Thirteen (Love by Numbers Book 4) (5 page)

I leave the obvious innuendo in, hoping to spark something. Who am I kidding, I just want to see this guy blush again, and blush he does.

“Yeah, I umm… would love to ride your face… car, I would love a ride in your car.” His blush turns into a full-blown fire and I have the urge to warm my hands on his cheeks.

I click the locks, and keep my face neutral when I reply, “Jump in handsome and we’ll see what we can do.”

“What?” his head snaps up again.

As innocently as I can, I smile back, “I said, we’ll have to see what she can do.”

Oh, this is going to be so much fun.

“Buckle up.”

I rev the engine, making her growl and slowly reverse out of the parking space, waiting until we are clear of the school grounds before I open her up a bit and give her some welly.

Once we hit the open road, Clarabelle growls like a dog in heat, and I can’t help but chance a few glances at Harry to see his reaction.

He has one hand gripping the door handle and the other fisted in his lap, knuckles white.

“Does my driving make you nervous?

“Does the Tin-Man have a sheet metal cock?”

I glance in his direction, a smile curling my mouth, “You’re funny when you’re scared. I like it.”

He just stares straight ahead, gripping the door handle tighter while I take a bend at breakneck speed. He really shouldn’t worry; Clarabelle can handle my lead foot. She likes to be tested.

“So, tell me something about yourself, and before you answer, make it something nobody else knows. I don’t want your age, your occupation or where you live. Give me something juicy.”

“Juicy?” I feel his eyes flick over to me before they return to the road when I take a sharp bend.

“Yeah, juicy. For instance, I once let my twin sister, Nicola, take the blame for me when a friend of the family saw me drinking underage in the pub with a gang of bikers. She got grounded for a month. Still holds it against me to this day.”

This gets his attention and his head snaps towards me. “You went drinking with a gang of bikers? Like Hell’s Angels?”

I shift down a gear as we approach the turn in the country road that I need to take to get to my favourite pub.

“Hah! Not really, well kind of. They’re called The Riots and their Prez is a really cool guy called Bear.”

I let Clarabelle weave her way through the tight country lane, a lane I know like the back of my hand and look over at Harry. He looks a little green and I can’t tell if it’s to do with my driving or my story. Maybe both.

“Your turn to share. Give me juicy, Harry.”

The car is silent for a moment as he thinks of what to say.

Just as I slow down enough to pull into the car park of what looks like the quintessential, English, country pub, complete with whitewashed walls and lovely hanging baskets filled with flowers, he speaks, “I stole a girl from my best friend, Jake, once. Well, when I say stole, I mean…”

He trails off as I pull into the rear car park, the one that is concealed from the road. His eyes widen as he takes in all the bikes.

“What. The. Fuck?”

I pull into the spot right next to the pub that is always kept empty for me and turn off Clarabelle’s engine.

I know I’m being mean, throwing him to the sharks, seeing as we’ve only just met but this is a big deal for me.

I’m not the kind of girl to pick up random blokes at school fetes and take them for a ride. I’ve only been with one man, and that man ended up my husband.

My lying, cheating, waste of space, husband.

So I hope he forgives me for taking him to one of the few places I hold dear. A place where I’m accepted, loved and never told what I can or cannot achieve.

I turn a little to face him, watching as his eyes rove over the mass of Harley’s, Triumph’s, Norton’s and other mean machines.

Panic is written all over his face when he turns to me and rushes out, “I’ve seen
Son’s of Anarchy,
I know what happened to Half Sack, and I have no intention of becoming anyone’s old lady.”

I shouldn’t laugh, I
really
shouldn’t laugh, but it bubbles up, erupting from my throat like a volcano. His pitiful expression is not helping me curb my giggles.

“We’re just going for a drink; nothing bad happens here. It’s just a pub, I swear.”

He looks at me unbelievingly, and my next words pop out before I can think better of it, “The bad shit happens in that old storage unit at the back of the car park.”

He goes completely white, his eyes focussing over my shoulder on the tatty old building that takes up the far corner of the property. It’s just an old storage shed, the guys work on their bikes in there, but you’d swear I’d just told him it’s a murder factory.

“I’m kidding, I promise, I’m kidding.” I place a hand on his leg in apology, meaning to soothe him. “I’m sorry, Harry. Sometimes I need a filter. My mouth opens before my brain catches up.”

He looks at me, really looks at me, probably searching for any truth to my words. His eyes are a startling grey colour that I never really paid much attention to until right now and on further inspection there is a perfect circle of deep blue around his irises. I get lost in them, but I’m still able to feel something pass between us. Something nameless but powerful.

I hastily remove my hand from his leg, and he breaks eye contact to look down at the spot it just occupied.

“Come on, I’ll buy you a pint. It’s the least I can do for making you put up with my driving and my teasing.”

