Strength & Courage (The Night Horde SoCal Book 1) (9 page)

So, no. Helena and Harrison weren’t having a normal childhood, either. Just one that was traveling more steadily in one direction. Because Davis and Claude were in accord.

She pulled up into the circle drive of the big house in Newport Beach as Davis and her mother were emptying the hatch of her Mercedes G-Class SUV, lading their arms with sports gear and canvas grocery sacks. Sid jumped out of her Thing and trotted up to help.

“Hey. Where are the twerps?”

“Hey, Sid.” Davis winked and carried a giant sack of soccer gear over to the appropriate garage shelf.

Her mother turned and smiled, handing her the groceries she’d just picked up. “Hello, darling. They are at a sleepover birthday party. We’ll be a family of three tonight, I think.”

Though her mother was Quebecoise, she had lost all trace of accent long ago. Her precisely correct and elegant way of choosing her words, however, had had little to do with not being a native English speaker and a great deal to do with her idea of whom she wanted to be—an idea which had become reality.

“Co-ed sleepover? Getting pretty progressive there, Claude.” Sid grinned and elbowed her mother as they walked into the house through the garage.

With a twitch of a perfectly-shaped eyebrow, her mother indicated her affectionate irritation at her daughter calling her by her name. “Yes. Well, the boys and girls won’t be sleeping in the same room, of course. And they are being carefully chaperoned. I got assurances.”

Sid was sure she had. As she sat the groceries on the black marble countertop, she snickered, imagining that conversation. Claude Tuladhar-Townley would have made quite certain that her charges were well guarded.

“Davis would like to eat in tonight. He wants to play at the grill, so we have fresh salmon and swordfish, and I picked up a really lovely pinot d’Alsace. How does that sound? Oh—and we invited one of the soccer dads to join us. A little impromptu dinner party.” She noticed the bandage on Sid’s hand—just a large Band-Aid now. The cut wasn’t that bad. “What happened to your hand?”

“Nothing—broke a coffee mug. It’s fine.” Unpacking a sack of greens, Sid rolled her eyes at the more important thing—her mother was matchmaking again. This is what she got for coming home to do her filial duty. “Mother. Don’t set me up.
Please
stop setting me up.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Parker is a surgeon, and he’s very handsome and witty. I’m not planning your wedding, darling. I’m simply making sure you meet the right kind of men. What you do with that meeting is entirely up to you. Come. I’m sure you have a suit and a pareo up in your room. We’ll get the pool set up for dinner, and then we can play. Summer weather is really lingering this year.”

Not much about her mother’s attitudes surprised her, but now Sid’s jaw dropped. “You want me to meet your handsome surgeon son-in-law prospect in a bikini? Should I make sure to show him my teeth, too?”

“Sidonie, watch your tone. You are almost thirty-three years old, and you are alone. I’m only trying to help you. Parker is a very nice man. He is fit and very good looking, with dark hair and light eyes. He has the sharp humor you like. He is your type.”

“I don’t have a type.”

Her mother laughed. “Whatever you say,
minette
. Fine. Wear what you like. I, for one, shall dine in a bathing suit. We are Californians, after all. Now, help me prepare the rice and vegetables, and you can tell me all about your job.”

~oOo~

Parker Sanders had turned out to be just as advertised—fit, handsome, funny. Dinner was delicious and the company was good. It was a nice night.

Sid wore a long, flowing sundress for dinner, to her mother’s evident displeasure. But she had no intention of parading around in a bikini before a strange man, especially not a man there specifically for her to be presented to. She didn’t ever like to be in a bathing suit around people she didn’t know. She was skinny and gangly and had no ass or chest at all. Though she wasn’t someone who normally fixated on her looks, being nearly naked was a circumstance in which she got self-conscious.

Unless she was drunk and pissed, in which case, apparently, she had no compunction about running around the streets in her underwear.

Damn, that was embarrassing. There were some memories of her Thursday night—or Friday morning, really—that she wished tequila had vagued up. Others, though, she was happy to relive again and again.

