Unruly (17 page)

Alamo was the sort of man who would look intimidating even if he wasn't cut. His sheer size was impressive. Once you realized that he worked out too, it was damn near impossible not to drool . . . at least that was
my
reaction to him. Maybe not everyone felt that way, though.

I looked out the window. It was a lot easier than looking at him. I didn't date Wolves often. Sure, I'd gone on a few dates here and there, but Alamo was confusing. Mixed signals did nothing good for any woman's ego. They also led to heartbreak in the end more often than not. Noah had already taught me that lesson. I didn't need a refresher course.

I'd never committed to even a semi-serious relationship. I think I was twelve years old the first time Mama had explained that nothing good could come of it—and I was pretty certain that the last such lecture had been this month. She loved the Wolves the way a mother loves the worst-behaved of her children, but she reminded me often that loving a Wolf was a life-changer . . . as if I somehow didn't get that. My father died when I was twelve, shot on a job for the club. It was the beginning of a lot of years of hearing Mama tell me that love was a mistake.

Unfortunately, a lifetime of hearing her say that relationships were unwise didn't make Alamo any less sexy.

We drove in near silence. The whoosh of the wipers and the tapping of rain on the truck were the only sounds other than the wheels on the road. It was peaceful, and I was tired enough that it was lulling me to sleep again. When I noticed that I'd started slumping down in the seat, I forced myself to straighten up. “Where are we going?”

“Miss Bitty might still be awake if you want me to carry you home,” he offered. “I brought your keys, your gun, and your clothes that were on the front seat.”

“Thank you,” I said quietly.

“I locked your car up too.”

“Thank you,” I repeated, realizing that he was being as courteous as possible, and I'd been a lot less than gracious. “Sorry if I was bitchy.”

“You were wet, frightened, and tired.” He reached out like he was going to pat me or something, but then his hand returned to the wheel.

“Still . . .”

“It's all good, Ellen. You haven't ever owed me an explanation for anything. That hasn't changed tonight, darlin'.”

We lapsed into silence again until he asked, “Do you want me to take you to your house or . . . ?”

“No. Mama's got ears like a soldier,” I said, thinking about trying to explain why I was coming home wet and muddy and mostly naked. If she saw me like this, I wouldn't ever hear the end of it.

“Maybe Aubrey's awake . . . or Dash. If you called him, he's up.” I looked around for my purse and saw it on the floor. I hated the idea of dealing with Noah on top of everything else, but it wasn't like my day was going to get a whole lot worse. “Maybe I could crash on his sofa.”

Alamo cleared his throat. “Dash wasn't very pleased about me calling. He's . . . busy.”

I snorted. “You mean he's got some girl there.”

“He was worried about you, though,” Alamo added quickly.

There was something off in his tone, enough so that I asked, “Why would I care what Dash is doing?”

Alamo didn't answer. Instead, he was silent long enough that I was about to repeat my question when he said, “If you're not going home, you can stay at my place tonight. I know Killer said he and Aubrey were out tonight, so she's probably still with him.”

I looked out into the night, not sure what to do. Maybe it was better to go home and deal with Mama's nagging. Being alone with Alamo wasn't exactly
un
appealing, but I didn't want him to feel beholden. He had just admitted that he was avoiding me, and while it didn't make me feel particularly warm and fuzzy, it did clarify that I had no business trapping him.

“Ellen?”

I glanced over at Alamo.

“I have a huge tub,” he said. “You can take a hot bath and get the mud off you.”

I smiled at the image of Alamo in an oversize bathtub . . . and then I flashed to the thought of him standing up out of that bath. The truck seemed a lot warmer all of the sudden. I wasn't trying to replace anyone, including Noah, and I certainly wasn't looking for what Killer had found. That didn't mean that I was blind to the deliciousness that was currently dripping wet and only inches away from me.

“That sounds perfect. Thank you for being there for me . . .
again
.”

Chapter 15

W
HEN WE REACHED
A
LAMO
'
S HOUSE, HE PULLED
under a carport and cut off the engine. “Hold tight for a second, darlin', and I'll grab your door.”

The carport was only a few steps from the house, but I was glad I wouldn't be stepping directly back out into the wet. I was still damp, but I wasn't cold. Getting a cold shower once tonight had been more than enough.

A moment later Alamo came around to open my door. I wasn't opposed to chivalry. I didn't
expect
it as if it was my due, the way some women did, but I could appreciate a man treating me like I was precious. I turned to climb out of the truck and had to decide between keeping the jacket on my body or having my hands free.

Before I could decide what to do, Alamo put his hands on my waist and lifted me out of the truck. “Come on inside.”

“Let me get my things,” I started, but when I stepped forward, I realized I had the same problem. There really was no way to keep covered and do much else.

From the brief heated gaze as Alamo saw the expanse of skin that I inadvertently flashed as I stepped away from the truck, he wasn't complaining yet.

Seeing the tightening of his jaw, his deep inhalation of breath, and his lingering glance made me happier than it should have. I wasn't vain, but the way he always seemed to run from me made me a little crazy sometimes. I smiled and gathered up my purse and clothes, letting the jacket gap just a bit wider.

“I dropped your gun and keys in there.” Alamo nodded at my bag, eyeing it warily as if a woman's purse was inherently dangerous—or maybe he was just looking for somewhere to stare after the way he'd just responded to seeing my bare skin. I was certainly
hoping
that was the case. I didn't want to manipulate him, but what woman doesn't like being appreciated?

Alamo motioned me toward his house. It was only a half dozen steps between the carport and the small covered porch on the front of the house, but those steps were enough that I realized again how cold the rain was. I was grateful for the continued shelter the moment we were on the porch.

