Chapter 5- The Savage Saints Come Calling

Dawn's POV It wasn't long before someone knocked on the front door. Chelsea's head shot up from the box she'd been unpacking. "Oh! They're here!" Before I could respond, the woman practically launched herself off the kitchen floor and hurried toward the entrance. I shook my head. Good Lord. You'd think her husband had been gone for six months instead of a few hours. I heard the front door open. Then Chelsea squealed. "Baby!" There was a masculine grunt, followed by laughter. I stepped out of the kitchen just in time to see my five-foot-three best friend launch herself into her husband's arms. Grant caught her effortlessly, his large hands settling beneath her thighs as she wrapped her legs around his waist. Then she kissed him. And I don't mean some sweet little peck on the lips. Nope. I'm talking about the kind of kiss that makes you wonder whether you should politely excuse yourself or start charging admission. Grant certainly wasn't complaining. His arms tightened around his wife as he kissed her right back. I leaned against the doorway, taking another sip of my coffee. "Well, thank you, you two. I just got some new material for my next book." Chelsea broke the kiss, laughing against her husband's mouth. Grant turned his head toward me. "Morning, Dawn." "Morning, Grant. Should I leave you two alone, or are we planning on moving my furniture sometime today?" He grinned. "Jealous?" "Of what? Your ability to hold up a hundred and twenty pounds of trouble?" "Hey!" Chelsea protested. Grant laughed. "She's got you there, baby." Chelsea smacked his shoulder. "You're supposed to defend me!" "Against Dawn? Hell, sweetheart, I know better." I pointed at him. "See? Smart man." Grant shook his head, still smiling, before finally setting his wife on her feet. That's when I noticed the enormous man standing behind him. And when I say enormous, I mean enormous. Holy freaking testosterone. The man had to be well over six feet tall, with shoulders broad enough to block half my doorway. His dark hair was cut short, and a thick beard covered his jaw. He wore faded jeans, heavy black boots, and a black leather vest over a dark T-shirt. His arms were covered in tattoos. And the expression on his face? Well, let's just say he didn't look like someone who spent his weekends volunteering to dress up as Santa Claus. Although... Now that was an entertaining mental image. I mentally filed it away for later. Grant stepped aside. "Dawn, this is Bull. He's a brother of mine." Bull's dark eyes settled on me. I looked up. And up. Good grief. Did they grow these men in a laboratory somewhere? "Nice to meet you," I said, extending my hand. Bull glanced at it before wrapping his much larger hand around mine. "Ma'am." His voice was deep. Really deep. The kind of voice that probably made people confess to crimes they hadn't committed. I raised an eyebrow. "Ma'am?" His expression didn't change. "Yeah." "Oh, honey. Don't start that. I'm forty, not ninety." Behind him, Grant snorted. Bull's mouth twitched. "Noted." "Good. Now, do you have an actual name, or did your mother look at you when you were born and decide Bull was appropriate?" Chelsea made a choking noise. Grant burst out laughing. Bull stared at me. For one horrifying second, I wondered whether I'd finally managed to offend someone who could snap me in half like a toothpick. And let me tell you I'm not no toothpick. But I'm not big either. Then he laughed. A deep, rumbling sound that seemed to come straight from his chest. "You're something else, ain't you?" "So I've been told." Grant clapped him on the shoulder. "Told you she'd be entertaining." I narrowed my eyes. "Excuse me. What exactly have you been telling people about me?" "Nothing bad." "Grant." "Mostly." I pointed toward the garage. "Keep talking, and I'll make you carry that bed upstairs by yourself." Chelsea giggled. Bull looked between us. "Bed?" "Oh, right." I sighed. "The entire reason I needed your assistance." I gestured for them to follow me. "Come on, gentlemen. Let me show you the monstrosity." As we walked through the house, I found myself looking at the backs of their leather vests. Cuts. That's what they called them. I knew that much. Considering I wrote motorcycle club romances, you'd think I'd know more. But here's the thing. I write fiction. And while I research plenty of things for my books. I'd never exactly sat down with Grant