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Chapter 1
1992 - Sydney, Australia
Christ,why can’t this damn thing stay hidden?
Skipping down the steps of the cafe, I push the gold crucifix back inside my collar. I only wear it to please my aunt and uncle. The smooth links tangle against my finger. As I try to pull my finger free, I smash head first into what feels like a brick wall covered in hard leather. The milkshake I hold in my unchained hand erupts between me and the leather-clad wall while the sketch pad and pencils in my open backpack clatter to the ground.
“Shit, sorry,” says the brick wall, who has arms and legs and is now squatting in unison with my own downward trajectory. My forehead collides with his leather-jacketed torso for the second time, sending me straight back on my ass.
The palms of my hands burn from the contact with the concrete pavement and I’m covered in chocolate milk, but the sun glinting off the crucifix around my neck grates the most. I stuff it back inside my shirt then touch my hand to the dull ache in my forehead. What a mess.
“Here, let me help you up.” A hand appears in front of my face and I decide I’d do better with a guide to get back on my feet than attempting to navigate it myself.
“Thanks.” I grimace as my grazed palm meets a firm grip.
“Fuck, are you hurt?” Brown eyes scan my face before dipping to below my chin, clearly eyeing the crucifix. “Um, sorry for swearing.”
I push the crucifix inside my shirt again. Why can it not stay hidden today!
“It’s fine.” I examine my hands and find the skin unbroken, just reddened from the fall. I hold them up for the stranger to see. “No blood.”
“Good.” The man holds a handkerchief out to me. “It’s clean, I promise.”
A handkerchief? I lean back and look at him properly. He is shorter than my uncle, so less than six feet tall, and a leather vest covers his broad shoulders, accentuating his tapered torso. Black jeans are held in place by a belt with a big silver buckle shaped into a skull with wings and words I can’t quite make out. He wears a Metallica t-shirt under the vest, and big black boots on his feet. And the man was offering me a clean handkerchief…
“Thanks?” It comes out as a question rather than a statement as I take the cotton square.
He smiles for the first time and his brown eyes turn into liquid chocolate. He ducks back to the ground and begins collecting my belongings, hopefully missing the sigh that rushes from my lips.
I blot the handkerchief on my t-shirt. Who is this guy? He looks like a biker with the leather vest and biker boots, but his short black hair and handkerchief don’t really fit the profile. Tattoos peek out from beneath the sleeves of his t-shirt as his well-defined arms reach to pick up my scattered pencils. On the back of the vest is a patch with the same skull and wings design of his belt buckle, perched above the name, Devils MC.
Devils MC? Never heard of them. Maybe he’s just wearing some expensive wannabe vest and playing at being tough?
“I think I got everything.” He is back on his feet and holding up my backpack. He glances at my chest and then clears his throat. Is he actually blushing?
I look down and realise my lacy red bra is on full display beneath my drenched white t-shirt.
“Shit!” I cross my arms across my chest.
He chuckles. “Here, wear this.” He places my backpack on the ground at his feet and slips the leather vest off. Before I can refuse, he drapes the vest around my shoulders, holding the sides out for me to push my arms through. “It’s already got milkshake spilled on it.”
The leather is heavy and smells warm and earthy and like a very bad idea.
“Where’s your car?” he asks.
I restrain another sigh - this one laden with frustration - threatening to escape. “Don’t have one.”Thanks to my aunt and uncle withholding my inheritance.“I’m on the bus.”
“When that milk dries, it’s going to reek,” he says. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride.” He picks up my backpack and starts walking in the direction he is facing.
What?I can’t just get in a car with a stranger who may or may not be a member of an outlaw motorcycle gang. But he has my backpack, and I’m wearing his vest. I almost have to jog to catch up as he strides down the street and around the corner.
He stops in front of a big black and silver motorbike with really tall handlebars, pushing my backpack into the left-hand side saddle bag and holding out a helmet. My stomach flips and my bladder threatens to release. Guess I needn’t have worried about getting into a car with a stranger.
Then he flashes me a smile that lights up his whole face and sets my heart fluttering like a bunch of butterflies. I haven’t done anything this crazy in years, which suddenly feels like way too long.
Chapter 2
I recite my address and climb on. I haven’t been on a motorbike since I was a kid, clinging to the back of my dad as we manoeuvred through traffic in Ho Chi Minh City. Thankfully, my would-be saviour has tightened the straps on the helmet he placed on my head. If he left it to me, I’d probably be wearing it backwards.
