October’s Ride with Atlas (Mustang mountain Riders #10)

6. Bex

CHAPTER 6

BEX

As soon as I am done fixing his arm, I hurry into the kitchen to get some space to think. I’m still trying to understand how he took care of me before he even thought of his arm.

My dad and the rest of the Savage Bones would have demanded that I take care of them first and then deal with myself afterward. At least that’s what they have done in the past.

Could Atlas really be that much different? Are the Mustang Mountain Riders truly the good guys? I am beginning to think so, and I feel bad that I’m starting to doubt my dad.

Atlas was so unwilling to put his guys in danger that he moved us out here. Dad would have brought in more men to protect him, even though he’s lost so many already. Have the Mustang Mountain Riders really not lost anyone?

There were women and children at the clubhouse, and that wasn’t allowed anywhere we set up camp—at least not since I was around. I don’t know what was done before my dad and I showed up.

To distract myself from my thoughts, I start opening cabinets to get a look at where everything is so I can make a plan for dinner. But my mind keeps going to the present situation.

When I tried to escape the last time, Atlas didn’t even get mad. Even though he got hurt in the process, he never once raised his voice, threatened me, or tried to punish me for it.

I’m interrupted with my musings when Atlas says gently, “It gets pretty cold here at night this time of year. I’m going to get some wood brought in for the fire tonight. Can you make the bed? The sheets are in the closet. Use the flannel ones.”

We lock eyes, and neither of us moves for a moment. I like having his eyes on me, and it’s a new feeling for me because I hated having any of my dad’s guys looking at me the way Atlas does.

Breaking the spell, I nod.

Then Atlas turns, heading out the back door, while I go to the bedroom and find the sheets right where he said they would be. As I make the bed, I hear him chopping wood out back. Pausing, I look out the window only to find a shirtless Atlas chopping wood like he’s been doing it his whole life. Maybe he has. I don’t know because I haven’t taken the time to find out.

His body is a work of art. He’s definitely in shape. I can see the muscles in his arms bulging as he works. His chest is ripped, with not an ounce of fat on his body. There are tattoos on his arms, chest, and back, and I want to know about each one. Even more, I want to touch and run my tongue over every one of them.

Where the hell did that thought come from?

I’m wet between my thighs and turned on all from some tattoos on a man chopping wood in the backyard? This isn’t me. I’ve seen my dad’s guys with tattoos and watched them chop wood, and I never felt like this.

Once I finish making the bed, I go to the kitchen and pull some things out to make meatloaf. Just then, Atlas walks in the door, sets the wood down by the fireplace, and looks over at me.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Starting dinner. Is meatloaf okay?” I ask, not knowing what kind of food he expects, but I do know it will be my job to prepare it.

“Go sit down and relax. I’ll make dinner,” he says.

I freeze. He doesn’t sound mad, but maybe he’s still angry from my escape attempt.

“If you don’t want meatloaf, I can make something else…” I say, but he shakes his head as he walks over to me.

“Go rest and let me take care of you,” he says gently, while pushing some of my hair away from my face.

When his fingers gently brush my skin, I get tingles racing down my spine.

“Why?” I blurt out the big question on my mind.

He takes a deep breath, like he’s thinking for a minute before he answers.

“Because I get the feeling you are always taking care of other people, but no one takes care of you, and I have this need to take care of you,” he says.

My lips part in shock as I stare up at him.

He catches the moment and gently reaches up and runs a finger over my bottom lip. “Go sit down, or take a nap,” he says, his rough voice soothing.

Though I’m not really tired, I head to the bedroom and lie down just to get some space as my mind races.

It’s been a really long time since anyone has really taken care of me. I was taking care of my mom and myself, and I guess I fell into that role with my dad, and he let me. That flowed into me taking care of the men in the club my dad brought around. It was natural, and I never gave it much thought.

I must have been more tired than I realized because the next thing I know, Atlas is rubbing my arm and calling my name.

“It’s time for dinner, Princess,” he says, his voice low and gentle.

When I open my eyes, he is crouched down beside the bed and eye level with me. He keeps stroking my arm as I awaken. The comfort it brings soothes me. I don’t think he knows what that touch is doing to me, so I move and stretch.

He stands, looking down at me with a warm look in his striking eyes.Maybe if I knew him better, I would know what that look signifies.

“Wash up. It’s time to eat,” he says, leaving the room.

After taking a few minutes to wake up, and more importantly, to let my heart stop racing, I make my way to the kitchen. I find he’s set the dining room table like it’s a fancy meal, candles and all.

“What’s this?” I ask as I take a seat in the chair he holds out for me.

“Just because we are out in the middle of nowhere doesn’t mean we can’t have a nice dinner,” he says, while pushing my chair in. Then he sits down at the table directly across from me.

“I can’t remember the last time someone cooked dinner for me,” I say with awe as I take it all in. Then, realizing what I said, I clamp my mouth shut.

“There isn’t anything you can’t talk about. It seems like you were taking care of other people, but no one was taking care of you,” he says, passing me a plate of mashed potatoes.

How much can I trust him? Is it really betraying Dad if I tell Atlas I did the cooking and cleaning? I don’t think so. It’s not as if I’m giving him trade secrets.

“Yeah, I cooked the meals and kept wherever we were clean. I made the grocery lists, and one of the other guys would do the shopping,” I tell him as I load up my plate with meatloaf and gravy.

Shaking his head, he doesn’t say anything, but takes another bite of food.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I just think they should have been seeing to you,” he says, but it looks as if he’s stopping from saying anything else.

“I’ve been taking care of myself since my dad was in jail. I had to, Mom didn’t care to,” I say like it’s nothing.

At my words, Atlas’s fork clatters to his plate, and he looks over at me.

“You know your dad could have left the Army when you were five. And again, when you were nine. But because he was more interested in his black-market dealings and the money he was making, he kept volunteering for deployments over and over. But I know he was sending a good amount of money home to your mom for you every month too,” Atlas says.

I stare at him, processing what he just said.

“You can’t prove it,” I tell him, almost in shock.

“No. But you know in your heart it’s true. We can look up how many times he renewed his contract, normally every four to six years. He wasn’t held in the military against his will. Something kept him there,” he says softly.

There is a lump in my throat, and I won’t be able to finish my food even if I try.

“Excuse me,” I say, barely above a whisper, as I get up and run back to the bedroom I napped in earlier and lock the door behind me.

I listen, but he doesn’t follow me. So, I sit on the bed with my mind racing. I remember hearing Mom talk with one of her boyfriends about my dad’s contract renewing, but I thought they were talking about deployments.

I always wondered, but the letters and emails from my dad made it seem like he didn’t have a choice being there. Or is that what I wanted to believe? Because if he had a choice and he chose to leave me with Mom knowing everything I told him, then he was no better than her.

If my father was the kind of man who left me with my irresponsible and lazy mother, he was capable of doing everything for which he was arrested. All of this makes me question everything. Why did we have to move to a new location every few weeks if we weren’t doing anything wrong? The Mustang Mountain Riders have been in the same place for decades. Why can’t my dad talk to Atlas and have it out? Why does he have to endanger a whole club, including women and children?

The more I think about everything I’ve learned in the last few days, the more I realize my dad isn’t the good guy in this story.

And Atlas isn’t the bad guy.