In my haste to get out of the car, I catch my foot on the lip of the door, and it jars my leg painfully. I give out a yelp of pain but manage to right myself before I topple to the ground.

Harry is out of the car in seconds and rushing around to my side.

“Did you hurt yourself? Let me take a look at your leg.”

“No!”

My single word reply is delivered harshly and with panic.

He notices and hesitantly steps away.

I curse under my breath and shake my head slightly, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bite your head off, I’m fine. I promise.”

I don’t want to him to find out yet.

I’m not ready for him to find out yet.

I like the way he looks at me; I’m not ready to lose that.

I
reach back into the car for my bag and sling it over my shoulder, taking the few seconds breathing space to compose myself.

Why am I getting flustered about all this?

I’ve never hidden myself from anyone, never felt a reason to. Why do I want to now?

When I emerge from the car, I spin around with a blatantly fake smile on my face. “Let’s go and introduce you to Bear.”

Harry’s face instantly drops, and I can’t resist a little more teasing to lighten the mood. “Don’t be scared. He didn’t get his name because he bites; he’s more of a Grizzly Bear. I’m sure he’ll love you.”

I lower my voice and whisper conspiratorially, “Just don’t turn your back on him. It’s a sign of weakness within Riot.” I add a wink, more to conceal my smile than anything else.

Harry’s face is a picture; I can only imagine what the guys are going to do to him when he walks in there with me.

I grip his hand in mine, smiling sweetly and add, “I’ll take care of you, don’t worry.”

I think his reply is something like, “I’m too young to die for a Bunny, no matter how hot she is,” but it’s whispered under his breath, so I pretend I didn’t hear him.

Still my stomach flips at the very thought of him thinking that I’m hot.

After all the teasing, the snapping at him when my stupid leg nearly landed me on my arse and then bringing him into a biker den, he still thinks I’m hot.

That makes me never want to let him find out. I want to play this game of normal forever.

But I can’t.

This isn’t my normal, and I’m not a bloody washing machine setting anyway.

Fuck normal.

It’s overrated.

M
y heart is beating like a fucking steel drum.

My chest feels like it has a Calypso band playing a cheery version of
Bob Marley’s I Shot the Sheriff,
only my version goes, ‘Bikers shot Harry, but they did not shoot the Bunny Girl.’

Between the crazy and frankly, death-defying driving, which, for the record, was also quite hot, and the snake pit of a biker’s den she’s brought me to, I’m not surprised. In fact, it’s a miracle I haven’t had a clutcher.

The thought makes me put my free hand over my heart, absentmindedly checking that it is indeed, still beating. My other hand holds hers tightly, and I’m aware of how perfect it fits. How perfectly we could fit.

Oh, bloody hell. I’m thinking like a girl.

Man up, H. You’re about to head to certain death, and your head is filled with how nicely this girl’s hand feels in yours.

Idiot.

We approach the entrance and Lilah gives my hand a slight squeeze, before leading me through the open door. A door that is framed by two hanging baskets filled to the brim with an array of brightly coloured flowers that are a bit of an oddity at a biker bar. Their colourful blooms are so out of place that they do not soothe my nerves only increase them.

We step into a dark, cosy entryway, with low beams and exposed clay walls. A picture of a typical English hunt hangs precariously from a single nail and I feel exactly like the fox in that oil painting; just before the hounds tear it limb from limb.

Lilah looks back at me, a serene smile on her face, “Beer or Lager?”

I look from her to the painting and back again. Simple question, right? What would I like my last drink to be before I get led to the firing squad?

“I’ll take a neat whiskey, hold the rocks.”

She nods and the serene smile morphs into a broad grin. “A liquor man. I can work with that.”

She pulls me through a second door, and the space opens up, resembling a small cave; one that’s filled with quaint wooden tables and chairs. Chairs which are filled with leather vest wearing, burly, bearded bikers. Every single one of these guys looks built enough to snap my neck with one hand tied behind their back, and each one swivels to watch us enter.

I swear the lump I just swallowed was audible to every bloke in here and each one wears the same hard-edged, ‘I’m gonna make you my bitch’ look.

Today is the day I’m going to die a slow and painful death; all because of a bunny with an impressive rack.

A chair screeches across the slate floor and the biggest guy in the room stands up. He must be 6’5”, with biceps the same size as my thighs and dark, almost black hair that’s greying at the temples. His beard is trimmed perfectly, and those thick arms bear numerous tattoos.

He’s my own personal version of the grim reaper, and I have the urge to drop to my knees and cry like a baby for my mother.

I force that weak, pussy boy urge down and straighten my spine.

Never show fear, my father always told me. Granted, he was talking about dogs, because as a child I had an unhealthy fear of them, but the principle is the same.

Grim walks towards us, his gait strong and domineering, his eyes fixed on mine. I feel Lilah squeeze my hand once more before she lets go and waits for the big guy to approach.