and asked him to explain the inner workings of his club. His cut had several patches stitched onto it. The largest was on the back. Across the top, bold lettering read: SAVAGE SAINTS Beneath it was a weathered skull with a cracked halo hovering above its head. And along the bottom? SOUTH CAROLINA Well. That was certainly cheerful. Savage Saints. I tilted my head. Interesting name. Very dramatic. And I would know. I once spent three hours trying to decide whether a fictional biker should be named Reaper or Butcher. Bull caught me staring. "Something wrong?" I blinked. "Nope. Just admiring your patch." He glanced down at his vest. "Yeah?" "Savage Saints, huh?" "That's right." I nodded thoughtfully. "So what happened? Hell's Accountants was already taken?" Grant barked out a laugh. Chelsea doubled over. Bull slowly turned toward me. I smiled sweetly. "What?" He shook his head, chuckling. "You're gonna be trouble." "Sweetheart, I've been trouble for forty years. You're a little late to the party." When we reached the garage, I flipped on the light. "There she is." My beautiful, ridiculously oversized bed frame sat against the far wall. Surrounded by boxes and pieces of furniture that hadn't made it into the house yet. Grant stared at it. Bull stared at it. Then Grant looked at me. "Dawn." "Grant." "What the hell is that?" "My bed." "That's not a bed. That's a damn fortress." "Thank you. I'm aware." Bull walked over and inspected the heavy wooden frame. "Solid wood?" "Yep." He gave it an experimental lift. His eyebrows rose slightly. "Hell." I folded my arms. "See? I told Chelsea this wasn't a girl-power project." Chelsea stepped forward. "We could've figured it out." Bull looked at her. Then at the bed. Then back at her. "No." I threw both hands into the air. "THANK YOU!" Chelsea rolled her eyes. "Oh, don't encourage her." Bull chuckled. "Where's it going?" "Upstairs. Master bedroom." Grant looked toward the doorway. "How wide's the staircase?" "Wide enough." He gave me a look. "What?" "Dawn." "Fine. I measured it. It fits." Bull nodded. "Good. Let's get it done." I stepped aside as the two men began discussing how to maneuver the frame safely through the house. Chelsea moved beside me. "See? Told you they'd handle it." I leaned toward her. "Your husband's friend is enormous." She grinned. "He's a big boy." "No kidding. Does the club have some kind of minimum height requirement?" Chelsea laughed. "Not that I know of." "Because I'm starting to wonder whether Grant joined a motorcycle club or a professional wrestling organization." From across the garage, Bull called out, "I can hear you." I smiled. "Wonderful! Saves me repeating myself." Grant nearly dropped his end of the frame laughing. Bull shook his head. But he was smiling. .......................... Twenty minutes later, my bed frame was finally upstairs. Well, most of it. Apparently, getting it into the bedroom was only half the battle. Now it needed to be assembled. Grant stood with his hands on his hips, studying the collection of wooden pieces spread across my bedroom floor. "Where's the hardware?" I blinked. "The what?" "The bolts, screws, brackets. Whatever holds this thing together." "Oh." Grant slowly turned toward me. "Dawn." "Don't use that tone." "Where's the hardware?" I looked around the room. Then toward the hallway. Then back at him. "Funny story." Chelsea started laughing. Grant closed his eyes. Bull crossed his arms. I smiled. "So, remember how I mentioned the movers weren't exactly thorough?" Grant groaned. "Please tell me you know where the bolts are." "Of course I do!" Three sets of eyes stared at me. I hesitated. "Well... approximately." Bull rubbed a hand over his beard. "Approximately?" "They're in a box." Grant looked toward the ceiling. "Which box?" I gave him my brightest smile. "That's the fun part." Chelsea burst out laughing. Grant muttered something under his breath. And Bull? Bull just stood there looking at me. Then, slowly, that intimidating man started to grin. "Lady, you're a damn disaster." I placed a hand over my heart. "Excuse you. I'm an organized disaster." "That so?" "Absolutely. There's a difference." Bull laughed. And for some reason, hearing that enormous, intimidating man laugh made me smile. Maybe having a few bikers around wouldn't be so bad after all. Especially if they were willing to assemble furniture. Now, if only I could remember where I'd packed those damn bolts.