Page 5 of Zeppelin (Satan’s Angels MC #9)

Ginny

I ’ve spent almost all of what I can remember of my life on the farm.

I know the land, the birds, the animal tracks.

I know the seasons, the roads, the stillness, and every other sound.

I know exactly what piece of equipment or vehicle my dad and brother are driving into or out of the yard just based on the noise it makes.

I know what’s familiar, and I know what doesn’t belong.

The low rumble in the distance isn’t right.

It’s not natural. It’s overcast today and drizzling on and off, but it’s not thunder.

The closest neighbor is a few miles down the road. There are other farms after ours, but no one ever drives past making that sound.

I know that roar. The hair on my arms stands on end. My gut turns into a pinched ache far different than the normal heaving and tossing that it’s been doing since I figured out I was pregnant.

We have a market tomorrow. Since it’s early in the season, our booth basically consists of preserves and baking. For the past two days, my mom and I have been in the kitchen, churning out cookies, squares, buns, loaves of bread, and pies.

I’m literally up to my elbows in eight different bowls of cookie dough spread out all over the island, but as that roar gets closer, sounding more and more like the wrath of Zeus bringing one hell of a storm, and less like a possibility that I’m just mistaking the weird whine of an insect or a piece of farm machinery gone very wrong, I quickly whip around to the sink and scrub up.

“Are you expecting someone?” Mom shoves in beside me, peeking out the window over the kitchen sink. It overlooks our long driveway. “Maybe it’s Dom and Bronte!”

“Dom’s bike doesn’t sound like that, and they’d never put Ellie on it, even if it is a trike. They’d also phone first.”

I already know who’s coming, but as soon as that monster bike flashing chrome and dark green paint comes into view, the knot in my stomach ties itself so much tighter. It might be less of the bike and more of the giant beast of a man riding on it.

It’s definitely that.

Zeppelin has an open-face helmet, but he came prepared with goggles and a black bandana to keep the dust out of his eyes and mouth. Maybe he always rides that way.

My pulse spikes in what I tell myself is only anxiety. I just dried my hands on the towel hanging from the oven door, but my palms grow immediately sweaty.

I haven’t told my family about the baby yet. It’s not like I’ve had a lot of time. It hasn’t even been a full week since Grave’s funeral. My dad and brother are reaching the tail end of seeding the fields, and this is our first market of the year.

The only time I’ve had to process anything for myself is when I fall into bed at night. I should be exhausted, and I guess I am, but it’s nearly impossible to fall asleep with an unquiet mind cluttered with racing thoughts and flooded with apprehension.

I turn to kiss my mom on the forehead. “It’s Zeppelin. Grave’s brother.”

“Oh?” Mom is really good at keeping a straight face. She’s one of the steadiest, wisest, most talented and brilliant people that I know. And loving. Oh my god, we were spoiled with all her love and patience, not just growing up, but even now, as adults.

“I don’t know what he’s doing here, but I’m going to go out and talk to him.” It’s pretty clear that I want to do that alone.

Mom’s surprised and maybe a little wary, but all she does is squeeze my shoulder. “Put on a jacket. It’s wet out.”

“I will. Thanks.”

I head to the mudroom, grab my black raincoat out of a row of pegs that are mine, shove it on, and tug on my yellow rubber boots.

They’re old and ugly from lots of use, but they don’t leak.

I had leggings and a tank top on because baking is a somewhat messy affair, and as soon as I step outside, a gust of wind hits me hard, misting across my face.

I lift my head into the wet drizzle, letting it slap me directly in the face. The wind tugs my hair out from under my hood as I stride with forced confidence out into the middle of the driveway. I don’t stop. I force Zeppelin to be the one to hold up.

He brakes as soon as he sees me, He plants those big black boots on the ground at either side of his bike.

He kills the roaring engine, ending the tremors racing through the ground up into the soles of my boots.

He dismounts gracefully, balancing the bike until he props it up on the hard packed gravel.

“What are you doing here?” I snap before Zeppelin even has time to remove his helmet, goggles, or bandana.