When Parker left, he gave her his card and asked her to call him, then wrapped a surgeon-smooth hand around her arm and bent down to kiss her cheek. “It was very nice to meet you, Sidonie. I hope you call soon.”

He drove off in a Porsche Cayenne. When her mother closed the huge, double front doors, she spun on her heel in triumph. “He’s delightful, is he not?”

Sid did kind of like him, in fact, but there was no way she was going to admit that to her mother. “He was okay. Kind of a snob, though.”

“He was not! Good heavens. Enjoying nice things does not automatically make one a snob. Why you insist on living so far below your means, I will never understand.”

“I live
to
my means, Mother. I’m a social worker. A state employee. You want me to live to
your
means. No, thank you.” She kissed her mother’s cheek. “I’m going upstairs. Thank you for tonight. Honestly, I understand that you do these things with love. I’m sorry I’m so…” she wasn’t sure which adjective she wanted.

“Recalcitrant.”

“Okay. I’m sorry I’m so recalcitrant. I love you, Mommy.”

Her mother sighed and rolled her eyes. “You’re too old to call me that. You know how I feel about it.”

Sid grinned. “Yep. I do. Good night.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Muse stood back as far as he could from the commotion on the desert. Normally, he loved the desert—the wide open space, the horizon far away, the general lack of human or natural obstacle that allowed a rider to get and maintain real speed for long distances—but his work with the entertainment assholes was starting to wear on his good feelings about the dusty brown landscape. Seemed like everybody and his uncle wanted to shoot in the desert.

Right now, he was surrounded by vehicles and gear, and little chairs with big umbrellas attached to them, keeping the dastardly sun off delicate skin. Even the nobodies were fragile flowers in this world.

The company had signed with the Horde for three bikes and two stunt drivers, so Muse was out here with his brothers Ronin and J.R., both of whom worked stunts, and with the Prospect Fargo, who’d become his assistant by virtue of being the one who was usually around when he needed a grunt. He’d gotten good at the routines of prepping the bikes, tying them down on the flatbed, driving the flatbed, and cleaning up at the end of the day, so now the job was his.

This was just an insurance commercial, but there were easily two dozen people milling around, and they’d been out here all damn day, doing take after take. Because of the dust, the bikes had to be washed down after every take, so Fargo was working his ass off. It looked like they were wrapping up, though, or close to it. With a few exceptions for obvious problems, Muse couldn’t tell from one take to the next how they were different. Most commercial shoots were more cost-conscious than this one had been. But this was a huge international company, working with a huge international advertising agency, and they all thought they were
artistes
.

While Muse watched Fargo shine up a green metal-flake Dyna Street Bob, J.R., dressed all in black, armored gear and probably sweating off about a pound a minute, walked up and handed him a bottled water.

“You look pissed, brother.”

Muse took the bottle with a nod of thanks. “Nah. Tired. Distracted. Don’t rise to the level of pissed.” He broke the seal on the bottle’s cap and took a long drink. “That’s not to say I wouldn’t be glad to put my fist in the director’s face. Ass thinks he’s fucking Tarantino or some shit.”

J.R. laughed. “You’re telling me. At least you can stand over here and look mean. I’m the one he’s telling how to ride a fucking Harley. I hate these gigs that the riding isn’t even stunt work. Just rolling across the frame, looking like a badass mofo.” He grinned. “’Course, that’s my natural state. But what’s-his-name wants more ‘attitude.’ Whatever. I’m wearing a full-face helmet. Where’m I supposed to show ‘attitude’?”

