Chapter Two

Dace couldn’t believe her luck lately. Bad was too inadequate to describe it. After a quick search of her mental thesaurus, she settled on abysmal.

First, her ER shift was a frantic onslaught of flu patients. She was exhausted, and on a third set of scrubs; the first two sets were splattered with vomit. She was also fairly sure there was shit on her shoes.

Second, the scheduling at the hospital got switched around, and her long weekend off had morphed into three twelve-hour shifts in the ER. As an intern in the last year of rotation, she knew the busy shifts would fly by in a blink. At least there were no plans on her schedule to cancel or Valentine’s Day dates to rearrange. For that small favor, she was grateful and…okay, truth be told, depressed.

Besides, it looked like the extra cash would be needed for some car repairs.

The worst part about being around the hospital over Valentine’s Day weekend? Constant reminders that there wasn’t anyone special in her life to send flowers or schedule a romantic dinner date. The flower delivery cart almost collided with her three times today—once coming out of the elevator—and everywhere were cheery heart-shaped decorations plastered on the nurses’ stations and the hallway walls. Dace didn’t mind if other people enjoyed romantic holidays; however, the unending onslaught of true love messages was causing a funk. She didn’t think about being lonely—work used all her available brain cells—but romantic holidays weren’t universally romantic for everyone.

She couldn’t believe it when her faithful Honda sputtered and died, right in front of the bar. She managed to get it running just long enough to limp off the street and into a parking lot before it shut down completely. Normally, her baby ran like a well-oiled top, so catastrophic engine shutdown was a new experience.

Sending a quick prayer to the automotive gods for an affordable repair, she sighed heavily and took another sip of her water.

Finding out her hospital-issued cell phone was dead was the icing on life’s poop cupcake.

The biker bar wouldn’t be a first choice to seek help. The line of motorcycles out front didn’t inspire confidence, and she debated about going in. If there had been other neon OPEN signs glowing anywhere nearby in the midnight darkness, she would have skipped the bar altogether. Since there appeared to be no other choice, Dace took a deep breath, let it out slow, and pulled open the door.

The air inside was heavy with smoke, the yeasty scent of cheap beer, and the noisy live band was making her ears bleed. She was tempted to fan her hand in front of her face, but didn’t want to draw any more attention than necessary. The bar was on the far side of the room, tucked behind the pool tables. Behind it was a tall muscular man, dressed in a T-shirt promoting the virtues of cold beer and warm women. Dark hair well past the need of a trim was raked back from his face, and despite the dim bar, she could see intelligence in his eyes and the cool façade of his smile. He looked competent and scary at the same time. Even so, he seemed the safest bet to ask for help.

At the bar, she refused to shift her gaze around the room and eyeball the other patrons, even though she sensed their eyes on her. To her surprise, the tall guy stepped forward and met her at the bar, dark chocolate brow raised in silent inquiry.

At first, he wasn’t inclined to be cooperative, but she persisted. It wasn’t in her nature to give up, and she didn’t intend to start now.

The cell phone he eventually dug from his pocket and handed across was warm, and she felt a tingle in her hand, thinking about where it had been and how the metal had become heated. The same warmth was in his fingertips as he handed her the bottle of water, and she had a weird impulse to reach out and touch his hand.

She couldn’t help it; she stuttered as she gave her name without the professional title tacked on in front of it. Obviously, she wasn’t ashamed of her career or all the hard work it took to get where she was, but somehow it didn’t seem appropriate to announce herself as a doctor in the middle of a bar. She didn’t need bikers to start making smart-ass remarks about her giving them a free checkup.

After settling on a stool, she sneaked peeks at the guy behind the bar. Tate—hmm, nice name, unique—was a fine distraction until the tow truck arrived. His long legs ate up the distance behind the bar as he moved back and forth, filling orders and making change with swift, efficient motions. Prominent shoulder muscles rippled through the T-shirt and those ripped jeans did sinful things for his hard ass. Even though Dace examined male bodies every day, none were as ripped and hard-bodied as Tate. Wow, with a view like this, what a way to kill time.

She got the impression he missed nothing that went on in the bar, even though she never caught him openly watching anyone. The realization gradually slid over her that she was one of the things he was keeping an eye on, and she relaxed, little by little.

Eventually she saw the revolving yellow lights of the tow truck reflected in the mirror behind the bar. Finally. Jesus… Looking at her watch, she was surprised to notice only twenty minutes had passed since the call was placed for a pickup.

As she slid off the stool, she was surprised to see Tate have a quick word with the other bartender, and flip up the serving counter. He stepped through the gap, dropped it back in place behind him, and moved to her side. Eyebrows raised, she looked up at him, a question in her eyes.