He picked a lucky day. He’s not wearing ten layers of dust because the drizzle soaked the roads just enough, but there’s still an unmistakable layer of grime on the bottom of his bike.

He pops the goggles off along with his helmet with far more grace than anyone should be able to muster. He digs his fingers into his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose where the goggles pressed in and left marks, and then he lowers the bandana and shakes out his dark hair.

Despite getting crushed for hours on his ride here, there’s not a hair out of place, and his slicked back look isn’t squashed flat.

I quit looking at his hair, but that just leaves my brain time to admire his powerful stance, even if I don’t want to notice it.

Somehow, his jeans aren’t dirty from the ride, just worn in and stained in spots from previous days.

He unzips his leather jacket and sweeps it off.

After checking to make sure the patch on the back isn’t spattered, he slips it back on but leaves it hanging open.

A weathered gray t-shirt strains over his massive shoulders and built chest. He has the kind of body that’s meant for brutish violence, but when he held me in his arms outside the club, there was nothing but gentleness there.

I make the mistake of looking straight into his eyes. He’s the most like Grave there. That sends my body into a confused flurry. I’ve never felt chemistry with anyone like I did with Grave. My hormones are immediately confused, my brain sending out all the wrong signals.

I don’t want to feel desire for this man.

It’s all wrong. I just wish that my body would understand that.

The way my pulse leaps, my heart beats harder, and my body starts to buzz makes me utterly ashamed.

Is there anything worse than getting hit in all the wrong places by your dead lover’s twin brother? It’s the worst betrayal.

Zeppelin rakes a hand through his hair, but the strands still don’t move.

Whatever product he uses is a freaking force of nature.

The mist wraps around us with the breeze, settling on him, beading on his hair, and thickening his lashes.

I fist my hands on my hips and repeat my question with just as much impatience and heat. “What are you doing here?”

“I might have asked Carver when planting season usually was. I mean, you said last week that you do markets. I figure that means farmer’s markets, which means gardening.

It’s been nice, minus today. So… I figured you’d be planting.

I want to offer to help out. You shouldn’t be doing all that hard work when you’re in a delicate condition. ”

I really shouldn’t stand here gaping. How do I even respond to that?

“We’re doing a market tomorrow, so we’re baking for it.

That’s what we sell when we don’t have fresh vegetables.

” Okay, yeah, but I should be telling him that I’m all good, thanks for thinking of me, but unless I give him a direct invitation, I don’t need the help.

And there’s sure as hell nothing delicate about me.

“I did say I needed time,” I venture, maintaining eye contact.

I don’t want to look away. It’s important to be firm in establishing boundaries.

That’s about as polite of a please piss off and don’t come back that I can muster.

I have a sudden idea, because riding all the way out here on the off-chance I’d be at home, seems strange. “Did you talk to my sister?”

Guilt flashes across his face faster than he can cover it up. “She might have pity talked to me to see how I was doing without… yeah. I might have asked her some roundabout questions. She didn’t know why I was asking.”

“You aren’t giving Bronte enough credit. She’s worried about me. She probably likes the idea of you watching out for me, or us consoling each other as a very strange and reluctant type of friends.” Meaning, she thinks that this is a hard time for me.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Sick as fuck.” I might as well be honest. “I don’t get it. My mom never had morning sickness and Bronte had a little bit of heartburn now and then and that was it. My stomach is a mess all day long, already , and it’s getting hard to hide it from my family.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Unless you have a sleeve of saltines and a bottle of water stuffed up your asshole, probably not.”

He’s startled at first, but then his lips twitch. “ Sorry . I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. Also sorry that I have no such magic stuffed up in any hidden crevices.”

This .

Ugh, the thing about the twins is that they could be so obnoxious as an instantaneous defense mechanism that some of the guys at the club affectionately referred to them as the twins of terror.

They might show everyone else a typical asshole front, but occasionally, I did glimpse Jack , and not just Grave.

The best part about Grave’s annoying sense of humor was that he didn’t just dish it out.

He had no problem taking it, often from himself.

Under all those layers, he was a little bit soft.

I think he was waiting for the right person to come along and see that and figure out how to love him.

I know that person wasn’t me, but I did like him. I wish he was still here…