Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 53361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 267(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 178(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 267(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 178(@300wpm)
I stopped my bike and killed the engine. I parked a building away to keep the noise to a minimum. The women thought we kept quiet so we didn’t scare newcomers or people around us who might not like noise or were afraid of bikers in general, but the truth was, we knew the less attention on us the better. I found myself uncertain of what to say next, because as I approached and Cora straightened, her gaze focused squarely on me, something inside my chest snapped like an overstretched rubber band. I knew beyond anything reasonable and sane, the woman standing in front of me would be mine.
She stood straighter this time, looking less timid. The morning sun caught in her auburn hair, highlighting copper strands I hadn’t noticed before. Her gaze met mine for a heartbeat longer than last week before darting away. The blue of her eyes reminded me of a clear winter sky. Today she wore jeans and a light blue T-shirt that seemed to match the color of her eyes perfectly. Christ, could the woman be any lovelier?
“Hey,” she said with a small wave of her fingers.
I nodded, acknowledging her greeting without words. Silence had become my refuge in prison, a weapon and a shield. Six years inside had taught me the power of stillness, of making others fill the void with nervous chatter. But with Cora, I found myself wanting to speak.
She shifted her weight, one hand resting on her car door. The other played with her keys, a restless movement that betrayed the composure she tried to project.
“Hannah’s not here today?” she asked, though her gaze didn’t break from mine.
“She’s at Haven.” I was aware my voice was rough. I cleared my throat and tried again. “She helps at the women’s shelter on Tuesdays.”
Surprise flickered across Cora’s features, quickly masked. “It’s… really kind of her.” A pause, her gaze dropping to the ground between us. “Of all you guys. To help there. I’ve heard a couple of the women you’ve helped talk about how they’d never felt safer than when they stayed at Haven.”
I nodded solemnly. “We don’t like bullies here. Especially when they hurt women and children.”
She held my gaze for long moments before nodding. “You know, I think maybe I believe you.”
The space between us seemed charged, electric with a feeling I couldn’t really name and wasn’t sure I really wanted to try. I cleared my throat, tried to remember how normal people conducted conversations. Sarah had been the talker in our relationship. I’d been content to listen to her voice fill our home.
“Follow me.” I gestured toward the compound interior. “To the kitchen. Around back.”
Relief softened her expression. Instructions. A clear path forward. Something concrete to focus on rather than this strange, unexpected tension humming between us.
“Sure.” She nodded, already moving around to the driver’s side of her vehicle. “Lead the way.”
I mounted my bike again, hyperaware of her watching me, of the engine’s rumble breaking the silence between us. Through the side mirror, I saw her slide into her sedan, both hands gripping the wheel. I pulled away slowly, conscious of her following at a careful distance.
I led her to the back of the main clubhouse where the kitchen entrance was, and led straight to a long counter I could set everything on before putting them away. I parked near the entrance and killed the engine, watching as she pulled in beside me.
When she emerged from her car, she moved with more confidence than before, popping the trunk and starting to unload.
“This is different,” she said, surveying the kitchen building. “I delivered to the main place last time.”
“Easier here.” I moved toward her trunk, noting the stacks of grocery bags. “I got it.”
I reached for the bags nearest to me, lifting several at once. Our fingers didn’t touch, but I felt her presence like a physical force, a gravity pulling at senses I’d thought long deadened. She grabbed bags of her own, following me to the kitchen’s rear entrance. I had the door propped open so she didn’t feel trapped. I noticed her hesitate briefly before entering.
Inside, industrial stainless steel gleamed under fluorescent lights. Walk-in refrigerator, freezer, commercial ranges. All donated or acquired through channels best not discussed with outsiders. Knuckles kept us in whatever equipment we wanted and, as it turned out, a few of the old ladies liked to cook. No one objected.
I set the bags on the center island, turning to take more from her. This time, our fingers did brush, a momentary contact that sent a jolt up my arm. Her eyes widened slightly, telling me she’d felt it too.
“Is all this for the club?”
I shook my head. “Some for here. Some to the shelter. Some to local families or homeless who need it.”
She paused, tilting her head as she studied me. “You feed people outside the club?”