Protected Pt. 05

I nodded slowly as I stared out of my side window. "I don't want to cause trouble."

He said nothing for so long I turned to look at him. "Don't back down," he growled, dividing his attention between me and the road. "You've done nothing wrong and don't let anyone convince you otherwise."

"So you say," I mumbled.

He continued to glance at me for a long moment and I could sense he was debating with himself. "I offered to turn over the gavel to another brother, and to turn in my colors if--"

"What?" I said, my voice loud with my surprise. "Why?"

"Because I thought I'd fucked up. I had fucked up... but my brothers refused to take the gavel or my colors. If they don't blame me, they damn sure don't blame you. I expect you there, with your head held high, out of respect for what these men gave for you."

After a moment I nodded. "Yes, you're right. I was just taken aback by Maddy."

His lips thinned slightly. "She's always run hot, but she'll get over it. She just has to work out her feelings."

-oOo-

As we approached Rio Lago, members of the BDMC began to peel off. By the time we reached the other side of town, we were down to three escorts, and then two when Colt pulled into the drive of a small house sitting on a large lot perhaps four or five kilometers north and west of town. Our final two wingmen blasted away, their bikes roaring their road song as we crept to a stop in the drive.

The house was made from earth colored brick with a large two-car carport off to the side with his bike and a newish blue GMC pickup taking up space. The single interesting thing about the exterior of the house was the arched opening framing the steps to the front porch. Farther back on the lot was a large, tan, prefab metal building set off to the side that was clearly newer than the house, with a wide gravel drive leading to the large roll-up door. Where the drive connected to the road was a bright white wooden sign announcing Tillerman Well Drilling, along with a phone number. I found the name on the sign odd until I remembered Colt said he'd purchased the drilling company from the previous owner. Perhaps he kept the original name because it was well known and respected in the area.

I walked with him to the side-door under the carport, waited while he unlocked, and then followed him into the kitchen. I glanced around, trying to get a sense of Colt from his home. The kitchen was tired, with cheap, old-looking prefab cabinets and worn, blue vinyl flooring. The room was well used, but it was tidy and as clean as I suspected it could be. The attached dining area had a beautiful tile floor in mottled earth tones set at a forty-five-degree angle that must have made them a bitch to fit along the walls, and there was an unfinished sawtooth edge where tile ended and the linoleum began. Like the floor, the sheet rock was unfinished and unpainted, with a narrow gap showing the exposed stud where it transitioned to the ugly, dark paneling. His dining table was a nice piece, but it looked out of place in its unfinished surroundings. I smiled as I glanced around. I'd never seen a house with wood paneling, much less one with it in the kitchen.

"Make yourself at home," he said as he moved deeper into the house, carrying our bags down the hall.

I followed him through a wide, arched opening from the kitchen and dining area into the rest of the house. The living room couldn't have been more different from what I'd seen thus far. Where the kitchen was dull and drab, and the dining area unfinished, the living room was bright and sunny. The tile in the dining room continued into the living room and down the hall, but here the sheetrock was painted a tan so light I first through it was white, trimmed with gleaming white moldings. Simple but tasteful furniture in a light camel brown complimented the walls and floor. The recessed lighting continued the room's sleek look, and the large abstract paintings on the walls, highlighted with small spotlights, brought color into the space.

I continued down the hall, the colors flowing from the living room. There were two closed doors on the left side of the hall that I suspected were bedrooms, along with two more on the right, but I didn't want to seem nosy, so I followed him through the open, third door on the right. Like the living room, his bedroom was bright and cheerful with light grey walls and carpeting that couldn't decide between grey and taupe. A large bed with a patterned grey and smokey blue throw, and coordinating blue and grey accent pillows, complemented the simple yet stylish wood furniture that filled the room. Tossing our bags on the bed, he disappeared into the attached room without slowing.

"I hope you don't mind sharing the bed," he called from the other room. "It's the only one."

I huffed out a sigh for his benefit, and I hoped it was loud enough that he heard it. "If I must, I guess."