J.R. tipped his head back and swallowed down the rest of his water. Nobody was fussing over him because he’d have a helmet on in his shots, so he could wilt all he wanted inside. His short, black hair sparkled with sweat, which ran in rivulets down his temples. He was African American, the only black member of the Horde. It was unusual for MCs to be integrated along the black and white color line, but there had been no language in the Horde bylaws preventing J.R.’s membership, and the Missouri mother charter had not raised an objection. Muse figured some Podunk little town in the middle of the heartland was probably so lily-white, they’d never even thought to consider the question before. The mother charter was all about their ‘Viking’ heritage, and a lot of club traditions carried that idea on. But Southern California was a different place. It was practically a different country. And the SoCal charter reflected that somewhat, with members of various backgrounds—white in all manner of combinations, as well as black, Latino, Native American.

Muse had not grown up in a racially enlightened household, not hardly, but he’d lived his adult life on the road and had met people of every stripe and creed. He thought the makeup of his club was pretty cool.

“Where’s Roe?”

“Doing his Zen thing. He found a rock off across the way”—J.R. waved his bottle toward the other side of the staging area—“and he’s sitting there staring at a tumbleweed or something. You know him.”

Muse did. Ronin was one of the older members, in his early fifties. He’d been riding and doing stunts longer than he’d been wearing a patch. Real stunts, not this bullshit. But he was getting old for a lot of the higher-profile work.

He was an odd bird. Muse wasn’t a big talker, but in comparison with Roe, who tended to speak only when addressed directly and then in one or two word sentences, he was a chatterbox.

Ronin had gotten his road name for his samurai ways—his silence, his tendency to seek solitude, and his deft work with a blade. During their outlaw days, Roe had gone into any fray armed with a katana and several small blades. He did not trust firearms.

And he barely availed himself of club pussy—maybe two or three times a month. Not that Muse kept track of his brothers’ dick usage, but the girls talked about it, and gossip got around an MC clubhouse like washday down at the river. It was apparently some kind of chick badge of honor to get attention from the mysterious Ronin Drago.

J.R. got called back to the set for what Muse hoped was the last take. As he walked off, Muse’s personal cell buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out but didn’t recognize the number. Only a few people he knew used his personal cell. Expecting a telemarketer or bill collector, he almost disregarded the call, but he didn’t have anything better to do, so he answered.

“Yeah.”

A sweet, recently familiar voice sashayed into his ear. “Muse? It’s…um, Sid. Sidonie.”

He smiled. “Hey, hon.” It had been five days since he’d dropped her off at her pink box of a car; frankly, he’d expected to hear from her before now. “You lonely?”

“No—or yeah. Maybe.” She sighed. “Can I see you?”

He got hard at the mere thought of getting between those slim, golden thighs again. “You can. I’m on a job out in the desert, but I should be done here in an hour or so. When I get back, I’ll have some shit to do. I can come by around nine or so.”

“Okay. I could…cook?”

She was offering to cook for him? Well, wasn’t that sweet. “Sure. Don’t need nothin’ fancy, though. What do you drink?” He was broke, but he’d lift something from the behind the bar in the Hall and replace it when he could. This Friday was payout day—and, hopefully, some better payouts were on the horizon, if—
when
—they voted in the new job from Wade Ferguson.

“I have wine here. If you drink something else, you could bring that.”

His mood had improved dramatically, and his patience with the commercial people behind him had crashed. He chuckled into the phone. “Hey, Sid—you just ask me on a date?”

“What?! No! Just…no. A meal.”

“That all? Just a meal?”

He could almost hear her blush. “Fuck. This was a mistake.”

“No, hon. I’m glad you called. I’ll see you around nine.”

~oOo~

After yet another take in the desert, then a trip home for a shower and to hang out for a minute or two with Cliff after they’d gotten the bikes back and he’d shared a beer with his brothers, it was closer to nine-thirty when Muse pulled his Knuckle up next to her cotton-candy car. He dismounted and took a bottle of Cuervo Silver and one of Jack from a saddlebag. As he came up her walk, she opened the front door and stepped out onto her porch.

He almost stopped in his tracks. She was just so fucking beautiful. She wore a long, white cotton skirt that skimmed her ankles, and a snug little pink beater, under which, it was readily apparent, she wore no bra. Her long, gold hair fell over her shoulders and down her back in soft waves. Fuck.