He unlocked the door and opened it for me to go in first. Being treated so politely was
almost
enough to make me forget that I was wearing next to nothing. He was unusual. I'd seen him laughing and carrying on with the rest of the younger Wolves, but he was always exceedingly polite to women. Even when he was walking away from me over and over, he wasn't hurtful or rude. Tonight, though, he appeared to be letting me into his home.

He locked the door behind us, and I heard the telltale beeps of an alarm being set. “I'll write down the code for you. Most of the club has it, so it's nothing.”

“You don't need t—”

“I don't want you to feel trapped,” he said firmly.

I looked away again and took in what I could of his home. The house wasn't huge, maybe a three-bedroom at most, but it was surprisingly orderly—not that I expected him to be a slob, but I'd never been inside a man's house that was so neat and clean. It was simply furnished too. No clutter had accumulated anywhere. I could see a giant television, a dark brown leather sofa, and a coffee table that looked as if it had been made out of an old engine. The table had a clear sheet of glass seeming to float above the engine. There was one book on the table, and that was it. No bottles or dishes or ashtrays were scattered on the surface of the table.

In the entryway where we stood, I noticed a small stand with a bowl, presumably for keys, and a few pieces of mail addressed to Alejandro Díaz.

“I don't want to track mud everywhere,” I said. “If you want to move past me, go ahead . . .”

“I'm not any cleaner than you are,” he pointed out. He paused, glancing at my mostly bare legs, and added, “I'm just wearing more clothes.”

At that simple reminder, everything felt slow and heavy, as if we were wading through thick summer air. It was a feeling that came over me far too often when I was with Alamo. Sometimes I thought it was my imagination, but other times I thought it was the heft of words we both weighed and rejected without speaking them.

I stepped a little farther to the side when I realized that he was bending down to unfasten his boots. It seemed strangely intimate to be standing in his house like this. I wanted to pause and wonder over the fact that I was in
Alamo's
house. He was a very private man. All I knew was that he'd moved to Williamsville from somewhere in the Carolinas, had a sister, and was maybe twenty-seven or twenty-eight. I hadn't even been sure of his full name until tonight. Using names other than their Christian names wasn't uncommon for bikers, but I'd grown up in the midst of the Wolves, so I knew most of the club by their given names too, especially the younger bikers. In their cases, we'd gone to school together. It was only the men who came to the Tennessee chapter from elsewhere that I didn't know.

It was only Alamo I wanted to know better.

Being allowed inside Alamo's house after he'd so constantly put distance between us felt like an invitation to know him better, and I wanted that. Unfortunately, I also wanted to do it when I wasn't doing a striking impression of a wet cat. I tried to toe off my boots. It was a slow process, but the alternative was bending over. Alamo's jacket was long, but not so long that it would cover my ass if I bent down to take off a boot. Putting my nearly bare ass in his face was . . . either rude or a blunt invitation that seemed wrong after he'd rescued me.

So I stood there trying to think of another solution. My poor brain wasn't having much luck with this dilemma either. I swore I wasn't as daft as I'd felt tonight. Clearly my lousy day wasn't doing wonders for my mind.

After Alamo pulled off his second boot, he looked at me. “Do you want help?”

My hand tightened on the jacket, holding it together at the middle. “That would be nice,” I said in a voice I didn't entirely recognize.

Alamo squatted in front of me, paused, and looked up at me. “Balance yourself on me so you can lift your foot.”

I put one hand on his shoulder. Touching him made me far too aware of his position—and of how little I wore under his jacket. I shivered.

“Lift.”

Silently I obeyed. He tugged my boot off. He was being a complete gentleman, but I was thinking about him in ways that were far from ladylike. It wasn't new. We'd ended up in these tense moments since the day we met. Right about now was when he usually ran or retreated or whatever he called it.

Tonight, though, his fingers grazed my calf as I lowered my foot. I drew a sharp breath. Part of me was embarrassed. The rest of me wanted to ask if he could turn my lousy day into something good.

“Lift,” he said, quieter this time.

He removed the second boot, still acting as chivalrous as if I were a nun. Instead of pressing the moment, he retreated again. He set my boot to the side and stood. “Let me show you where the bathroom is.”

I followed him, leaving wet footprints on his floor. He was leaving a trail too, and I noticed how very small my feet were next to his. I liked that he made me feel like a waif of a girl, despite not being one of those model-thin types. I might love fashion, but I couldn't ever have been a model. My body wasn't made for being that thin.

The house felt silent, and the sense of everything being strangely intimate continued to build again as Alamo started the bath and picked up a jar of pale purple bath crystals.

“Salt?”

I nodded and looked around the room. It was a surprisingly large bathroom, even though there was a massive slipper tub in the center of it. I'd expected a garden tub or even one of those regular tub-and-shower combos, but extra-long or something. This was neither. It was a tall, wide old-fashioned-looking slipper tub.

Alamo didn't look at me as he poured the salt in, but he obviously saw my curious look because he said, “I like to soak, not with all that smelly girlie stuff, but in hot water. I got permission from the landlord to add the tub after I moved in. Regular tubs are too small.”

“I didn't say anything.” I smiled at his vaguely defensive attitude. “The only thing I
might
ask is how much it would cost to use this sometimes.”

“My door's always open to you, Ellen.” He had that soft tone that I remembered from the night he'd picked me up half a year ago—and that he'd used earlier as we stood in the rain. I wanted to believe he reserved it for me. I'd never heard it when he talked to anyone else, but then again, I rarely heard him talk to any women.