He mouthed something, but the band had cranked up their volume after the last song, and she couldn’t hear a damn thing. She settled for shrugging and a half smile as she cupped her hand behind her ear. To her surprise, he reached his hand out, palm up.

Tate grinned at her—a warm intimate smile that she suspected had dropped a lot of panties—and grabbed her hand. He motioned with his head, jerking his chin toward the door.

Once they exited into the parking lot, the noise dropped to reasonable levels, and he spoke to her again as they walked toward the revolving yellow lights, still holding her hand.

“Thought I’d intro you to Fred. He’s a nice guy, and he’ll help you out. Where’s your car?”

A battered orange diesel tow truck was idling in the parking lot, exhaust exhaling out of its tailpipe like a chain-smoker in the cool February air. The driver, a burly older man wearing grease-stained denim bib overalls and a ball cap advertising John Deere tractors, stood waiting by the door, writing something on a clipboard.

“Hey Tate. Long time no see.” He turned his head and smiled at Dace. “You the lady that called for a tow?”

“Yes. My car’s over here.” She gestured toward the parking lot across the street, simultaneously answering Tate’s question and providing Fred the Honda’s location.

“Fred, this is Dace. You’ll take good care of her, yeah?” Tate’s voice was low and resonated with calm authority.

Dace shot a quick glance at him, eyebrows raised in surprise. It had been a very long time since anyone spoke up for her, let alone a virtual stranger. The realization that a bartender from a biker bar was looking after her shot through her head, and she was exhausted enough that it was amusing.

A husky chuckle escaped her. Obviously, they’d never visited the ER or they would know precisely how capable and decisive she was. Critical care doctors didn’t last long if they weren’t authoritative because their patients tended to die without quick decisions being made on their behalf.

Both men glanced at her, and she mentally shook herself. Get with the program; then you can get a taxi and get some shuteye before you’re due back at the hospital tomorrow. You’re about to fall over.

“Something funny?” Tate asked, raising a dark brow.

“No. Not at all. Guess I’m more worn out than I thought.” Dace stuck out her hand. “Hello, Fred. I’m Dace Robinson. My Honda’s right there in the end space, and I’d appreciate it if you could tow it to the service garage at the Honda dealer over on First.”

Fred held out his hand, palm up. Without thinking, Dace let go of Tate’s hand and shook it.

It was Tate’s turn to chuckle. “He needs your keys, babe.”

Chagrined, Dace dug in her pocket and handed over her keys. Fred opened the door to the Honda and slid behind the wheel, shifting the transmission into neutral as he prepared to hook up the car to his truck.

Dace turned back to Tate. He was looking at her, dark eyes unreadable and mouth curved in a half smile. She inhaled, enjoying the clear air as it swept away her cobwebs of fatigue.

Guess it’s time for the awkward thank-you. Geez. Maybe I should thank him for the fantasies I was having while watching him work.

She stuck out her hand again—keyless this time—and opened her mouth. Before she could say anything, her attention was drawn to a large group of motorcycles approaching the bar’s parking lot. Vibrations seemed to shake the pavement around her; she felt the thunderous roar of the engines through the soles of her shoes. The noise level rose so quickly she was stunned; it was like being back inside the bar with the band, standing right next to an oversized amplifier. Her ears actually hurt.

Fred continued hooking up her car, seemingly oblivious to the numerous two-wheeled chrome-covered machines pulling into the lot. Tate’s actions were more surprising; he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her next to his body, tucking her securely under his arm. She caught a whiff of spicy aftershave mixed with the faint scent of fabric softener.

Shocked speechless, she looked up at him. His eyes had narrowed, and she got the impression he had just switched from focusing on her to focusing on the riders. The expression on his face was carefully blank. She felt the tension coil in his muscles as he watched the men pull up and park their motorcycles in a neat row facing the bar. As they silenced their machines one by one, the quiet seemed almost as deafening as the noise.

What the hell…

“Campbell. Been a while.” The stocky man riding the first motorcycle into the lot dismounted and swaggered over to Tate. He wore a bandanna tied around his head, a sleeveless leather vest covered with patches, and chunky thick-soled boots with metal buckles. His chest and arms were decorated with faded tattoos, and he had a wrinkled scar that snaked across his left cheek, trailing down to his neck. Obviously cosmetic surgical repairs weren’t a priority for these guys, even on facial wounds. His black beady eyes skimmed over Tate and focused on Dace with uncomfortable attention.

Tate gave a short upward chin jerk. “Whip.”

“So who’s your friend?” The biker was still looking at Dace, and she almost opened her mouth to reply before feeling the subtle tightening of Tate’s arm across her shoulders as he squeezed her even closer to his torso.