Nothing about her was like the women he usually spent time with. She was all class and grace. Except for that filthy mouth. He sure appreciated a woman who didn’t get queasy over colorful language. The best, most versatile word in the English language was ‘fuck,’ and he liked people who liked that word as much as he did.

Honestly, he didn’t ‘spend time’ with women all that often. He’d had a few regular fucks during his Nomad days, women in different cities he’d sought out for a comfortable bed and a reliably good time. He supposed he’d ‘dated’ a few of them, taking them out for a meal or a ride. But since he’d settled in Madrone with the Horde, he’d kept mainly to club pussy. Civilian fucks in the town he lived in meant complications, even in his new, mostly law-abiding life.

So what was he doing here, grinning at this little local confection who was cooking him a meal? Something with curry, apparently—he could smell it wafting out the open door behind her.

Was she Indian? Was that the foreign cast to her features? He wouldn’t have guessed Indian. Tonight, he’d just fucking ask.

“Hey, hon. Sorry I’m late.” He stepped up onto the porch. She didn’t move back, so he came right up on her, their bodies almost touching.

“That’s okay. ‘Around nine’ was sufficiently vague. You didn’t ruin dinner or anything.” She took the bottles out of his hands. “Thanks. Come on in. I’ll—”

With his hands free now, he grabbed her around the waist before she could turn away, and he bent his head to hers and kissed her. No fucking peck, either. He took all he could get of her in that kiss. He’d caught her off guard, and she was stiff at first, until he grabbed a handful of her little ass and brought his other hand up to run his thumb over an eager little nipple, popping up under her beater. Then she went fluid in his hold, her body draping over his arm, and she kissed him right back, taking as much from him as he was from her.

She gasped when he broke away. When he tried to speak, his voice failed him, and he swallowed and tried again. “Glad you called, hon. Been thinking about having my hands on you again.”

That was true. Far too much of the past five days his brain had spent recreating that early morning, and comparing club girls’ assets and talents to Sid’s.

He’d also been mulling over the pros and cons of trying to bring her to their way of thinking about Demon. That could blow up in his face if he wanted her for a regular thing. It could blow up in Demon’s face if he pissed her off. But it was worth a try, he thought. He wasn’t interested in her because she was Tucker’s caseworker, he wasn’t here for information or support for that cause, but on the other hand, it seemed wrong to waste the resource.

That was a fine line for him to walk, and he had no real skill with diplomacy. He said his piece when he had to and kept his mouth shut otherwise.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted with this girl or how to get it.

“Muse?”

He realized that he’d been standing there, holding her, staring into her eyes. He stepped back, keeping her steady while she found her feet again. “Sorry. Thinking.”

“Changing your mind?”

He grinned. “About dinner, maybe. Now I’m thinking I want something else first.”

“Nope. No dessert before dinner.” She turned, and he followed her into her house.

As he stepped in, she said, “Shoes off, please.”

“What?”

She pointed at the little table in the turret, the one he’d put her gun on the other night. There were three shelves under it, and a pair of flat, silver sandals was perched there. “I keep a shoeless house.”

Something about that made him feel awkward and vulnerable. “I had my boots on before.”

“Extenuating circumstances. Please?” She gestured with the bottle of Jack toward a little armchair at the edge of the living room. “If you need to, you can sit there to take them off.”

He began toeing off his scuffed engineer boots, hoping he’d put on decent socks this morning. “I don’t need to sit to get my damn boots off,” he grumbled.

“Okay. Meet me in the kitchen. Jack or Cuervo? You take it straight?”

“I’ll take Jack tonight. Yeah, straight.”

She breezed off, and he finished with his boots. No holes in his socks. Good. Shrugging out of his kutte, he folded it and laid it over the back of the chair she’d indicated. Then he took a minute and looked around her cozy living room. She had a wall of photos and a couple of others on her mantle, all neatly framed, and he was curious.