Cary (Henchmen MC Next Generation 5)

I figured older could just be older, or it could be distinguished.

I chose distinguished.

There was nothing to be done about my workout pants and black ribbed tank right then, though, so I just went with it. Though I maybe made sure to rake my hair back away from my forehead before I reached for the doorknob.

The door was silent, so the woman who was standing with her back to me didn’t immediately know I had moved inside, giving me a chance to look her over.

Voss was right; she didn’t look pregnant.

In fact, she looked so rail fucking thin that her body probably couldn’t support a pregnancy. It was a little cold still in Jersey for her shorts, and they put these long, spindly legs on display. So small, in fact, that her kneecaps jutted out on the insides and her thighs didn’t meet anywhere.

I was not a super picky man when it came to women’s body types. I liked someone I could connect with, have some fun with, before it got physical. Which was always more important than just being some physical “ideal.” But I couldn’t say I’d ever been with a woman who looked like she was starving herself. That wasn’t a turn on at all.

Taking a deep breath as the mystery got more and more interesting, I closed the door behind me.

Again, like Voss said, she was jumpy.

And not even just ‘I’m in an outlaw biker compound’ jumpy.

Her whole body jolted as she whipped around to face me, her hands immediately wrapping around herself.

Jumpy like a kicked-dog.

That was accurate.

I didn’t know the situation, of course, but if I were a betting man, I’d put my money on her having some sort of abusive ex-hole in her past.

“Oh, wow,” she said, shaking her head a little as she looked at me. Almost as if I wasn’t what she’d been expecting. Which was weird since she’d sought me out. “It’s you,” she added in her honey-sweet voice.

And I had nothing.

Not even being face-to-face with her.

I was coming up blank.

I was almost certain I’d never laid eyes on the woman before in my life.

I was sure I would remember.

She was fucking drop-dead gorgeous with her soft, rounded face, her big gray eyes that tipped down at the sides, giving her an almost sleepy appearance, and her abundance of freckles. There were traces of makeup left on her face—smudged under her eyes, still staining her lips slightly—but otherwise was fresh-faced.

If she maybe got a couple more pounds on her, she would go from sickly to damn near perfect.

“I wish I could share the same wonder, love, but I have no fucking idea who you are.”

To that, she sent me a sweet smile, her eyes searching the floor for a second before lifting up again.

“You’ve never actually seen me,” she admitted, shrugging those sharp juts she called shoulders.

“I’ve never seen you, but you came here to talk to me.”

“To ask for your help, actually,” she told me, sucking in a deep breath, almost as if she was bracing herself for a let-down.

“Okay,” I said, nodding. “How about we grab some coffee while you tell me why I would help out a complete stranger with some unknown problem,” I said, inviting her toward the kitchen even if she looked jittery enough without the caffeine.

“Sure,” she agreed, following behind me, a ghost of a woman at my heels.

In the kitchen, I noticed she’d situated herself with her back against a wall and close to the exit. So no one could sneak up on her. So she could get away in a pinch.

Yeah, it definitely seemed like she was a woman in need of some sort of help.

The jury was still out on whether I wanted to be the hero in her story, though. It wasn’t exactly a title that fit me—a lifelong biker with a long-ass rap sheet.

“How do you take it?” I asked. At her strange, high-pitched, momentary laugh, I turned, confused, finding her pink across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

“Sorry. Ah, cream and sugar, if you have it,” she said, voice small.

“Have the sugar here,” I said, gesturing with the shaker. “Check for the cream,” I invited, nodding toward the fridge. Finding it, she brought it over to me, putting it down when she was out of arm’s length, and pushing it forward with just the tips of her fingers. “Who are you?” I asked, not having meant to do so.

“Abs. Abigail,” she clarified, and suddenly a memory started to niggle at me.

But no.

No, that made no sense.

There were millions of Abigails in the world, after all.

Any one of them would be more likely than the one who first came to mind.

“I’ve heard that, love,” I said, passing the sugar toward her with her mug, and watching as she made it. And while she did it, she kept casting nervous glances at me. Like she thought I’d judge her for the abundance of additives she put in her coffee. Like I hadn’t watched Dezi pour a giant helping of chocolate syrup in then top it with a tower of whipped cream.