As he relieved himself, I continued to take in the room. I liked the fact the room wasn't a cave with dark or black everything. In addition to the two large windows, the four bright spots in the corners of the room would probably give the room plenty of light in the evening, and there were clusters of prints on the walls that added large splashes of color to the otherwise monotone room, and like in the living room, there were small spots aimed at the artwork. Whoever was doing the redesign had a clear, coherent vision for the home, and I wondered if his former girlfriend had anything to do with the simple, masculine style the rooms exuded. The two refurbished rooms suited him. Unpretentious but with a flair that never went out of style. The toilet flushing followed by running water brought my attention back to the fact that I also needed to use the restroom.

I passed him as he appeared from the bathroom. The bath confirmed what I suspected. The house was a work in progress. While the bath wasn't large, it was amazing. Finished in large dark grey tile with smaller, mottled dove grey tile providing accents on the floor, the colors reversed when the tile continued up the walls. The pedestal sink and commode were gleaming white porcelain, with stainless steel shelving under the sink and over the toilet providing storage for the stark white linens that became a decorative item themselves. The best feature however, by far, was the large, walk-in shower with a center mounted shower head and a large, frosted window that allowed in plenty of light, along with four recessed lights equidistant between the showerhead and the walls. I liked that the wall enclosing the shower didn't reach the ceiling, it's top meter or so made of glass. It was an interesting design choice that worked well to open the room up and make it feel larger than it was. We were definitely going to make use of the shower before we returned to Houston. As I washed my hands, I glanced around the room. I liked that everything, including the ceiling, was tile, porcelain, or stainless steel, making the space easy to maintain as well as beautiful.

I finished my ablutions and returned to the bedroom. "Nice place."

He was unpacking his suitcase, so I began doing the same.

"It's getting there. It was pretty rundown when I got it, but I've been working on it as I get the money."

"I love the bath."

He smiled. "I like it. I just finished it a couple of months ago."

"You did it yourself?" I asked, forcing away the smile that wanted to appear.

There seemed to be no end to the surprises with Mr. Colton Arne. Hot as molten rock, fearless and capable of protecting me from any danger, a devastatingly good lover, an excellent cook... and good with his hands too? After last night I already knew he was good with his hands, but now I knew he was good with his hands in another way also.

"Mostly. Goose did the plumbing for me, but I did all the demolition and tile work. It's not hard, once you figure it out. I learned how doing the floor in the living room. The hardest part was getting that heavy bastard of a cast iron tub out. I finally knocked it into six pieces with a sledge and hauled it out a piece at a time."

I nodded to myself. If he'd only finished it a couple of months ago, and he'd been without a woman since his girlfriend left him, I might be the first person to break in the shower with him. A pleasant warmth spread between my legs.

"Show me what else you've done," I said, forcing myself to think of other things so I didn't start dripping.

After out bags were unpacked, he showed me around his home, the two doors on the left side of the hall opened to dreary bedrooms, one full of painting and tiling supplies and the other containing a home gym sporting a complicated series of cables and pulleys attached to weights and bars, along with a small desk with computer and printer that I assumed he used for his business. Both rooms contained the same thin, dirty blue carpeting and more of the dark paneling like in the kitchen.

The door opposite the bedrooms opened into a totally depressing bathroom with stained blue fixtures, sickly blue tile with discolored grout, curling blue linoleum that might have been the same as the floor in the kitchen, and a tired wood vanity with peeling laminate.

"Yes, it was a dump," Colt said as he closed the second door on the right, the one leading into a tiny laundry room with the same ghastly linoleum as the rest of the house, the same ugly paneling, and a buzzing fluorescent light with no cover. The humor in his voice told me he knew he was putting words to my thoughts. "The couple that owned the place before me built it in the sixties, and they either liked blue... or they got a good deal on the carpet and linoleum. The place was a real blast from the past."

"Don't forget the paneling."

He grinned as he nodded. "Yeah, the bathroom and the wood paneling. My bath was full of the same shit, except pink."

"Pink?" I asked, my surprise clear in the loudness of my voice. "Yuck! What's next on your hit parade?"

"The kitchen. I'm going to tile Nolan's kitchen and he's going to build me some cabinets," he said as he led me into the living room.

"You do good work. You could probably make a good living at it in Houston."

