Unruly (23 page)

Alamo shook his head. “Let me take you out. We can ride down toward Memphis, grab a bite, and talk.”

It struck me as funny that the last man in my life wanted me only in private, and I had hated it. But right now I wanted to be alone with Alamo more than I wanted a date. “Oh . . . right.”

Obviously, he could tell that I was a little confused because he said, “Ellen?”

I looked at him, thinking back to the day we met.

He obviously misunderstood my silence, though, because he said, “I want you, darlin'. Told you that already.” He gave me a wry smile. “Wanted you these past months, and learned to cope with it. I can cope for a few more hours so I can take you out first. You deserve that: being treated like a lady. Let me do it.”

I melted a little at his words and thought back to his words this morning. He'd accused me of holding out everything he could want, but I was fairly sure that he could be accused of the exact same thing. I kept that truth to myself and climbed onto the back of his bike.

He glanced over his shoulder at me. “Comfortable?”

“More than,” I admitted. “I've a helluva bike
and
you between my thighs. It's a good day.”

“Yeah? Well, then how about you pretend you're a Harley virgin and move a little closer? You're way back there like this isn't your first ride.”

I laughed, but I eased forward. This time, for the very first time, I slid so close that I looked like one of those nervous girls who were half sure they'd go flying off the back. I twined my arms around him and pressed my chest to his back. It felt good not only to be allowed to be this close to him but to know he wanted me there. “Like that?”

“
Just
like that.”

“Remember that later when we're stopped and do this face-to-face,” I suggested.

He laughed. “I'm sure I can think of more than a few ways we can do this, and with a sight fewer clothes.”

“I'll hold you to that,” I said lightly.

The bike roared to life under us, and I sighed happily. I knew Harleys were machines, but there was something primal in the roar of a bike's engine. The rumble felt like I imagined a lion's roar echoing across the miles would, like there was something here to be in awe of and feared, and the sort of man who could handle that sort of raw power was the sort of man I wanted by my side and in my bed. I'd dated men who didn't ride, but I felt they were all missing something. It was, to me, a lot like the difference between a tiny little dog who wore outfits and a wolf. Little dogs were cute, but if I needed to be protected, I'd pick the wolf every damn time.

Alamo was
all
wolf. I leaned my cheek against his shoulder, extra grateful that he wanted me close. This was how it was meant to be, intimate and natural, not hidden, not all tense and awkward, not rolling in self-doubt. I felt vaguely sad for the people who'd never experience the thrill of riding and angry that Dash had stolen this joy from me by falsely marking me as his.

Alamo had given me back a pleasure that words couldn't begin to explain, and he'd done it without realizing it. I squeezed him and said, “Thank you!”

He didn't reply in any way other than speeding up a little, but that was answer enough for me. Much like sex, the best rides weren't about a lot of words. A few instructions here and there weren't amiss, but it was the action that mattered. I laughed aloud, both in joy and at my inability to be around him for more than a few minutes without my brain ending up focusing on sex.

Once we hit one of the smaller roads that would take us to I-40 eventually, I leaned forward as much as I could and said, “Open it up.”

A few moments later, we were cruising at speeds that made me want to whoop in joy. The throttle wasn't wide open, but there was a limit to how fast we could ride safely, even on a nearly empty road like this. This much speed made the engine switch from a low rumble to full-out growling. There was no other motorcycle that could compare with a Harley for sheer attitude, and that roar was the sound of bliss. Any woman worth her salt answered only one way to the not entirely joking question of “ass, gas, or grass” to pay for a ride. Much like a man who could fight, dance, or drum, a man who rode a Harley well was usually a man worth bedding. Alamo was a confident and masterful rider, and it made my entire body hum with pleasure. I wanted to have that same confidence focused on
me
.

The next hour was spent enjoying this little bit of heaven, but we eventually slowed as we started to come up on people. This far from Williamsville was still Wolves territory, but it was a little less remote, so there were state police to contend with instead of just our town sheriff. With stateys, there was a bit more probability of being hassled just for being on a bike. Add in the colors visible on Alamo's jacket, and the odds of getting pulled over in some random town increased further. There was nothing illegal on either of us. I knew that without asking, so it would be most likely only a speeding ticket. I was still glad that Alamo wasn't one of those bikers who had more attitude than sense.

Now that he'd slowed, we could speak a little, but I was still content with the silence.

A few minutes later, Alamo rolled up to a red light.

I used the pegs to stand and lean forward. It wasn't a move I'd try with just anyone, but despite the massive weight of the bike, I knew Alamo held us steady. So I twisted around his side and bent down to kiss him. It was an awkward position, and it drew a few honks from other cars. One person hollered, “You go, girl.”

When I pulled back from kissing him and sat down, I was grinning like an idiot. It was just a quick kiss, but it was exciting to be able to do it, to kiss him and not care who could see us.

“What was that?” he asked.

“Just checking,” I said.

“On?”

“Whether it really was that good to kiss you or my memory was faulty,” I said cheekily.

He shook his head. “You're something else, Ellen.”

“I am.” It was liberating to be treated like my audaciousness wasn't off-putting.

The light turned green, and we took off again with the delicious roar made only by a Harley. I let out a whoop of joy, and in short order we were on the freeway, sliding in and out of traffic, faster even that we'd been on the side roads.

