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CHAPTER TWO
Tessa
I was too cynical to believe in fate. Nothing about my life had been smooth sailing enough to think that anything at all was meant to happen.
If anything, my free will was the reason for all of my damn problems.
Including the things that had me driving into some nowhere town on the side of the Death Valley mountains.
I just wanted to stop, fuel up my car, get some coffee, then hopefully find somewhere to park and sleep where some creepy-ass guy wouldn’t come across me and try to get in.
Which was why I couldn’t figure out what had me walking into the little bar instead of making my way down to the diner to get my coffee. And maybe something to eat if I could find anything cheap.
I was getting dangerously low on cash. I needed to stop somewhere for a few days to get some funds to help me keep going.
But that place was absolutely not Shady Valley. A town of, what, a thousand people? The chances of odd jobs were low. Or even enough to do some third-party food delivery service jobs. Which was pretty much the only thing funding my moving around.
And I couldn’t stop moving.
If I stopped moving, I could be dead. Probably. Almost certainly.
So why the hell was I in a bar in town?
Honestly, I think I just needed to soak up the atmosphere, the sounds, the people. I’d been on the move, living out of my car for so long with nothing but my radio to keep me company.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked, popping the top of a beer bottle and passing it down toward the group of guys in their leather biker cuts.
Honestly, the sight of those damn cuts should have sent me running. Out of the bar. Out of the town. Out of the damn state.
“I’m still deciding,” I lied to the bartender. I could barely afford coffee. I damn sure couldn’t afford a drink at a bar.
“Let me know when you do,” he said, moving off toward the other end of the bar.
I was about to force myself to leave—knowing it wasn’t smart for me to be seen by too many people who could remember me—when the bar door flew open, and a man came stalking in.
The frustration was radiating off of his tall, lean frame.
The cut he had on should have been enough reason for my gaze to slide away. But, I guess, old habits died hard.
And, of course, he couldn’t just be a grizzled old biker. Nope. He had to be annoyingly good-looking with his strong jaw, stern brow, brown eyes, and reddish-brown hair.
For a biker, he kind of had that skinny gamer guy vibe to him as he beelined toward the other bikers, not even glancing around the bar.
This next part—this was the thing that almost had me considering the idea of fate.
I was unabashedly eavesdropping on their conversation, hearing things about a pain-in-the-ass parole officer, about a mom in a mental health facility that he wasn’t allowed to visit, and a crazy idea to marry to have access to her.
See, biker gangs were dangerous. To associate with. To date.
But being married to one? That offered a level of protection that was almost unmatched. Even if the marriage was a sham, I imagined the same rules applied.
You don’t fuck with an old lady.
And I could really, really use not to be fucked with.
When one of the other bikers came over with a group of girls, I knew what would follow: a trip to the clubhouse. Music, drinking, fun, sex.
While the biker had been a bit reluctant about the scheme his friend had come up with, maybe I could do some feeling around, see if there was any chance he’d actually consider it.
Plus, you know, see if the guy was someone I could risk being married to.
It was absurd.
But it sounded better than another night sleeping in the backseat of my car, praying I didn’t wake up to see someone staring down at me, arm moving as he stroked his dick.
That might sound like some random horror story that might never happen. But it had happened to me already. Twice. And the second guy had been actively trying with his free hand to pull my door open or push my window down.
So when the ride-share pulled up, I hopped in the front, hoping that everyone was too excited to question my appearance.
The clubhouse wasn’t what I was used to, what anyone could have expected.
From my experience, they were all small, low, mostly windowless buildings. Old bars or defunct steakhouses, that kind of thing.
This clubhouse was a damn warehouse. Three enormous floors of space.
Whoever these bikers were, whatever they were involved with, they had money.
And where there was money, there was protection.
Maybe this plan wasn’t as absurd as I’d been trying to convince myself.
We all walked in a crowd up to the front doors as one of the bikers—the tall tank of a man with the military posture named Colt—warned us about the club cat named—unimaginatively—Cat, who hated women. And, if we weren’t careful, would try to scratch at us as we passed.
The inside of the clubhouse was nothing like I’d imagined. Sure, it had some of the hallmarks of a biker clubhouse: a full bar, big TV, stereo, pool table, even darts. But everything was upscale. And the warehouse itself had been fully updated.
It was industrial yet warm and inviting.
The floor plan was open, with a living room area to the right, the gaming tables and such to the left, and a massive kitchen toward the back.
Beside that was a hall with a few doors and an actual freight elevator.
“What’s everyone drinking?” the biker who was covered in tattoos asked, waving over toward the stocked bar.