He shrugged. "I like working with my hands. It gives me a sense of accomplishment when I look at my bedroom, the living room, or especially my bath, and I remember what they looked like before."

"Like I said, you're good at it." I couldn't stop my smile. "A great cook, good with your hands, and a fantastic lover," I said, putting as much teasing purr into my voice as I could. "You better be careful or I might take you home and keep you."

He huffed out a single laugh. "Are your lips lonely?" he asked with a sexy rumble.

I swear to God, his tone and words went straight to my womanhood, and the pleasant warmness I'd felt in his bedroom spread. "Very."

He slowly bent and brought his lips to mine for a leisurely kiss. He finally pulled back with a soft exhalation. "How about now?" he growled in his same sexy bedroom voice.

"Better, but still lonely."

A faint smile danced over his lips as he brought his lips to mine again while pulling me into his chest. I wanted to moan with pent up desire as I began tugging at his belt, but before I could loosen it, he slowly withdrew from the kiss and gently pulled my hand away.

"Later," he whispered, still holding me close.

I wanted to moan again, but for a difference reason this time. I couldn't tell if I was still sore, but I didn't care. I'd fuck him anyway, and my pussy would just have to woman up. "I want you now," I breathed as I tried to pull his lips to mine for another kiss.

"I want you, too, but we haven't eaten, and once we start, I don't want to stop."

I liked the fact that I couldn't wrap him around my little finger like some men in my past, but dammit, I wanted him! "We can eat later."

He smiled at me, confirming that he was torturing me on purpose, just like last night... the sexy asshole. "Come on. I know a place. We'll grab something to eat, I'll give you a ride of a different kind, and then we'll come back here and I'll make love to you until we're exhausted."

I nearly shivered with the thought and smiled with the memory of our love making... and fucking... the last time he'd done this to me. "That a promise?"

"Promise," he rumbled as he held my gaze.

Again, his words and gaze went straight to my pussy, and I could feel my panties dampen a bit more. "What do you mean you'll give me a different kind of ride?" I asked, almost tingling with excitement over what he might mean.

"You ever ridden a motorcycle?"

"No."

"After tonight, you can say you have."

He returned to the bedroom and pulled out the jacket he always seemed to wear, the one with the club's colors on the back. Shrugging into it, he led me to the carport, picking up two helmets from a shelf beside the door, handing me the white one before he donned the black one that I recognized as his. I tugged the helmet on my head, but as I was watching him, trying to understand how the clasp worked, he nudged me under my chin with side of his knuckle. I looked up and he adjust the strap to snug the helmet down.

"What do I do?" I asked as he withdrew his hands.

"Wait until I get on, then get on yourself. It's just like mounting a horse. Scoot in close and hang on. Don't try to help me ride. That's it."

"Would you think less of me if I admitted I'm a little nervous?"

He grinned at me. "Only a little," he said as he swung his leg over the motorcycle and stood it upright.

I swallowed hard. I trusted him to protect me from goons intent on killing me, so I could trust him now. Summoning my courage, I mounted up behind him as the Harley rumbled to life.

"You ready?" He was looking at me in the rearview. I nodded and forced a smiled. I didn't fool him for a second. "Don't worry, we'll start out nice and easy."

The ride back into Rio Lago was short, and good to his word, he didn't hot-rod the bike, his acceleration and braking gentle and smooth. Even though the ride lasted less than ten minutes, I was already beginning to relax by the time he leaned his bike into the parking lot of Pancho Villa. The restaurant was tucked away into the end of a small strip mall, and though the outside wasn't overly appealing, the lot was full of trucks, even at this early hour, and the air smelled wonderful.

The bike coasted to a stop and fell silent. I waited a moment, not sure what to do, but then decided he was waiting for me to step off. Last on, first off. As I stepped back, he kicked the stand down and leaned the bike over. As he removed his helmet, I fumbled with the strap, figuring it out just as he reached for me to help. I held the helmet, unsure of what to do with it, when it he took it from me and plopped it on the other mirror, matching the location of his own helmet.

"Aren't you worried someone will steal your helmets?" I asked as he took my hand and led me toward the restaurant.

"No," he said, never slowing.

