Whose car is that?” There. I took the weight off his shoulders by asking.
“The Italian’s,” he says. His words feel like a betrayal with how little emotion he shows. Now I get it. The Italian is the guy who kept coming to the coffee shop I used to work at. He’s the one I thought was going to ask me out before he kidnapped me and Holly. He was polite about it, but that doesn’t mean I enjoyed the experience any more. It was awful. Aside from being handsome, any man who kidnaps a woman—regardless of the reasons—is an asshole.
I focus on the man before me and try to decide if that’s necessarily true. I don’t consider Ian to be an asshole, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t one. He’s been good to me. Kind even. Still, from the way Nic and Holly talk about him, I know he’s done far more for the club than just politely kidnap a couple of women. Ian Buckley has blood on his hands. I just don’t know how much.
“You good?” Ian asks. I nod my head and let him lead me inside the clubhouse.
I can’t get into the whole kidnapping-forced relocation-attack drama right now. I’ve been doing good today, and I refuse to ruin it with my memories. I ate soup today and I rode on a Harley and Ian is good to me, and that’s what really matters. What he does apart from me is none of my business.
Inside, the clubhouse is filled with people hanging off furniture and one another haphazardly. They’re drinking and smoking—more than just cigarettes—and eating baked goods that I bet have a little kick in the recipe. I make a mental note to avoid baked goods at the clubhouse before asking Ian about them first. There’s more men than women here, but the women who are here are all either totally naked or mostly naked. It feels weird being here and not being one of their girls. Not that I want to be one of their girls. I just . . . I’ve heard how these parties go. I know the old ladies don’t hang around the clubhouse unless it’s either family time or their old man is with them. I’m not Ian’s old lady, so would I be welcome here without him?
Probably not.
As the crowd thickens, Ian reaches back and takes my hand in his. He keeps me close to him. This is all so overwhelming and even though nobody is really paying attention to us, being in an enclosed space with so many people I don’t know is starting to prickle my fear. I give his hand a squeeze. For reassurance or appreciation—I don’t know which.