Her Older Biker - Page 4

She eyes me suspiciously. “Why are you offering me this?”

Because you’re the most beautiful young thing I’ve ever seen.The thought pops unbidden into my fevered brain, but I push it to the side. For the moment, anyway. Fortunately, I have another card to play.

“I’ll tell my mother if you don’t,” I say. “I’ll tell her that I offered and you refused. Do you want to piss off Caroline Kapua?”

Her eyes widen as she considers it, then shakes her head. “That’s low, Warden.”

I chuckle as she grabs my hand and rises to her feet. When she tries to pull away, I don’t let go.

“I don’t play fair,” I say. “Get used to it.”

My apartment above the bar isn’t fancy, but it’s spacious and comfortable. I show Emma to my small guest room and I’m just pulling fresh sheets and pillows out of the closet when I hear a loud grumble.

“When’s the last time you ate?” I demanded as the stack of sheets land on the mattress with a thump.

She grimaces. “Lunch.”

I want to throw something. Who let this girl down so badly that she doesn’t have enough to eat? But I don’t want to make her feel ashamed or afraid, so I tamp down my impulse to rage and instead, just shrug neutrally.

“Well, how about a little breakfast? It’s after midnight, after all,” I say lightly.

Her face lights up. “Do you have any bacon?”

She’s gorgeous when she smiles, and I can’t help but smile back. “Baby, I’m a biker. I have a wide array of meats for you to choose from.”

Her face reddens. “Bacon will be fine,” she mumbles.

“I can’t remember when I last had real syrup,” Emma says twenty minutes later. She cuts a neat triangle of syrup-drenched pancakes. “The group home just had the fake stuff.”

She eats the little piece of pancake, sighing with pleasure at the taste. A tiny golden drop of syrup clings to her lip, and I practically need to hold myself back from pouncing on her to lick it off. She looks goddamn gorgeous in her pajamas on my couch, all soft and comfortable while I feed her a good meal. The first hot, fresh meal she’s had in a few days, if I had to guess.

“How long were you in a group home?” I ask as I saw off a big bite of my own short stack.

Emma thinks for a second. “Two years? This time, anyway. I was in and out after I turned thirteen. It’s hard for teenagers to find foster families. I just aged out a month and a half ago, so I’ve been…struggling a little bit.”

Her expression hardens a bit. Jesus, this girl has been through the ringer.

“You’re just finding your feet is all,” I offer. “It makes sense that you’re having a tough time now, but the Raging Angels take care of folks. You’re a hard worker, and as long as you stick with us, you’ll have food and a roof over your head. Got it?”

As long as you stick withme,I want to say. She leans forward and places her empty plate on the coffee table and leans back into the cushions to look at me, a small smile touching the corner of her lips.

“You know, I’ve never ridden a motorcycle,” she says softly. “Do you have one?”

I set my own plate next to hers and edge a little closer. “You know it, baby. Do you want to go out with me sometime?”

She yawns. “I’d love to.”

Down on the soft couch cushion, her hand rests so close to mine, and I hold my breath as I slowly, carefully link our fingers together.

“What do you need right now, Emma?” I ask.

She sighs, and a little tear forms in the corner of her eye. God, she’s been through so much, but she’s still so innocent. I reach out with my free hand and gently brush it away.

“A little safety,” she admits. “Some space. A little time to be sad about how my childhood went.”

Her face crumples and I pull her into my arms, rubbing her back as she cries into my chest.

“Cry as long as you need to, Emma,” I whisper into her hair. “I’ll be here.”