There was a chorus of requests for mixed drinks as I made my way toward the kitchen, going for the coffee machine. They had one of those fancy ones that looked like it belonged behind the counter at a coffee shop.
I found the mugs, milk, and the espresso. But then I had no idea what the hell to do. I was more of a drip coffee kind of girl. “Need a hand?”
Turning, I was surprised to find the biker with the P.O. problem standing a few feet off, head tipped to the side as he watched me, but kept his distance.
“I don’t even know where to put this,” I said, shaking the bag of espresso grounds.
He moved toward me, taking the bag, then loading up the machine. “You want any flavor in this? The girls keep just about every flavor here,” he said, tapping the cabinet above the coffee machine.
I didn’t usually order any extras. There was never any money for that. But if he was offering, I was taking him up on it. Especially when I saw they had caramel. The syrup, not the sugar-free stuff that I thought tasted a bit like medicine.
I handed him the syrup and watched with a small smile as he poured a whole lot of it in my mug.
“So, you got a name, babe?”
“Tessa.”
“Tessa. I’m Rook.”
“Rook. Is that a real name or road name?”
To that, his brow went up. “Know a thing or two about bikers?”
This was a tricky part.
Did I lie to him about everything?
Or just about the one thing?
Lies had a way of compounding. And each new one made it harder to keep them all straight.
“I was raised in a club,” I told him. “Well, not in a club exactly. My mom was a club girl.”
“Was your father a biker?” Rook asked.
“That’s a complicated question.”
“How so?”
“Well, I imagine my father was a biker. But my mom was always a little too high to remember to use birth control. Or recall which biker she slept with or when. I had suspicions, but they weren’t exactly the kind of men willing to get a cheek swab, let alone be willing to pay child support. So…”
Rook nodded as he frothed the milk. “Was it a club in California?”
“New Mexico,” I said.
“Club life wasn’t for you?”
“As it turned out, no. I mean, not that club anyway.”
“This one looking better for you?”
“Well, the clubhouse is definitely an improvement.” I barely managed to tamp down the memory of mice crawling out from under the stove and fridge, and the occasional infestations of roaches that made it impossible to keep any food around.
“Second floor is swanky as fuck. Looking forward to having a room there…”
“Why don’t you stay here now?”
“I’m on parole,” he admitted as he passed me my finished drink. “My P.O. can’t know I’m associated with the club, for obvious reasons. But they keep a room for me here.”
“Where are you living now? In town?”
“Above the karate place that doubles as my gainful employment,” he said with a twinkle in his eye that said he didn’t actually do any work there.
“I’m assuming it’s not as nice as here.”
“One of the bathrooms here is the size of my whole apartment. But it could be worse. Definitely better than an eight-by-eight that I had to share. How is it?” Rook asked as I took a sip.
“The best thing I’ve had in weeks.” That wasn’t hard, considering that all I’d been eating lately were two-day-old gas station hot dogs and the occasional waxy egg on a bagel. Whatever was cheapest. “Do you mind me asking what you went away for?”
“Assault.”
“On who?”
“The man who ran a sweetheart con on my mom.”
“Sounds like he had it coming.”
“More than you know,” Rook said. Then, to my surprise, he went on. “My ma has always been… fragile.”
“Fragile physically?”
“That too. But mentally. She’s bipolar.”
“But… isn’t bipolar manageable with meds?”
“It can be. It was. On and off. But she got worse as she got older. Then after the con…”
Rook trailed off, his gaze far away, his eyes haunted.
“I’m a good listener,” I invited.
“She had a rapid and severe decline after. She began rapid-cycling, self-harming. And then there was the psychosis. I could have gotten her back on track.”
“But you took your anger out on the bastard who hurt her and got locked up.”
“Yeah. And so did she. I never even got the full story about how she got sent to the facility. I’m assuming it was a suicide attempt. A seventy-two-hour hold became weeks. Then years.”
“She’s been there for years?”
“Yeah. I can’t get her out.”
“Why not?”
“Because of my P.O. She won’t even let me go visit her.” The pain in his voice was ragged. I felt torn open for him.
“Why not?”
“Mostly, I think she just gets off on the power of refusing me.”
“What about other family? Do they go see her?”
“It’s only us. I have contact with the hospital, but they can just give me general updates. I need eyes in there.”
“And only family can visit?” I asked.
“Yep,” he said, popping the p, his jaw granite. “My brother over there just suggested I get married to get someone in there.”
“I mean, it’s an idea, isn’t it?”
Why was I entertaining this? There was no way I could go through with this? Live a lie with him. Even if he would even consider me an option.
“I’m not dating anyone. I’m not even the dating type.”
“Who says it has to be real, though, right?”
