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“Time for bed, chickie,” she said softly, pushing up from the chair and turning to where the record player sat on top of the entertainment center. She reached and turned off the player at the same time she grabbed the empty record sleeve from where it leaned against the player. Record safely stowed, she had just turned to retrieve her glass and book when her front entryway echoed with knocking on the door. Not just knocking, but nearly a pounding that quickly, thankfully, ceased. “What the hell…”

  Glancing out the front window, she saw the silhouette of a body outlined from the security light on a pole across the driveway from the house. The intent of the light was to cast a welcoming and safe-feeling circle of light on the yard and drive. While it was successfully doing that, it failed to illuminate the porch very well, which meant she could only see the outline of the body standing and facing away from her door.

  A man, large and broad, clothes dark, hair glinting in the light, either silver or blond. A man, on her front porch—she glanced at the clock on the front of the DVR—at eleven at night. A man she didn’t know—she looked beyond him at the empty driveway—with no apparent mode of transportation. He twisted at the waist, turning to look at her front door and she caught a glimpse. Not enough to really see his face, unless you counted what appeared to be look of frustration and anger telegraphed by the squinting of his eyes and twisted, tight line of his lips seen in silhouette.

  He moved then, one arm stretching out to again pound at her door no doubt, that motion halted when he caught sight of her through the window. Leaning in, his upper torso entered the light cast from her living room lamps and her breath caught for a moment. Beautiful, was the first thought to enter her mind, then she corrected herself, murmuring, “No, too rugged. He’s flat-out handsome.”

  “Hey,” he called, lips stretching wide to part his full white and grey beard in a smile probably meant to reassure. If that’s what he’s going for, it’s working, she thought. “It’s late, I know it’s late. God, I know it’s late and I hate being the weird guy on your porch in the middle of the night. But, can you help me out?” One corner of his mouth quirked up, lifting the mustache on that side. “I got to my new place, but there’s no phone. I’m a couple days early for electric, even. And to top it off, I ain’t got no service out here.” At this he lifted one hand, a cellphone engulfed in his grip, and waggled it back and forth. “Might as well be holdin’ a brick,” he said, and then scoffed and she watched as his shoulders lifted in a shrug that communicated a ‘whacha gonna do’ statement.

  He took a single stride towards the window, head now cocked to one side. She saw his hair was long, caught behind his head in a ponytail the end of which had flipped over his shoulder. White, to match his beard. “Hey, miss? Miss? Can you hear me?”

  Miss? The startled thought flitted through her head just before she lifted her chin and lowered it, offering him a single nod.

  “Beauty,” he said, those lips splitting the beard in another smile. “Gonna help me out?”

  Now that he was closer, she saw he was wearing a black leather vest, something she recognized as biker gear. She had some experience in the garments worn by men who rode motorcycles, seeing as her Blackie was one, the president of the Freed Riders back home in Texas. Then, the daughter of her heart, Sharon, had married one, too. Gunny was a Rebel Wayfarers member, based out of Fort Wayne, Indiana, but their club had chapters in several states.

  Studying the front of this man’s vest she saw he had several rally patches sewn in what appeared to be a random order across the bottom edges. They spanned more than a decade, and the oldest looked the part, grime covered with long exposure.

  The important patches were affixed high on either side of his chest in positions of honor. Illustrations of worth made from fabric and thread, displayed for everyone to see. A narrow rectangle with the letters ‘SAA,’ standing for sargent at arms was attached on his left side, over his heart, showing he held the club’s trust in a title close. Respectful. Two patches on the right-hand side. Another rectangle with ‘Truck,’ positioned with a smaller ‘Unka Tonk’ underneath it. That one had a small rose next to the words, a detail that made her smile, because it spoke to his tolerance of whoever had gifted him with the patch. A child? Perhaps a lover. Someone loved, that was certain.

  Her gaze returned to his face where his features had settled into unhappy lines. He had caught her looking at his vest, and now clearly expected zero assistance. Hell, she thought, he’s probably expecting me to throw up shutters to lock myself in and him out. “Be right there,” she called and was immediately rewarded by the glint of his teeth as he grinned broadly at her.

  “Beauty,” he said again, stepping back and turning to face the door.

  She detoured past her purse hanging off the back of one of the dining room chairs, pulling her cell from the inside pocket. Her hand hesitated over the canister of mace, but then she remembered his smile and that patch, and shook her head, turning instead to pull open the inside door. He stood well back from the screen, slouching in an effort to not seem so…big. She had seen Gunny take this stance often enough and just the thought of the big ex-Marine made her smile, so when she flipped on the porchlight that grin was still on her face.

  Chapter Three

  Truck

  Fuck me, Peter Teravest thought as the woman stepped onto the boards of the porch outside her front door. Through the window she had looked wary, but pretty and sweet. She hadn’t seemed frightened by his unexpected appearance, which made him grateful because maybe, just maybe, she’d help a brother out. Now, standing in the bright light shining down from over the doorway, a warm smile illuminating her face from within, he saw she wasn’t merely pretty, the woman was beautiful.

