Page 14 of Zeppelin (Satan’s Angels MC #9)

Ginny

I don’t know how it happened, but one minute I was in the kitchen peeling potatoes, making bread, prepping a salted ham, and struggling to get the stove to the right temperature without smoking myself out of the house in the process, and the next I stepped outside to check on Zeppelin because I realized that it had been over an hour and I hadn’t heard a single sound out there, only to step straight out into a wall of humidity and mounting dark clouds that signal we’re in for a banger of a storm.

Tornadoes might be uncommon in Washington State, but they’re not unheard of. Large hail, crazy downpours, and lightning strikes aren’t anything to trifle with, even if the clouds don’t decide they want to drop a funnel cloud from hell down on top of us.

I fly over the decrepit porch, leaping over two boards that I know for sure are dicey.

“Zeppelin?” The thick humidity crawls down my throat as I call out his name. It’s eerily still. No wind. Just moist, hot air, perfect for a summer storm. “Zeppelin!” I don’t mean to sound frantic, but my voice breaks at the end.

He appears, racing around the house like he expects a whole band of marauders to have just landed in my front yard.

I come to a full stop. My hands fly to my hair.

I make a production of smoothing the frizz, like that was the whole issue.

“Hey. Sorry. It looks wicked out here. Like something could drop out of the sky at any time. I don’t want you working outside if it’s hailing or if there’s lightning. That’s dangerous.”

“I was just measuring all the boards, working out what I’m going to need and marking everything. I thought it would make cutting easier when I do it. I noticed your dad left the shed stocked with tools.”

“Oh my god. I’m sorry. I should have told you that.

Yes, he did. The saw and the drills and everything.

When I told him you wanted to help me out with the porch and windows, he made sure that I was all set up and ready to go.

The tools are mostly all spares. He has full sets for full sets and replacements for those too.

Living out in the farm, it’s a long run to the city, so you’re either over-prepared or making the drive. ”

I’m rambling. Zeppelin stands there and listens like he’s fascinated.

“Do you have any of the tools out right now?”

“Not yet.” He points to his leather belt where the tape measure sits hooked on the side. My eyes slowly drift from there to the big metal buckle on the front in the shape of an eagle. It’s worn in and shiny in spots. I haven’t seen him wear it before, but it’s clear that he has.

A massive clap of thunder booms out of nowhere. It’s almost literally ear-splitting

Zeppelin closes the distance, he puts his hands on my shoulders and spins me around, looming over me like he plans to shield me from the wrath of nature with just his body alone.

Suddenly, it smells like rain. A gust of wind blows past us, picking up out of nowhere. It’s all sure signs that we’re going to get hit with a storm, though it will probably be brief as it passes through.

For just an instant, I’m surrounded by a wall of muscle. The scent of leather and gas, spearmint chewing gum, sharp cloves and manly cologne. A sharp, almost feral hunger claws at my belly, striking my breath right out of my lungs.

I don’t have time to process any of that.

Zeppelin wraps his arm around my waist and hurries me through the yard.

He takes care with the porch, stepping in front of me to test the boards so that if they break, he’s the one who falls through.

Satisfied with his path, he reaches back for me.

I slot my hand in his, lightning and heat exploding in my stomach as soon as our fingertips make contact.

I step back into the house after him, closing the door and sliding the new deadbolt lock my dad installed into place, like that’s going to keep us safe above anything else.

I keep my back turned for a second, doing what I guess could be called collecting myself.

It would make sense, given that I lost my mind back there for a few seconds.

I’ve found it again, and now that my brain is properly processing, I know I have two choices.

Live in denial, or admit to myself that I’m dealing with a physical attraction that’s impossible to ignore.

It’s not fleeting. Appropriate or not, it’s real.

I might be able to admit it to myself, but knowing what to do about is something else.

I shove it to the back of my mind for now and lunge for my phone.

I’m greeted by a red warning banner across the top of my weather app as soon as I open it.

I quickly shut it off and stuff the phone back into my pocket.

The cookstove has made it ridiculously hot. It’s not like I can just shut it off, but I do grab oven mitts and hot pads and move all the pots over to the table. Everything was pretty much done, including the ham.

I make quick work of getting it ready, watching the sky the whole time.

