Page 16
Story: Dex (Heavy Kings MC #4)
Cleo
H ands.
Lips.
Tongue.
The memory hit with physical force. His hands cupping my face, rough palms gentle against my skin.
The way he'd tasted—coffee and something darker, more dangerous.
How for one perfect moment I'd felt claimed, protected, wanted in a way that went bone-deep.
Then the horror in his eyes when he'd jerked back, the way he'd looked at me like I was a grenade with the pin pulled.
My fingers found my lips without conscious thought, tracing where his mouth had pressed. I could still feel it, phantom pressure that made my stomach clench with want I had no right to feel. He'd kissed me like he was drowning and I was air. Then pushed me away like I was poison.
I sat up slowly, muscles protesting from a night on the couch. That's when I saw it.
A coloring book sat on the coffee table where nothing had been last night.
Brand new, spine uncracked, intricate mandala designs visible through the clear cover.
Beside it, a set of colored pencils still in their plastic wrapper—good ones, not the cheap waxy kind that broke under pressure.
The note underneath was written in careful block letters: "For stress. -D"
My heart pounded. He'd gone out early, probably to avoid talking to me, but he'd thought about what I might need.
Had remembered the box of supplies that had spilled across my apartment floor, the shame in my face when he'd seen them.
Had decided I deserved better than worn-down crayons and water-stained pages.
"Morning." His voice came from the kitchen doorway, carefully neutral. Professional. Like I was a witness he needed to interview, not a woman he'd kissed senseless twelve hours ago. "Sleep okay?"
I looked up to find him leaning against the doorframe, coffee mug in hand. He'd showered—hair still damp, fresh t-shirt, jeans that fit too well for my peace of mind. But his eyes wouldn't quite meet mine, focusing somewhere over my left shoulder like the wall held fascinating secrets.
"Fine." The lie came out automatic. I'd slept like shit, replaying that kiss until my brain felt like scrambled eggs. "Thank you for the . . ." I gestured at the coloring book, words failing.
"No big deal. Couldn’t sleep." He took a sip of coffee, still studying that fascinating wall. "Figured you might want something to do while we figure out next steps."
Next steps. The professional distance in his tone made something hot and angry rise in my chest.
"I guess I need to find a job." The words came out sharper than intended, but I was tired of being handled with kid gloves. "I can't just sit here coloring all day like some kind of—" I bit off the rest. Like some kind of child. Like some kind of burden.
His eyes finally found mine, surprise flickering across his features. "You just lost everything. Nobody expects you to—"
"I expect me to." I stood, wrapping the blanket around my shoulders like armor. "I've been taking care of myself for a long time. I'm not going to stop now just because some assholes burned my van."
Something shifted in his expression—surprise maybe, or approval. His jaw worked like he was chewing on words, deciding which ones to let out.
"I know people," he said finally. "Local businesses. Some of them owe the club favors." He set his mug on the counter, movements careful and deliberate. "I normally go on patrol each morning. See what’s going on in the neighborhood. Want to ride along?"
I considered it.
Spending the day pressed against his back on that bike, feeling his warmth through leather, pretending last night's kiss hadn't rewired something fundamental in my brain.
It was probably a terrible idea.
"Yes." The word came out too fast, too eager. Heat flooded my cheeks. "I mean, if it's not too much trouble."
"No trouble." But his voice had gone rough at the edges, and when he turned back to the kitchen, I caught the way his hands flexed at his sides. Like he was fighting the urge to reach for something. Or someone.
"Give me ten minutes to get ready," I said, already moving toward the hallway. "I'll just—"
"Cleo." My name in his mouth stopped me short. When I looked back, he was gripping the counter edge hard enough to whiten his knuckles. "About last night . . ."
"Don't." The word came out desperate. "Please. Can we just . . . not? At least not yet?"
His shoulders dropped slightly, tension bleeding out. "Yeah. Okay. Get ready. We'll head out when you're done."
“Thank you.”
I followed Dex to his bike, trying not to think about how strange this all felt.
He handed me the spare helmet without looking at me, fingers careful not to brush mine.
But when I struggled with the strap, he stepped close without hesitation.
"Here." His hands worked the buckle under my chin, knuckles grazing my throat.
I forgot how to swallow. How to breathe.
How to do anything but stare at the concentration on his face while he adjusted the fit.