  Thick auburn hair, streaked in only a few places with a lighter color. With her hair drawn back into a tight bun it was hard to decide if the coloring was natural or from time in a chair somewhere. Love to see that hair down, he thought, his imagination setting it swinging on either side of her face. Strong face, high cheekbones and arching eyebrows framed gorgeous green eyes. He’d place her age as somewhere between legal and about ten shy of his fifty years.

  Just my fuckin’ luck, he thought, careful to keep his internal grouse from his face, I move to the middle of no-fucking-where on Christmas Eve and find myself landing next door to the county’s beauty queen. He didn’t date, didn’t have any desire for a relationship. Not anymore. Not since…

  Aloud, he gave her his club name, saying, “I’m Truck, miss. Thank you for this. If I don’t check in, I’ll get my ass in hot water for sure.” Smile fading from her face, she hadn’t yet offered him the phone clutched in her hand. He stood there for a minute, awkwardly waiting. After another minute, when she still hadn’t spoken or moved, he called a careful question. “Miss?”

  With a jerk she lifted her arm, phone dangling from her fingers as she said, “Yes. Sorry. A moment.” She pulled it back, did something to the screen, pressed her finger a time or two then held the device out again.

  No ring on her finger. Not that I’m lookin’, he thought.

  “Here you go, unlocked and the phone app is loaded. Just dial and you’ll get your ass out of that hot water.” She smiled broadly, humor evident in her sparkling eyes as she introduced herself, “Vanna. My friends call me Vanna. Pleased to meet you, Truck.”

  Accepting the phone, he carefully avoided brushing her fingers, not needing to know what her skin felt like. Another tactic he had employed for years, a way to keep people at bay. “Vanna,” he acknowledged her name quietly. Truck liked that she didn’t question the name he used, and as he dialed he mused about why that felt nice. Different, but nice. A moment of ringing then he heard a woman’s voice, thick with amusement as she said, “Cock house, only roosters need apply. Whacha need?” Laughter echoed in the background, and he heard the sound of a palm lightly smacking flesh, then a man answered the phone, still laughing. “You got Red, whacha need?”

  Good, someone I know, he thought, as hi
s chin came up, shoulders relaxing from a tension he didn’t even know he carried. “Red, man. It’s Truck.”

  “Truck, long time no speak, brother.” The warmth flooding his friend’s voice made him grin. Based out of the Little Rock chapter, Truck had been out on one run or another for most of the past year. It was good to hear the brotherhood they held between them ran as deep and strong as ever. “Where the fuck are you this time?”

  “Florida, man. Bought me a house.” Vanna made a noise beside him and he watched her retreat to the door, murmuring a quiet, “I’ll just give you some privacy,” as she went back inside. He kept his eyes on her through the glass, and then through the living room windows as she walked to a chair by the back wall. She leaned over, her jeans stretching tight over her ass and he took a good, long look, tracing her curves with his eyes. Beauty. Straightening, she held a book and a glass in her hands, and he tracked her across the room, past the door where he lost her as she went deeper into the house.

  With a start he realized Red had been talking to him, but he hadn’t heard a word, totally engrossed in watching Vanna move. So fucking beautiful. Grunting agreement at the instruction to call in more often, he listened as the call disconnected, but kept the phone lifted, camouflaging his focused attention on the inside of Vanna’s house.

  Pictures on the wall of her and a boy, some scenic shots taken from high on a hillside, and—he leaned closer—several pictures of her with men in black leather vests, very much like the one he wore. None of her and a single man, though.

  “Done with the phone?” So focused was he on cataloging her life, trying to discover if she had a man or not, he hadn’t heard the screen door open. She was standing just inside, looking up, holding the door open, but not reaching for the phone. “Put it on the table if you are. If you have more calls to make, you are welcome to do that, as well. I was just making myself a sandwich, and it struck me that if you don’t have telephone or electricity at your new home, then you might not have groceries, either. I’ve plenty, and if you are okay with plain fare, and by that I mean straight ham and cheese, I’m happy to send you home with at least a meal.” Stepping back, the door began to close. “Take your time, and no offense taken if you’ve already eaten, I know it’s late.”

  What in the hell? Tipping his head to one side, he reached out and halted the fall of the door to the frame, pulling it wide. “I’m starved, actually, Vanna. Everything in town was closed when I rolled through, so I haven’t had anything since I ate breakfast early this morning. This is certainly my lucky day. My lucky day moving in next to a beautiful miss who’s also thoughtful.” He frowned at her self-deprecating snort and followed her into the house and through the dining room, pausing to place the phone on the table as requested.

  She moved ahead of him to the kitchen at the back of the house and he took another long, appreciative look at her ass in those jeans. Enough woman to hold onto, plenty to cuddle up to if a man was so inclined. His cock thickened, surging to half-mast and he mentally told himself, Down, boy.