Riding like this, with speed and curves, was a rush that I'd missed more than I'd realized. You can try to explain it, try to call up the memories, but that was akin to taking photos at an air show. Still images capture the blink of the dynamic aeronautic tricks, but they don't make you gasp the way the experience does. Riding was like that. No matter how much the memory was anchored, it was nothing compared to the experience itself.

We didn't speak another word until Alamo was parking the bike outside BB King's Blues Club. He cut off the engine and waited for me to slide off the Harley. I did so, pretending not to see the inevitable glances of passersby.

I took off my helmet and waited for him to stand.

He watched me curiously.

“What?”

“Gorgeous. Smart. Likes the blues. Attitude. Takes what she wants.” He looked me up and down. “Gorgeous.”

“You said that one already.”

“It deserves repeating,” he said.

I laughed.

“Tell me you're not one of those salad-and-water women now that this is a date, and I may just drop to my knees and praise Jesus,” he said as he stood.

“You've
seen
me eat,” I reminded him. “And I'm not exactly a waif either.” I patted one of my hips with my free hand. “Real women have enough curves to be comfortable for long rides.”

He grabbed me by both hips and jerked me toward him. “I like your curves.”

“Good. You can explore them as much as you want after this,” I offered.

“Count on it,” he promised.

And I was. I was counting on a whole host of things that I hadn't even dared to admit to wanting to anyone but myself. Admitting them to him was invigorating. Knowing he wanted them too was even better.

Chapter 21

I
WOULDN
'
T SAY THAT WE HAD A ROUTINE
,
BUT THIS WASN
'
T
the first time we'd been to a club where I'd inevitably end up singing. This time, though, I was well aware that the attraction I felt wasn't one-sided. It made me bold enough to step up on the stage with a bounce that I hadn't felt in far too long. The man I wanted, the Wolf who had filled my daydreams, the person who made me feel like I deserved more out of life—he was watching me with a mix of approval and interest. It was a powerful feeling.

When the band beckoned me up, I stood like I normally would, but this time I bent down and brushed my lips over Alamo's. Then, satisfied that he was watching, I sashayed across the bar and held up my hand to the singer.

With a quirk of the lips, he took my hand and I stepped up. As soon as I was at his side, I told the band, “Etta James' ‘I Just Want to Make Love to You.'”

It was a song I'd sung on this very stage, but never with such intent—or a public proclamation of it. The truth was that I wasn't going to even pretend to be meek or mild. It was as if all the ballsy impulses of the past few months were writhing under the surface, just begging to get free and announce themselves.

Once Alamo realized what song I was singing, he whistled like he was at a raucous concert.

I pointed at him and sang the chorus.

Most of the patrons laughed or cheered. That was the nature of a good blues bar: people were
real
, and they appreciated life. I felt increasingly alive every time I took the stage, and singing to the man I had every intent of enjoying only added to it. As much as I had wanted to stay in and get to know Alamo in the most fundamental way, I was glad he'd insisted on a date, not just because I was having fun but because the more we flirted, the more the anticipation built. It added a layer of new desire on the already powerful yearning.

Flirting so openly was exciting, and doing it from the stage was new.

When the set was over, I walked back over to the table, but I wasn't sure whether I was the predator or the prey. I felt like I was stalking toward him, but the heat in his eyes as he watched my approach made me feel like
he
was the one driving us forward.

As soon as I was near enough to the table, he caught my hand and yanked me into his lap. “Are you ready to get out of here?”

I looped my arms around his neck. “Depends on where you want to take me.”

“Bed.”

The sheer bluntness of it made me laugh in joy. I stood and snatched my helmet off the chair beside him. “Hell, yes.”

He'd barely stood when his phone rang. I wanted to tell him to ignore it; I wanted to grab it and yell at whoever it was to go away, but I saw the look on his face when he glanced down. It was an expression I recognized without the next words he said.

“Club business.”

I motioned toward it. “Go on. I'll keep.”

He walked away and answered. I didn't point out that he didn't need to walk away to take work calls. I had been overhearing club secrets and business as long as my memories went back, far longer than he had, but the flat truth was that I wasn't his old lady—or an active Wolf's daughter—so he was right to walk away. I sat and listened to the music that was playing in the club while the band was on break. It wasn't what I'd prefer, but it was far from bad.

When Alamo returned to the table, he looked like he expected me to be angry, and I had to wonder if whatever woman he had in his life who'd left clothes behind wasn't good with the club. It wasn't unheard of. Both Aubrey and her grandmother had been willing to give up on the men they loved because they didn't like that aspect of the Southern Wolves. Admittedly, Mrs. Evans still loved Echo despite the fact they had been apart for years, and eventually she'd found a way to be with him but not be his old lady officially. In their case, it was simply time. They'd waited for years. With Killer, he'd left the club more or less so Aubrey would be with him. I wasn't like them.

“Hey,” I said lightly.

Alamo looked at me.

“If you need, we can do a rain check on the rest of my plans,” I said. “You're not getting out of giving the kisses I'm expecting, but if you have work tonight, that comes first.”

The smile he rewarded me with proved that I hadn't misunderstood his worries. “You'd be fine with that?”

“My dad was a Wolf. My uncle is a Wolf.” I kept my voice pitched low as I spoke. “If I had been a son, I expect I'd have been wearing club colors years ago. The club was
my
family way before you came strolling into Tennessee. They'll be my family if you leave. It's no big thing if you need to go to work.”

“There you go again, holding everything out like it's easy,” Alamo said in a deceptively calm tone.