Page 58 of Dirty Salvation

Hawk had installed it all way back when he was first patched in, according to Rider again.

He installed all the security measures in everyone's homes, as well. The VP was a jack of all sociopathic trades, apparently, not that the scary guy interested her much, but it was good the safety elements were taking care of.

Don’t worry, no one is getting in here, Hawk has got us covered. Rider had told her and weirdly enough she trusted Hawk knew what he was doing in that regard.

Fall air stung Zara's cheeks. She'd only been outside three minutes, if that, the first time in a week, and already frost was gathering on her long lashes, her fingers beginning to numb, her lips bluing.

She was exhilarated in the frozen outdoors.

For too long she’d been trapped inside, refused to venture a foot outside the Raging Rebels door, paranoid she'd beg a passer-by for help, and she fucking would have done.

Assholes.

She hadn't noticed the seasons change, she'd missed leaves dropping from trees, the first day of Spring sunshine fighting to get through the clouds. But it was winter she'd missed most of all. No seasons, no holidays.

No wonder she'd been suicidal. A girl needed Santa in her life.

Zara held out a wish for snow soon. Hard pelting snow, blizzard worthy. Back home in West Newbury, Massachusetts, the snow fell every winter in great globs. Beautiful, and now she missed home. Whereas since living in Colorado for college, it had been hit and miss. Already the mountains were dusted in white, but that was miles away, as yet the forecourt was still just gray cement. Maybe soon, she pondered, eyes tracking to the mountains.

The air stung her nose when she took a long inhale, smelling freedom and gasoline wafting south from the garage.

It was the best scent ever.

The noise came with the solitude, clattering, welding, the sound of machines jacking up cars, an old guy she was half sure she remembered was called Jim was tinkering with a rusted motorcycle, metal meeting floor made an almighty racket.

At first, those new days here Zara had been jittery of every sound, she jumped more often than not, felt that rush of nervous energy and pumped adrenaline through her veins, eyes turning wild, expecting the worst.

But now, the noises were welcome, because it meant all was well in theSoulsbase.

No attacks, or trouble, this was everyday sounds from men getting on with their work, laughing and co-existing together.

It was subtle. Comforting.

Funnily enough, after her breakdown two days ago, she felt light today, purged from within, able to take a breath again without it causing her pain, it was a weight lifted from her shoulders.

Zara had ripped inside, cracked effectively, recognizing she had been emotionally cutting herself, picking at her scab, until she’d metaphorically bled out on the floor, and Rider had been there to gather up her pieces.

A beautiful bad biker man had literally climbed into the shower with her and bathed her for hours, speaking in hushed calming words while tears and sobs racked her body.

He didn’t try to tell her she was stupid for feeling dirty, he’d simply washed her for as long as she’d needed.

Rider. She was beginning to believe he wasn’t real.

Maybe she dreamed him. Because who did that for another person? Seriously.

The Renegade Souls president looked at her in a way that convinced her she mattered to him, that their history was not just that, it was fresh and real and present between every look and glance.

He was still young, not yet forty. These bikers took their roles seriously, more than any other man she'd ever known and a MC was a world within itself, their own hierarchy, with Rider on the top of the food chain ruling it all from the mother chapter.

Strange the details she'd retained and hung onto, thought of over the years.

Had he been married? gotten himself an old lady at some point? she knew now he hadn't. Now she was plagued with why not?

Ridiculously handsome, seriously man-hunk calendar gorgeous, a man like him would have been inappropriately propositioned more times than Zara had had a hot dinner, and still, he was unattached.

Maybe he was commitment phobic.

Good …terrific… out of this world sex didn’t equate to him being a good husband.