running from something.” Blaine stepped onto the second-story deck. “Listen, man, your parents keep a close eye on the girls who work for them. They’d know if Leah was in trouble by now.”
Maybe he was right. Tank’s parents treated all their employees like family, just as Tank did with his employees at Wicked Ink, the tattoo shop he owned. His mother had recently told him that although Leah had warmed toward customers in the few months she’d worked there, she remained tight-lipped about her personal life, and she assumed Leah was just a quiet, single girl who was new to the area and liked her privacy.
He followed the guys into the rustic bar, taking in the mass of black vests with Dark Knights patches among a plethora of other customers. His gaze moved over the women who were checking him out. He was used to the attention. Tank had female friends, but usually women either wanted to drop to their knees for him or run for the hills from him. There was rarely an in-between.
His eyes locked on Leah as she helped customers at a table across the room. She was definitely a run-for-the-hills girl, rarely making eye contact. Her features looked as though they’d been picked from a handful of people and puzzled together to create a woman as uniquely beautiful as the Mona Lisa. She had a mass of brownish-red corkscrew curls as wild as a lion’s mane, thick brows over cautious hazel eyes, a slightly flat nose, and heavily freckled skin the color of sweet cream. Her lips were the most intriguing he’d ever seen, plump, almost perfectly bowed, and slightly too big for her face. She was thin, with slight but alluring curves, and when she spoke, her Southern drawl exuded sensuality and innocence with an edge of please don’t hit on me. He’d seen her work her quiet magic, pulling off that invisibility cloak, slipping in to take drink orders, then gliding away, rarely capturing the attention of men the way other, more flirtatious waitresses did. But to Tank, who got feelings about people like sailors did about impending storms, she brought the roar and thunder of a five-alarm fire.
He watched Leah making her way to the bar, where his mother, Ginger, was serving drinks. His mother caught him watching her. She pushed her tortoiseshell glasses to the bridge of her nose, her eyes brightening. Her strawberry-blond hair cascaded in gentle waves over her shoulders. Tank lifted his chin in acknowledgment to the strongest, most loving woman he knew. She was everything a biker’s wife needed to be, tough, fair, and able to handle—and sometimes mother—an army of belligerent bikers. Even so, he had no idea how his parents had survived Ashley’s death, but they’d managed to carry on and help the rest of them figure out how to as well.
His mother pointed to a table in the corner, where Gunner was sitting with their cousins Zeke and Zander, two of Blaine’s younger brothers. A brunette stood to Gunner’s right, a blonde to his left, both with their hands on him, and another blonde was leaning over the table near Zeke and Zander, showing all kinds of cleavage.
Tank nudged Baz and Blaine, and as they headed to the table, he watched his youngest brother soaking in the attention. Gunner, a stocky ex-marine with short blond hair and tattoos from neck to fingers, was twenty-eight to Tank’s thirty-two, and he owned Wicked Animal Rescue. Gunner said something to the girls, and the three beauties walked away, eyeing Tank, Baz, and Blaine.
“What kind of trouble are you stirring up?” Tank asked as they all sat down.
“Just deciding who I want to take home tonight.” Gunner was as much of a woman whisperer as he was an animal whisperer.
“I’m thinking the brunette.” Zander smirked. “Did you see the rack on her? Give me one hour, and…Mm-mm.” He had the same short dark hair and blue eyes as all of his brothers, but that’s as far as the similarities went. Zander had no filter and enjoyed riling people up. “Or maybe I’ll go for the blonde.”
“Why choose?” Baz chuckled.
“Do not egg him on.” Zeke shook his head. He’d been Zander’s wrangler since they were kids. Zander had learned early on that joking around and getting into trouble could deflect attention from his learning disability. Zeke had taken it upon himself to try to keep him in line. Zeke pointed to Baz. “And women call you husband material?” He scoffed.