  He turned to hide evidence of his arousal, taking a moment to look into the living room. He stared at the framed images of her at what looked to be a bike club’s hog roast, squinting to see if he knew any faces in the picture. The frozen moments she chose to display on her walls were interesting. The fact they were framed meant the pictures were important to her, because people didn’t take the time or spend money in order to hang an image that was throwaway. He stopped, squinting at one of the men standing, arm around her shoulder. Fuck, I know him…

  One step, then another, and he was close enough to be certain of the man’s identity. Gunny. Fuck me. Scanning the picture, he saw plenty of other faces he knew, too. It looked like half the Fort Wayne chapter was in this picture; every face turned towards her held a welcoming expression. Gunny’s woman, Sharon, had her arms around the woman’s waist, tucking herself tight against Vanna’s side. Interesting. Intending to ask her about her association with the Rebels, he turned to walk to the kitchen only to pull up short. She was standing a few feet behind him, and he knew she’d gotten a look at his back patch from the look of startled recognition on her face.

  “You’re a Rebel,” she said quietly, more a statement than a question and he stared at her.

  Then, with a chin lift, he acknowledged what appeared to be her status with the club. Friend of the club. A trusted friend, based on what he saw in the picture. One of few non-family folks invited to a wedding held in the backlot behind the Fort’s clubhouse last year. He hadn’t been there, but had seen all the pictures posted to social media of Hoss kissing Hope, her swollen belly between them, her boy beside them. Instant family, something his brother needed for a long time without even knowing it. Vanna was a friend of the club, which meant even if he was so inclined, she wasn’t available for a romp. Not even if they found themselves graced with a mutual attraction.

  Glancing around, he stopped for a moment as he stared at the other picture, surprised to recognize this group, too. Blackie standing next to his old lady, Peaches, with Vanna, head thrown back in laughter, while lounging on a blanket to one side of the pool in Blackie’s backyard. The Texas-based Freed Riders were friendly with the Rebels, and she had somehow bridged the gap between the two clubs, finding what looked like firm footing in both camps.

  That was a feat, even for someone accustomed to navigating the political waters ever rough between clubs. Dark swirls concealing sinkholes around territory claims and members’ egos; hell, even the color of a club’s patch could be fast-flowing fodder for arguing. Yet here she was in two pictures…in two camps, laughing, friendly and comfortable.

  Damn, I want to know more about this woman, he thought, gaze lingering for a moment on the picture, tracing over her charms exposed by the modest swimsuit worn as she lay in the brilliant Texas sunshine.

  As he finished turning, his gaze fell on an old-fashioned record player placed on top of the oak cabinet in the corner that held her TV and accompanying electronic equipment. Putting aside all his questions, he looked over at her and asked with a grin, “Vanna, are you a closet vinyl fanatic?” Chuckling at her happy nod, he reached out and then paused, waiting politely to ask, “May I? I’d love to hear the wax poetic tonight.”

  At her softly voiced, “Yes, of course,” he lifted the cover, noting the record-filled cardboard sleeves stacked nearby. With pleasure, he saw the top selection was a Christmas album, and retrieved it to place on the platter. Lifting the tonearm and holding his breath in anticipation, he set the needle carefully at the outer edge of the grooves pressed into the wax.

  Silence for a moment, then soft chiming led into the timeless words of ‘Silver Bells’ sung by Jerry Vale. “Oh, darlin’, I approve.” He looked at her, seeing that gentle smile still in place on her full lips and he couldn’t help himself. Extending his hand, he told her, “Dance with me. You have to, Vanna. It’s practically a law, darlin’. A waltz demands it.”

  Her laughter filled the air and he abruptly found it hard to breathe because hearing it struck a chord deep inside him. Seeing the look on her face in the picture as she laughed was beautiful, but hearing it…oh God…hearing it was stunning.

  She reached to grasp his hand and settled in, palm to palm. He used the connection to pull her closer, settling his other hand firmly on her back. Looking down, he moved, swaying to the music, the simple box step of the waltz not requiring much of his attention. That stayed firmly on the woman leaning so trustingly into him, her form nestled tight. He gripped her hand in warning, and then used it to push and turn her, twirling her out and then with the same grip drew her back, her hand slipping familiarly into place along his shoulder when she was pressed against his front again.

  So beautiful, he thought, and without thinking started to serenade Vanna by merely mouthing the words, slowly segueing into a soft croon, singing along with Vale about how Christmas felt. She stared up at him, lips slightly parted, still tipped in that gentle smile. He tugged her a littl
e closer as they slowly stepped in a measured square around her living room, rising and falling in time with the music.

  Time felt suspended in that instant, a beautiful woman in his arms, chin tilted so she could smile up at him. Their bodies moving together, synchronized, as if they danced together every Christmas Eve like this. I wish…

  The song slowly faded away and he tightened his arms, wanting to hold onto this for another moment. Then the next song began playing and she pulled in a breath that hitched in the middle, shaking herself slightly, clearly putting off the shared spell they had been under for too short a time.

  Stepping back and pulling away, she gently forced his arms to release their hold. Her expression was solemn as she told him, “Thank you, Truck. That will be a beautiful memory for many Christmases to come.” She leaned forward, flattening one palm in the center of his chest and he felt her touch like a brand on his skin. For one moment thinking she intended to kiss him, the idea heating him to his core. This meant something to her, and he found himself willing to expend any energy needed to discover what that was. Vanna was an intriguing woman, sweet and unassuming. Highlighting his thoughts, sincerity scored through her features as she fervently repeated, “Thank you.”