His Little Secret

“Amen to that,” Clint mutters, walking down my row of custom bikes and whistling with approval at what he sees. “They’re good for beer runs and that’s about it.”

“None of this is my problem anymore,” I say, crossing my arms. “I did my time for the prez and I don’t regret it, but nothing you say will get me back.”

Chavez spots something over my shoulder, a smile curving his lips. “Is that her?”

Knowing exactly what he’s referring to, dangerous heat permeates my gut. There’s a framed picture of Ripley on my work table. “Don’t.”

“Come on, man. You leave the club because your niece made you want to be a better man,” Clint says. “You expect nobody to be curious about her?”

I regret a lot of things in my life, but number one is telling the club members about Ripley. My confession happened by accident. Four years ago, the day I rode to club headquarters to turn over my patch, a picture of Ripley fell out of my helmet. They asked me where I’d been and I told them. I’d just come from visiting my brother’s house.

They knew it couldn’t be a coincidence that I decided to exit the MC the same day.

These men were smart. They knew me.

And hell, I’d been off balance after meeting the purest form of joy in the world.

Ripley.

After ten years in an ugly pit of despair, I sat in my brother’s professionally decorated dining room, feeling so out of place it was painful. I worried I was going to break the fragile chair beneath me or eat like an animal in front of his new, visibly disapproving wife.

Then Ripley came twirling into the room talking a hundred miles an hour about boys and homework and cheerleading tryouts. When she’d spotted me, the big, nasty motherfucker sitting in her expensive dining room, she hadn’t been scared. She’d smiled with all of her teeth and said welcome home. Never once that day—or ever—did Ripley make me feel anything but…important. Like I belonged. Like I could be more than an ex-convict who dropped right back into a life of crime and pain.

She changed me.

And as she changed over the years, my feelings for her became more complex, more inexcusable. They became what they are now.

Infatuated turmoil.

Chavez is still looking at Ripley’s picture, curiosity lining his face. “How old is she now?”

“Don’t worry about it,” I growl, purposefully letting my arms drop so he can see my tightening fists. “Don’t you dare speak her name.”

“I wouldn’t piss him off,” Clint says, coming up beside Chavez. “They still tell stories about how Mase used to handle people who got on his bad side.”

Chavez shrugs a shoulder. “Yet another reason we’d like you back.”

For a moment, I consider it. Rejoining the club would be a distraction from thinking about my niece. From remembering the way her body felt under mine, sweet and limber and perfect. If I wore the Mountain Man patch once again, I’d be back in that lifestyle of mayhem and it would be a valuable reminder to keep my distance from Ripley.

But I can’t do it.

Through her, I’ve glimpsed the goodness in this world. Because of her, I opened my own successful custom bike shop. And thanks to her, I’ve become more.

Not good enough to have her, but not so irredeemable that I have to go back to a life of crime. Ripley will never know I gave up the club for her. But if she did, and she knew I went back, she’d be disappointed. That’s enough to have me shaking my head.

“I’m out and I’m staying out.” I clear my throat and pick my wrench back up. “Your bike will be ready by Friday.”

A few minutes later, Clint and Chavez are gone and I find myself wandering over to the framed picture of Ripley. It was taken in her backyard. She’s wearing an innocent sundress, her arms thrown out wide, her face turned up toward the sunshine. The definition of purity. And yet, I’ve beat off to this picture more times than I can count, my hand caked in motor oil and grease, moving angrily up and down my cock. I’m ashamed of myself.

I need to let the girl go to college and start her life.

I need to move on for her sake. Next time she pursues me, I’ll be too weak to say no and then it’ll be over. I’ll be her jealous, obsessive, criminal boyfriend. Oh, and also her uncle. Her reputation would be burned and I’d be to blame.

I’m older, dammit. I’m supposed to know better.

A while back, one of my customers told me about a brothel in Julian. I put the number in my phone, positive I would never call. But maybe this is the only way. Forcing myself to be with someone that isn’t Ripley. Maybe if I force my body to let go of the possibility of having her, my brain will follow suit.