“Who the fuck would agree to a not-real marriage?”
The words were out before I could even think them through.
“I would.”
Rook’s brows shot up at that.
His gaze moved over me, brows pinched. “Why would a pretty thing like you settle for a fake marriage?”
“Because I have shit taste in men… and I could use a place to crash.”
Two truths.
To cover the one I wasn’t telling him.
“Where are you crashing now?”
My chin lifted slightly, refusing to be embarrassed by my situation. “The backseat of my car.”
“For how long?”
“A couple weeks. Well, months now, I guess.”
“Christ, babe.”
“I would say that it’s not as bad as it sounds, but it’s pretty awful. I’ve had this chronic crick in my neck since that first night. And, well, the creeps.”
“Creeps? Meaning men?”
“Unsolicited dick pics pale in comparison to the disgust of waking up to someone watching you with their dick in their hands.”
“You’re sleeping here tonight,” he declared, face twisted up at the mental image I’d burned into his mind.
“I know I’m supposed to turn that down, but I’m totally not going to.”
“Good. I don’t want you to. You can have my room.”
“You’re not gonna need it?”
“Nah.” Something in his face told me that, if it weren’t for me, he would use his room. But I wasn’t about to feel guilty about putting him out. He had a whole apartment to himself if he wanted to sleep in a bed. “Is the room furnished?”
“Come on. I’ll go show you.”
“Don’t you want to party?” I asked, waving my coffee out toward where the girls were dancing and the bikers were enjoying the show.
“It’ll be going all night.”
With that, he led me out of the kitchen and into the freight elevator.
The upstairs was the same size as the lower level, but cut up into bedrooms and hall baths.
I think, more so than anything, I was surprised how damn clean everything was.
I grew up in a clubhouse where it wasn’t just cobwebs or scattered clothes around, but used condoms and fucking meth spoons and needles all over the place.
This clubhouse seemed like someone ran a vacuum and mop several times a week.
“That’s my room,” Rook said, pointing toward a closed door. “So this is the bath you can use.” He reached inside, flicking on the light. “You good?” he asked, making me realize that weird whimpering sound that I thought was just in my soul had escaped from between my lips.
“Have you ever bathed in one of those public showers at rest stops?”
“Can’t say I have. They as bad as they sound?”
“Some of them aren’t bad. Others make you feel dirtier when you leave. Plus, there are all the guys hanging around, knowing you’re naked and vulnerable in there… I mean, the doors lock and everything. But there’s always that fear of public cameras and shit like that. If my bare ass is gonna end up on the internet somewhere, I want to be the one profiting, not some sleazy guy with a hidden camera.” At Rook’s troubled look, I winced. “Sorry. My mouth can run away with me sometimes.”
“Got nothing to apologize for. I promise there are no cameras here,” he said, pushing back the shower curtain. “And no creepy guys. The closet should be full of anything you might need. The dresser in my room will have some clothes you can borrow too.”
It sounded like heaven.
Or, at the very least, a vacation from hell.
“Don’t judge me too much,” Rook said as we crossed to his room. “I haven’t had a lot of time to work on it yet.”
With that, he threw open the door.
The laugh bubbled up and burst out before I could stop it.
“What?” Rook asked, head cocked to the side.
“Sorry. It’s just… I got a whole warning about a fully decorated room when I’ve known men who were proud of their mattresses on the floor with a single pillow with no case on it.”
The walls of Rook’s room were exposed brick, and the windows were those big ones with the black frames. The floors were cement, but there was a cozy distressed rug beneath the king-sized bed—with a frame. And, wonder of all wonders, four pillows. With cases.
To each side of the bed were nightstands in the same stain color, but different styles. On each were lamps.
And, of course, there was one long dresser with a large TV set on top of it.
“Seriously, how is this not fully decorated?”
“Could use a couch, a work station… actually, I think Coach said he was working on a desk for me.”
“Working on?”
“Building. He made the nightstands and the dresser.”
“No way,” I said, looking at them with an even more admiring eye. “He’s really talented.”
“He’s doing a yoga and meditation session in the morning, if you’re interested.”
“I’m a bit more of a ‘punch a pillow’ kind of person than a yoga person,” I admitted. “But thanks for the offer. This is really nice of you.”
“Hey, it’s the least I can do for a woman who offered to marry me,” he said, shooting me a smirk as he stood in the doorway. “Help yourself to anything you need in here. And the kitchen, if you’re coming back down.”
“I’ve been sleeping in a car for weeks. I’m crashing as long as possible.”
“It’s gonna be loud.”
“I can sleep through anything.”
“Good. Then get some rest, babe.”