"Too tight?" His thumb traced the edge of the padding near my jaw, checking the placement. The touch was clinical. Professional. So why did it make heat pool low in my belly?
"It's fine." My voice came out breathless. Wrecked. His eyes flicked to mine, and for a heartbeat we were frozen there, his hands framing my face through the helmet. Then he stepped back like I'd shocked him, turning to his own bike with movements too sharp to be casual.
"Remember what I told you," he said, swinging his leg over. "Lean with me, not against. Hold on tight."
I climbed on behind him, and God, I felt everything. The way my thighs bracketed his hips. How my arms wrapped around his waist brought our bodies flush. The heat of him bleeding through leather and denim, warming me in all kinds of places.
He started the engine, and the vibration thrummed through me like a tuning fork. When he pulled into traffic, I instinctively tightened my grip. I swear I felt him lean back into me, just a fraction. Just enough to close that last inch of space between us.
The ride through Ironridge revealed a different town than the one I'd survived in for three years.
From the back of Dex's bike, I saw knowing nods from other bikers.
Shop owners who raised their hands in greeting.
Kids who watched with awe instead of fear.
This was his territory, and by extension, I was under his protection.
The weight of that settled over me like armor.
Martinez Auto Repair sat on the industrial side of town, a sprawling garage with four bays and honest grease stains on everything.
Dex killed the engine and helped me off, hands on my waist longer than necessary.
Or maybe I imagined that. Maybe I was so starved for touch that I was inventing meaning where none existed.
"Dex Brandon!" A man emerged from under a lifted Ford, wiping his hands on a rag that had seen better decades. "Good to see you, man. How's the bike running?"
"Like a dream." Dex's whole demeanor shifted, easier and lighter than I'd seen him. "Carlos, this is Cleo. She's looking for work. Office stuff, customer service."
Carlos Martinez had the kind of face that smiled by default, lines carved by years of genuine warmth.
But when his eyes found Dex's patches, something shifted.
Not fear—I knew what fear looked like. This was respect.
Recognition. The kind of careful awareness you gave to someone who could be dangerous but chose not to be.
"Any friend of Dex is welcome here," Carlos said, extending a grease-stained hand that I shook without hesitation. "What kind of experience you got?"
"Waitressing, mostly. Some filing and cash handling at the diner." I tried not to sound as desperate as I felt. "I learn fast, show up on time, and I'm not afraid of hard work."
Carlos's expression went sympathetic. "I wish I could help, really. But business is slow right now. Barely keeping my nephew on part-time." He glanced at Dex, something passing between them I couldn't read. "Maybe try Sophia at the bookstore? She mentioned needing help with inventory."
"Thanks, Carlos." Dex's hand found the small of my back, so natural I don't think he realized he'd done it. "Appreciate you."
"Hey." Carlos's voice stopped us at the door. "That thing with the Zavala kid last month? His mom wanted me to thank you again. Kid's staying in school, staying out of trouble." As he spoke, Carlos slipped an envelope into Dex’s hand. Dex pocketed it.
"Just doing what needed doing." I caught the pleased note in Dex's voice, the pride he tried to hide.
Outside, I processed what I'd seen while Dex checked something on his bike. The easy relationship. The mutual respect. This wasn't the motorcycle club my father had shown me, all violence and taking. This was something else.
“What did he give you? The envelope.”
Dex's hands stilled on the handlebars. "Money. For protection.”
“Like . . . mafia style?”
"It's not . . ." I saw him struggle. "It's not like the movies.
Only one hundred a month," he said, turning to face me.
"Last year, some punk kids were tagging his shop, breaking windows.
We caught them, made them clean it up and apologize.
When his daughter needed a safe ride home from a party that went bad, Thor picked her up at 2 AM, no questions asked.
When the Serpents tried to muscle in on his territory, we made it clear he was under our protection. "
The picture formed slowly, pieces clicking into place. "It's actual protection. Private security, in a way. Not extortion."
"That's the difference between us and them." His voice went hard at the edges. "The Serpents take everything and give nothing back. They'd bleed Carlos dry, then burn his shop for the insurance money. We invest in our community. Keep it stable. Keep it safe."
"My father's club," I said quietly, "they aren't like you."
"No." Simple agreement, no attempt to pretty it up. "They aren't."
Table of Contents
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