“It’s a mess. Mechanic has it in the shop torn apart.”
That was so like a club. The men didn’t consult, they just did whatever they wanted. She glared at him. “I bought that pickup myself. It belongs to me. No one has the right to touch it without my permission.”
“You have to talk to your old man about that,” Maestro said with a small shrug.
Steele frowned, was off his bike and stalking toward them. “What’s the holdup? Get a move on, woman. We’re going to be late.”
When Steele moved toward her, Keys shadowed him. He looked like a menacing jungle cat, muscles rippling beneath a tight tee, his cut declaring him Torpedo Ink. He didn’t have a sergeant at arms on his vest. He had nothing to declare he was an enforcer, but like Maestro, he clearly guarded the vice president of Torpedo Ink. That made her wonder about Steele and what he did for his club to have two men on him at all times the way Savage and Reaper were clearly on Czar, the president.
Breezy lifted her chin at Steele in pure defiance. “If someone is going in an actual vehicle, versus a motorcycle, I’ll ride with them. I don’t ride on bikes anymore. Ever.”
There was a stunned silence at her announcement. The other members, already on their Harleys, turned toward her, shock showing on their faces.
Steele burst out laughing. “Very funny, sweetheart. That’s good.” He held out his hand. “Come on. You love the bike.”
She did. She had. She’d loved riding with him. She saw the exact moment he realized she wasn’t joking, that she meant it. She also saw the brief flash of understanding in his eyes. He knew why she didn’t want to get on his bike with him. Steele had always been quick. Intelligent. He could figure things out faster than anyone she knew. He put pieces of a puzzle together with only fragments of information and he was always right.
Her heart clenched hard in her chest. She knew immediately there was no getting around this. She would have to get on his bike with him. If she made a stand, she would lose, and she’d lose in front of most of his club.
Steele moved in to her, taking up her personal space. His arm slid around her waist and he pulled her into him. She’d forgotten how strong he was. He was careful of her though, cognizant of her injuries in the way only Steele could be.
He bent his head to hers, his breath warm against her ear, moving tendrils of hair as he breathed against her skin. He smelled of leather and man. So Steele. “Bree, get on the bike. We’re going to figure out how to get our son back. I made certain you didn’t have to sit in the clubhouse to do it.”
He was already walking her over to his Harley. He reached into a compartment and pulled out a jacket. She stepped back, her breath coming in a ragged protest that hurt her lungs. He shook it out. It didn’t say Swords. It didn’t say Property of. It simply was a denim jacket. Still, it was his. Steele’s. The moment she put it on she’d do nothing but breathe him in.
He stood there unmoving, holding out the jacket to her. Breezy lowered her lashes and took it, telling herself she was doing this to get her son back. She just had to get them all moving to find him. Once they did, she knew Steele. Once he’d made up his mind to go after Zane, nothing would stop him until he had his son. Then she’d have to figure out how to get Zane away from him and disappear again.
Swallowing her protest, blood thundering in her ears, she stepped close as Steele slipped the sleeve over her left arm, wrapped her up and then she found herself sliding her right arm into the other sleeve. That put her squarely in front of him. His hands dropped to the metal buttons.
Breezy wanted to protest, but no sound would escape. She should have remembered the way he did this. He always held her coat or sweater for her and when she was in it, he was the one who buttoned it. Before, what seemed a million years ago, his actions had thrilled her. Now she could barely breathe.
He couldn’t touch her like this. He couldn’t bring back those memories. She knew