Zeppelin picks up on my nervous energy, but he sinks down at the table like there’s nothing wrong.

We both eat in silence. I’m always nauseous to some degree, but dinner is usually the best time of day. I’m careful to only eat a little because I’ve found out the hard way that nights are often not friendly for a rocky stomach.

Potatoes are good. They seem to stick.

Zeppelin eats in silence, helping himself to a huge serving of ham, tucking it away, then scooping out more. He doesn’t skimp on anything else either.

The night he was at my parents’ house for dinner, we were both too nervous about giving them the baby news to really eat much of anything. Tonight, it’s different. The fresh country air and hard work will do that.

Being a human his size probably freaking does it.

Zeppelin’s quiet until another clap of thunder shakes the house, sounding like it’s right on top of us.

The floorboards legit shake beneath my feet.

I nearly drop the dishes that I’m carrying to the white farmhouse sink to wash up.

When Zeppelin pointed out the tap earlier, I was blasé about it.

I’m not about to admit that getting hot water is a process—and part of me does wish I could have running water at the flick of a switch.

But I tell myself that my grandparents managed just fine.

The sink does have a pipe that drains underneath the cabin when the plug is pulled, so at least I don’t have to carry a big tub outside and pitch it out after.

The dishes clearly aren’t going to be done anytime soon.

Not when a torrent of rain unleashes, beating against the shingles. My dad has patched the roof over the years, so a lot of the shingles are new. There aren’t any obvious leaks. Yet.

The rain streaks down the windows, running in rivers.

The thunder rumbles again, then lets out a bang that I can feel in my bones this time.

I set the dishes in the sink and turn to stare at Zeppelin. He doesn’t look good. His skin has an almost gray pallor. Is he afraid of storms?

“I think we should go down to the cellar. It’s got a dirt floor, but wood walls, and it’s clean and safe. My app said a severe thunderstorm warning, but that often carries the chance for worse. I don’t want to take chances.”

“Perfect day out there for a tornado,” he agrees. His hands ball into fists and his whole body floods with tension. He seems to sway back and forth on the spot, without moving at all. “Alright,” he agrees after another bang of thunder. “Let’s get down there.”

This is an old farmhouse, so the cellar door is in the back.

It’s the trapdoor kind that you throw open in the floor, with a set of sturdy wooden stairs that lead below.

My dad repeatedly checked the foundations of this house, year after year, but he always came back home to remark, with no small amount of amazement, how sturdy it still was.

Zeppelin switches his phone flashlight on and lowers his big body down the stairs. It’s such a trip, seeing him disappear, until everything is gone except his head. He turns and extends his hand for me again.

When I take it, there’s a definite tremor from him. Nervous energy? Fear?

I follow him down. I don’t flip the door closed.

That would be too much. Entirely too claustrophobic.

There’s a set of stairs on the other end of the cellar and a door that opens up to outside.

The walls are lined on the far right with wooden shelves.

I have a few jars of preserves down here that I’ve brought over, and some of the groceries that just keep better where it’s cold, but the place is mostly empty.

The far wall is clean, old wood. There aren’t any cobwebs down here.

No mice scurrying around. Dad and Gabe did an incredible job cleaning this place from top all the way to actual bottom.

The cool air and earthy smell are scents I find inviting, not frightening, but Zeppelin doesn’t feel the same.

He drops my hand the second I’m safely down the stairs and starts pacing in the small area.

When I get my flashlight on and point it in his direction, not caring to even be subtle about it, his forehead is slick with perspiration, and his shirt clings damply to his body.

Even in the hot, humid house, he wasn’t sweating like that when we ate.

“Zeppelin?”

He grunts out a non-response.

“Is it being in a small space? Does that bother you? Or is it the storm?”

His eyes chase the shadows from the phone lights around the small space, roving wildly back and forth. “I could pretend it wasn’t escalating before. A thunderstorm is a thunderstorm, but it looks bad out there.”

I flick the light off of him, allowing him some time to breathe.

“I just need a minute,” he chokes out.

I wait a minute. Another. Another. Time isn’t helping. If anything, Zeppelin’s breathing grows more erratic. Soon, it sounds like he’s working out hard.