Maybe that was a problem. I had a giant, five-year Puck hangover.
Puck was dangerous in a decadent, indecent, cheesecake-at-midnight kind of way. That night in my room, he’d stopped when he’d realized he was hurting me—and believe me, I’d appreciated the gesture—but we’d only scratched the surface of what a man like him would expect from a woman. It had been too much for me, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t his norm. My attraction to him was a dead end. For the first time in my life I had things to lose if I didn’t pull my head out of my ass, so it was time to start pulling.
By now, the Bastards had finished parking their bikes and started walking toward the bar, meeting us halfway there. They were like a pack of wolves, falling in and surrounding us, and I felt myself tensing up. I didn’t like being surrounded by big men wearing leather.
Just one more reason to avoid Puck.
Of course, avoiding him would be hard, seeing as how he was right next to me. Joe on my right, Puck on my left. This was a whole new level of awkward, and that horrible tension between me and Puck flared back to life in an instant. I stole a glance at him, but the darkness hid his expression. Probably just as well.
Joe reached over and caught my hand in his, surprising me. Puck made a low, growly noise. I shivered. Despite everything I knew was wrong with him, he could still get me going without even trying. Joe squeezed my fingers—a gesture of comfort—and I had to bite back a nervous giggle. Not a “this is funny” kind of giggle. More of a “I’m going to laugh now because otherwise I may fall apart completely” sound.
So. Now I had Joe on my right and Puck on my left, which you’d think would be awkward. In reality, it was actually super-duper extra awkward, which was significantly more awkward than I’d realized was possible. Tension grew and swirled among the three of us, tangible and pungent. Through it all, Joe kept hold of my hand—he might never be my lover, but he’d be a hell of a good friend. One who apparently wasn’t scared of bikers, which was a big plus. I tried to sneak a peek at Puck but still couldn’t make out anything in the dark.
Probably just as well.
Not counting Puck, there were four other Silver Bastards giving us a friendly escort, and they’d left a prospect with the bikes. He’d stand out there in the night—watching—for however many hours they were inside, all for the chance to become part of the club.
Brought back memories.
It felt strange sometimes, knowing so much about the MC world without being part of it. I’d grown up in motorcycle clubs, plural. Mom was always moving, right up to the day she met Teeny. When I was little, I’d loved the big, loud machines that ran fast. Now hearing them was like Russian roulette—sometimes they brought bad memories, sometimes they made me feel protected. I used to dream about Teeny every night, Teeny and the men he’d given me to. I didn’t anymore, thank God. At least not often. Much as I hated to admit it, the Silver Bastards had created my safe zone. They were close, they scared Teeny, and they would protect me.
How’s that for fucked up?
“You like the new job?” Boonie asked me, as if none of this was bizarre and uncomfortable. Hell, maybe it wasn’t for him. “Get in any fights yet? You handled yourself well yesterday morning. I was impressed.”
“Um, thanks. It’s fine so far,” I said, edging closer to Joe. He threw a casual arm over my shoulders and I could’ve kissed him. Clearly he wasn’t afraid of the Bastards—a definite point in his favor. Boonie snorted, obviously seeing right through me and finding it entertaining.
Puck seemed less entertained . . . If he’d been menacing before, now he’d moved back into full predator mode. My stupid body thought that was sexy as hell.
After what had to be the longest walk in history, we reached the wide half flight of stairs leading up to the bar’s front porch. It was a double-decker, and once upon a time there’d been a hotel upstairs. Well, either a hotel or a brothel—the answer depended on who you asked. The door opened and bright light hit us. Then I was inside. Joe gave me one last squeeze, then let me go. I turned toward the bar and nearly ran into Puck, who was standing way, way too close.
“Careful,” he said.
Danielle—God, I loved that woman—came over and grabbed my arm, jerking me away from the men toward the service bar.
“Those academy fuckers are a pain in my ass,” she hissed, oblivious to my drama. (That’s how good a friend she was—she actually sensed my problems and fixed them without conscious effort.) “Blake wants to kill them, but I’m holding him back. D’you think you can take them over for a few before I lose my shit?”
“Sure,” I said, ducking behind the bar to snag my apron.
“You good?” Joe asked, grabbing a stool. Not ten feet behind him was Puck, watching us with narrowed eyes, arms crossed over his muscular chest. I had a sudden urge to grab Joe’s shirt, pull him down, and kiss him hard. Just to piss off Puck. Real classy there, Becca. I forced myself to give Joe all my attention, ignoring the grumpy biker glaring at us.
“Sorry,” I said, and he cocked his head.
“For what?”
“For being fucked up,” I answered, ducking my head. He reached forward and chucked me under the chin, grinning.
“Well, as your friend, I’m sure I’ll learn to live with it,” he said. “You know, this is good in a way.”
“How’s that?”