As he pulled the door open for me, I wondered if he wasn't concerned because Rio Lago was that safe, because people knew who's bike it was and knew better, or some other reason.

Inside, the place was typical mid-level Mexican restaurant, just like a million other mid-priced Mexican restaurants scattered across Texas, and probably the rest of the country. The walls were adorned with brightly colored, oversized sombreros, Mexican flags, and romanticized paintings of Mexican peasant life. Above were dark wood beams with the occasional plastic parrot on a plastic perch hanging from them, and a tile floor the color of mud below.

The restaurant was larger than I expected, there were plenty of open tables, and we were seated immediately. Almost as soon my butt hit the red plastic booth's seat, chips and salsa was in front of us, and our drink order of two Modelo Especial had been taken.

"What did you think of your first motorcycle ride?" he asked as he dipped a chip and popped it into his mouth.

I followed his lead. The salsa was perfectly blended with the right amount of heat and flavor. My opinion of the place crept up a couple of notches. It'd been my experience that if the restaurant got the salsa right, the rest of the meal would be good as well.

"It wasn't as bad as I was afraid it'd be. I was concerned I was going to feel like I was about to fall off the whole time, but I didn't."

"Riding in town isn't much fun. After dinner we'll get out the road then you can experience what riding a bike is really like."

I smiled as I dipped another chip. "I think I'll like that."

"Trust me, you will."

"You sure?"

The waiter arrived to take our order. I hadn't even looked at the menu. "You trust me?" he asked.

"Implicitly."

He looked at the waiter. "Dos Especial de la Cocina."

"Interesting," I said after the waiter confirmed the order and hurried away. "What's the Special of the Kitchen?"

"Chicken, beef, and shrimp, grilled with peppers, onion, and tomatoes, served over rice with cheese sauce."

"Sounds good," I said with a nod.

"It is. It's my go-to dish here. Now, about the motorcycle. There's an old saying that riding a bike is the nearest thing to flying without leaving the ground."

"I don't know," I cooed as I leaned across the table. "You had me flying pretty good last night."

He grinned at me and leaned in over the table to bring his lips closer to mine. "Wait until we do it after you've ridden a bike," he whispered.

With a flush and a smile, I flopped back into the booth, the pleasant wetness in my womanhood spreading even more as I wondered how much better it could be.

.

.

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COLT

"Excuse me," I muttered as I stepped out of the way, held the door open for Willow, and then continued to hold it for the family who'd paused to allow her to follow me out. The time was closing in on six and the dinner rush was on. By the time we'd finished our meals, and had a few minutes of conversation as we waited on our check, there was a line for a table forming.

"That was really good. Thank you."

"You're welcome," I said as I took her hand.

I hadn't been much of a hand holder with Britt, and all the other women in my life were short term relationships lasting from one night to a few weeks, but with Willow... all I wanted to do was touch her and experience her touch in return. I didn't know why, but having her hand in mine brought me a measure of peace and helped quietened the whispers in my head... the whispers that repeatedly murmured to me I was the reason Fish, Grace, Juice, and Packard were dead. I didn't know, but perhaps it was because so long as she was alive my brothers hadn't died in vain. I was afraid to question the quieting of the voices too much lest her touch no longer silence them.

I forced those thoughts away before I disappeared down that rabbit hole... again. "Ready to ride?"

"Yeah, I think. Not too fast, okay?"

I smiled. "I promise to not intentionally scare you... how's that?" I countered.

"I guess I can accept that." A faint smile danced over her lips. "A kiss for courage?"

I chuckled as I leaned down, pulled her close, and kissed her softly. "How's that?"

"I think I need a little more," she breathed.

I began to harden, her breathy voice and the caresses of her lips on mine causing my blood to surge. "Now?" I asked as I slowly pulled back.

She held my gaze a moment. "Okay... for now."

I allowed her to fumble her way through securing her helmet before inspecting the clasp and giving the strap a quick tug when she was finished to make sure it was done properly. I didn't fuck around with the brain buckets. I didn't go so far as to wear a full-face helmet, but neither did I wear a half helmet because I was too cool for a regular helmet. The last thing I wanted was to save her from the goon squad only to kill her myself in a motorcycle crash.