Free Hard Case (Hard as Nails #2) by Hope Conrad

time we talk, but he doesn’t. Instead, he spends his time trying to take my mind off of it. I’ve known it, of course, but listening to him tell me how being stuck in the house has been tough on him, it really hits me. He’s investing as much into my well-being as he is into my case.
    “Okay, getting out of the house will be good.”
    “Great. I figure we can leave right after breakfast and spend most of the day on the road.”
    “You’re serious about this ride, aren’t you?”
    He grins. “You have no idea,” he teases.
    I can’t help but thinking I’ve got something he can ride all day. His body is a perfectly sculpted piece of muscle and flesh. His eyes are kind, but they’re also sharp and commanding. They have the power to freeze me in my tracks, but they can also be very inviting. His appearance exudes confidence and success. He could be flat broke, and no one would believe it.
    I scarf down my food and chug my coffee. Suddenly, despite my earlier fear, excitement churns in my stomach. I can’t wait to see what he has in store for me today. I drop my plate off in the kitchen sink and hurry upstairs to get dressed.
    When I come back down in blue jeans and a black T-shirt, Slate is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the wall, still in his white T-shirt and jeans. I find it odd he hasn’t thrown on one of his dressier shirts yet.
    “Ready?” he asks me.
    “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I answer him.
    “Good. Come on.” He pushes himself off the wall and walks to the front door, holding it for me as I walk outside.
    We walk around to the garage. It has two doors, one wide enough to fit two cars, and one narrow, for a single car. Slate pulls out his keys and hits a button attached to his keychain, causing the narrow door to open. I expect some shiny new car to appear behind the door as it raises.
    Instead, I’m greeted by a powerful-looking old motorcycle, one of the models with the tall handle bars. There’s a vest hanging from one.
    “What do you think?”
    “This is not at all what I expected,” I tell him.
    He laughs. “I’ve had this old bike almost as long as I’ve been driving.” He walks into the garage and looks at it with a mixture of admiration and lust, and I realize with a start that he’s looked the same way at me on several occasions.
    He slides on the vest, covered in patches. In an instant, he goes from looking casually sexy to sexy with a dangerous edge.
    “So, you were in a motorcycle gang before you took up law?”
    He chuckles, genuinely amused by my question. “No, a motorcycle club . An MC. We weren’t Hell’s Angels or anything like that.”
    “What’s the difference?” I ask him, thinking they were all the same regardless of what they wanted to call their organization.
    “A gang is usually involved in criminal activity, and they’re the type you hear about from the seventies or earlier. These are the guys whose sole purpose for being in the gang is to raise hell and start shit. Motorcycle clubs are groups of guys who like to ride. They don’t usually start trouble, and we certainly don’t go out looking for it. Now, I’m not going to gloss it over too much. Bikers have a lot in common. We have a rebellious streak as long as the open road. That’s how we end up on the backs of these things to begin with.” He pats the seat of his bike.
    He hands me a helmet. Knowing that he’s been involved with bikers for a good bit of his life, he makes a little more sense to me. Despite all his charm and sophistication, he’s got a dangerous, unpredictable side. One that would resist authority no matter how well he plays within the system now. One that enables him to carry a gun and whip it out when he needs it without even breaking a sweat.
    “Have you ever ridden a motorcycle?” he asks.
    “Nope.” I shake my head.
    “Good. I’m glad this will be your first ride and I get the opportunity to take you out.”
    Just when I think I’ve