Page 43 of Dirty Salvation

Okay.Fine. Zara admitted something deep and dark to the surrounding walls and her own rampant thoughts; she was finding Rider and his attention incredibly attractive.

There, it was out in the open, she allowed herself to think it.

Having panicked this morning on waking to find Rider still asleep on the recliner chair, the blanket slid low on his waist, to show the happy trail of hair leading down the hardest naked belly and beyond. It had sent her thoughts spiraling. Happening so sudden it took her breath, drying her throat, rendering her a little dumb.

One minute she was yawning, tending fingers to her eye, noticing the swelling was less today, thinking about having jelly and toast, and then she happened to catch the sight of him after doingsucha good job of overlooking the huge guy who seemed to always be there when she turned around.

Attraction.Bam! right between her legs, heat, and a throbbing pulse.

There it was then, she groaned as if she'd been expecting it any day now, inevitable really, she knew all about Stockholm syndrome and the like, and what with the connection she felt to him, her only anchor in a storm, he’d been the calmness she'd needed.

Four days after he'd played Batman, bringing her into the light, she was feeling all kinds of grateful feelings and was confusing it with something sexual.

Liar.Her conscience spoke.

Liar, liar, pants on fire. I like him. I want him and I know he wants me.

As a thief would with a bag full of diamonds, she'd crept out of his bed and his room after wordlessly pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a simple tank top and gotten out of there undetected, it was the only decent thing to do while she was so confused about...everything.

She didn't want Rider.

She couldn't.Broken.

It was...

It was lust she didn't trust. Misplaced feelings and confusion were a disaster in the making.

Whowould have lust on their mind at a time like this? it wasn't a romance book for god’s sake. And she was no fair maiden to fall for the hardened hero.

Her life was a little more flawed that no happily ever after could fix. Besides, she didn't have the heaving bosom to carry off that role.

So, doing the only thing she could, she went about the day avoiding anyone in leather and denim, and especially Rider.

It was cathartic letting her legs fly even if she wasn’t very good at long distance running, limbs too gangly, bruised ribs meant having to stop every few minutes to catch her breath, man, athletes made it look so easy.

On and on she hit her feet against the electronic black belt trying to beat a self-imposed stop-watch only she could hear ticking down in her mind.

Her father the high-powered Boston lawyer would say competition with oneself was unproductive and unnecessary if you had no one to best.Thanks, Dad.

However, she ran, stretching every muscle until they all burned equally. Her arms ached, her legs throbbed, she had a stitch pinching in her side, and shefeltfantastic.

Sweat trickled into her eyes, she’d tied her hair up into a messy ponytail never considering she’d see anyone, after all, the three days she’d used the makeshift gym within the compound basement no one else had ventured down there. Hey, maybe the bikers were avoiding her, too, she reflected.

Zara stayed away from the sets of weights and lifting benches, there was no use for the chest press or the dumb-bells, but she'd given the treadmill a try once she'd figured how to turn it on and get it to a decent speed where she hadn't pitched off backward on the first try at running.

That had been embarrassing.

The quiet was welcomed to her mind, it allowed Zara to think, because, for all her success at being an ostrich with her nose buried in the dirt, she seriously needed to have a game plan set out soon, it wasn't as though she could stay at the Renegade Souls MC indefinitely.

Could that be her plan of action?

As far as she knew, and it went for most motorcycle clubs (not gangs) they didn't patch in women and she was not so good at spitting and drinking beer by the case anyway.

She'd be a pitiful outlaw, she judged on her third km.

Every muscle hurt, she was sweating profusely, her shirt clinging to her back, but Zara didn't care about her unappealing lack of vanity.

She was blissfully alone.