“Haven,” Dare repeated. “Well, okay.” He held out a hand, gesturing down the hall. “Can I show you something? Something I think might help make you feel more comfortable here?”
Wariness crept into her gaze, but finally she nodded and followed him down the hall. She walked almost huddled against the wall, her body as far from his as she could make it given the width of the hallway. Anger curled into Dare’s gut. Someone had taught her that fear, had given her a good reason to keep her distance. He saw it so damn often. And even though he wouldn’t do it, her anxiety made him want to comfort her, to take her hand or put his arm around her shoulders. But he kept his distance, too.
He guided her toward the front door of the clubhouse, which had once been a mountain inn connected to the Green Valley Race Track his club owned and operated as one of their primary business ventures. Now the building housed the club’s main social spaces, a kitchen and mess, meeting room, workout room, and a dozen rooms upstairs where people could crash or fuck or otherwise find some privacy.
In the big front lounge that had previously served as the inn’s reception area, Dare paused and pointed to the wall across from the door. “See that?” he asked, pointing to one of the many pieces of work Bandit had done around the place.
Haven’s gaze followed his hand to where the club’s motto had been carved into the thick wooden molding above the old registration desk. Foot-high words inscribed permanently in the building’s very fabric:
Ride. Fight. Defend.
“Yes,” she said, the turning of her head pulling thick strands of long blond waves over her shoulder. Her hair hung to her hips over clothes so baggy Dare wondered how they stayed on. “What does it mean?”
Only everything—to him and all the Ravens. He’d built his life around those three words these past twenty years. “I don’t know what you know about motorcycle clubs, but we’re not your typical MC.” And that had been by design. Dare had grown up inside an outlaw MC, inside a group of self-proclaimed One Percenters—the nickname coming from the American Motorcycle Association having once declared that ninety-nine percent of all MCs were law abiding. Which of course meant that one percent weren’t. The son of Butch Kenyon, the Arizona Diablos’ vice-president, who was also known as The Sandman for the number of men he was responsible for sending to their final sleep, Dare had been groomed to help lead that club one day. Which meant he knew exactly what things he hadn’t wanted replicated here, thank you very much.
“I don’t know a lot,” Haven said in a quiet voice.
He walked to the side of the room, where a collection of framed photographs hung in a tight cluster on the wall. The club’s patched members. Almost forty in total, not including a few older members who’d retired from active status, the two prospective members they currently had, and the extended family of all their wives and girlfriends and kids. “We live by our own rules and values, just like most clubs do. And we protect our own, whatever it takes. This MC is a brotherhood. It’s a family,” he said, crossing his arms. “But a long time ago we also made it our mission to be something more. To serve the community we live in. And we do that by fighting for those who can’t fight for themselves, and by defending those who can’t defend themselves.” Dare looked Haven in the eye, wanting her to believe what he was saying. “Sometimes that means that we give people who need it a safe haven here, and sometimes that means that we provide protection for people in their lives. But either way, we intend to make it clear that in our backyard, there is no tolerance for bullying the weak, and absolutely no intention to fear those who think they’re powerful.”
“Okay,” Haven said. She lowered her chin and nodded. “Thank you.”
He appreciated the sentiment, but he didn’t need it. None of this had started to stroke his own ego, anyway. Just the opposite, in fact. No matter how many people he and the Ravens helped, it never made up for the first two people he’d failed and let die—while he’d run for his life. Hell if twenty-plus years had done a damn thing to take the sharp edges off that reality. “Hey,” he said, his voice suddenly full of gravel. He reached out a hand to nudge her chin up, but pink flooded her cheeks at the near touch, so he stepped back and folded his arms. “You don’t owe me any thanks.”