“Mine.” His reply was quick. “Aren’t you, babe?”

He looked down at her, his gaze guarded. The air sizzled with tension. She didn’t understand what message he was sending, but she wasn’t stupid. She nodded.

“Not wearing a property patch, Campbell. You sure she’s yours?” Whip’s eyes never left Dace, making her feel slimy.

“Yeah. I’m sure.” Tate’s response came fast, even though his tone was calm.

“Damn, Campbell, you know how to find ’em. She got any friends who want to party?” Whip rolled his shoulders and coiled his hands into fists, flexing and releasing his fingers. Dace noticed spaces in the blue ink covering his hands and knuckles, and realized belatedly the clear spots were actually dozens of thin scars.

“Nah, not tonight.”

Whip raised an eyebrow. “Share the love, bro. Bitch like that has to have some good-looking friends just a phone call away.” He turned and gestured at the dozen men who had dismounted from their bikes and stood behind him, silent and somehow threatening, even though none of them had said a word. “Long ride today. We could all use some company.”

Tate tilted his head toward the bar. “Jack’s tending bar; tell him first round’s on me.” Dace could still feel the edginess pulsing through his body; his muscles were taut as wires.

Whip stood, his gaze moving between Dace and Tate. The men behind him grunted their appreciation, their attention distracted by the offer of free alcohol. She realized that was Tate’s intention, and sent up a quick prayer of thanks. The situation had gone very weird very fast, and while she was a hell of a doctor, this was beyond her training and life experience.

After a long moment, Whip raised his chin in a quick jerk. His lips drifted into a sneer as he looked at Dace. “Another time. Appreciate the round, Campbell.” Turning on his booted heel, he stalked toward the bar. The other men followed him, and she noticed they all wore leather vests with identical center logos and curved lower patches across the back.

Pressed as tight as she was up against Tate, Dace could feel the deep breath he took as he relaxed. The rigidity faded from his muscles, and she pulled back to stand a few steps away.

“What was that?” Her question was rhetorical—she knew a motorcycle club’s colors when she saw them—but she still wanted an explanation for Tate’s ownership claim.

“Nothing.” Tate looked at her. “Nothing for you to worry about, anyway. A hundred bucks or so in free liquor for me, more if they order top shelf.” He sighed as he raked his fingers through his hair.

Dace jutted her chin out, the tension she felt beginning to morph into anger. “Anarchy doesn’t reign in this city. So they look scary; what would have happened? Your phone is in your pocket and police come when 911 is called.”

Glaring at her, Tate’s gaze was incredulous as he crossed his arms in front of his chest. “You just met Whip, president of the Dark Riders MC, and half his crew. They are capable of doing things you can’t imagine in your worst nightmares, and police response time in this part of town is at least half an hour. That crew can cause a lot of damage in thirty minutes.” He raked his fingers through his hair again in a distracted gesture. “I have to get back in my bar before they start hassling my servers.”

“Your bar?”

“Yeah. I own it.”

Dace could tell his attention had shifted back across the street.

“Okay, so go. I’m good here with, uh, Fred.” Dace stuck out her hand toward Tate again. “Thanks for the help. I really appreciate everything you did.”

Tate grasped her hand, but didn’t immediately let go after shaking it. “Any chance you might have time for coffee sometime? My treat.”

Dace responded with a tired smile. “Coffee? Not a beer?”

Tate grinned. “Seriously—I own a bar. Alcohol is like a job; it doesn’t interest me. You’re not a bar patron…you’re, uh, different.”

She goggled at him. “Different? Yeah, I’m different all right. Without a vehicle, I’m not only different, I’m stranded; as in, not going anywhere. Maybe once my car is fixed and I get it back.” She smacked her forehead with her palm. “Duh. No car. How in the hell am I supposed to get to work tomorrow?”

From the front of her car, Fred hollered at her. “Give me another few minutes for your paperwork, and we’ll be ready to roll. You got towing insurance? AAA, maybe?”

“My AAA card and my driver’s license are in my wallet. Hang on and I’ll get them for you.”

Dace noticed Tate glance back across the street again. From the snippets of music bleeding out of the bar’s door as it swung open to admit the bikers, the band’s noise level seemed to have increased dramatically. He turned back to Dace and dug in his jeans, then leaned forward and slid a business card into the pocket of Dace’s scrubs as she scrabbled through her backpack, looking for her wallet.

“Look, I’d really like to see you again. No joke. I know you said your phone is dead, but my number’s on the card.” He grinned at her. “Got to go. Hope to hear from you.”

He leaned forward and wrapped Dace in his arms. As he moved his mouth near her ear, he murmured, “The prospects are still out here watching the bikes, so make this look good.”