Faith: Biker Romance (The Virtues Book 2) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By

  Dedication

  Title Page

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  Call To Action

  Also By copy

  About The Author

  Copyright © 2014 by Davida Lynn. All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Mayhem Cover Creations

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Also By Davida Lynn:

  The Virtues Series:

  Book One: Hope

  Book Three: Charity (Available December 15th)

  Standalone Work:

  Brutal

  Acknowledgements

  A big shout out to my writing partner Rayna Bishop, my faithful companion in telling stories. She keeps me honest and true.

  To the one I will always have faith in. To the one I will always call home.

  Let there be light, sound, drums, guitar. Let there be rock ~ AC/DC

  We’d been inside Enlightened Pathway for almost an hour. If I looked at one more inspirational Christian book, I thought I might just drop dead right there to meet God and speed the process along. My mother danced from row to row, humming to herself. The monthly trip was her favorite thing, and she still thought it was my favorite thing, too.

  At fifteen, I had already started to question the church, and just shy of my nineteenth birthday, I grew tired of the runaround answers and sideways glances from pastors. As I reached womanhood, the church felt less like comforting arms and more like a place you went every Sunday and Wednesday, rain or shine. I saw it as more of a social gathering. A social gathering where I had no real place.

  Despite being raised with the same children in Bible study and VBS for years, I felt no connection to any of my friends. They felt the light of God on them, and that was the thing that separated us. I kept up the act, of course, because I couldn't imagine what my parents would do if they discovered a non-believer right under their noses. Colorado Springs wasn’t exactly an atheist's town.

  I saw my mother came around a corner with a stack of books, and I snatched something off of the closest shelf at random. I flipped it open to somewhere near the front and read Genesis teaches us the answer to the all-important question, “Where do I come from?”

  She had a wide grin on her face. “Faith, would you mind? This lady’s arms are getting sore from all these great books!” She saw my nose buried in something, and I thought she would squeal with delight. “What did you find, angel?” It was close enough to a squeal. I counted it as a win.

  I turned the cover, reading the title for the first time, but trying to sound like it wasn’t. “All 66 Books of The Bible Explained and Applied.” It sounded like the dustiest reading ever, but I smiled up at her.

  Her eyes seemed to grow larger. “Want to add it to the pile?”

  I nodded, placating her for at least another month. “Sure, Mom. If you don’t mind.” It would collect dust on my nightstand like the others before it.

  “Mind? I’m going to borrow it as soon as you're done, silly girl.”

  She turned back to the fiction section, leaving me with a stack of seven books. The sunshine filtering in through the windows graced my skin, and I turned toward the storefront. With a quiet sigh, I looked around, hoping to find anything to distract me from the monthly Question of Faith at the bookstore.

  In the fall, Colorado gives the impression of the most peaceful and beautiful wildfire washing over the city, and on the outskirts near the mountains, it is only amplified. The barren and snow-covered peaks of the Rockies give way to growth as one descends. The brush turns to trees, aflame with the changing colors of autumn. Looking west, it was a beautiful tidal wave of deep tones. The wind brought that calming scent of leaves and earth. The city was beautiful, but my existence in it was anything but.

  I stared into the autumn day, wishing I was anywhere but trapped inside God’s bookshop. I lowered the pile of Christian books, and before I knew what I was doing, my body carried me toward the door. I turned back to my mom, and my mouth opened, but I couldn't find the right words. There were no right words. The shopkeeper gave me a smile, as if she knew I was about to escape and taste some much needed freedom.

  The heat of summer was still in the air, and I relished the warmth of the sun on my skin. My tan would soon begin to fade, so I drank in as much of that blissful sunlight as I could. I looked back in through the window to see my mother buried in some book, so I figured I could disappear for a little bit without her being too worried.

  A breeze blew down the small street, teasing the hem of my long dress with the promise of flight. I smiled as I felt it graze my legs and ambled down past the small shops in Western Colorado Springs.

  My father’s words came to me as I stared off at the foothills of the Rocky Mountains: “The military’s been very good to the Vincini family, Faith.”

  It had kept my father employed for my entire life, but it also never allowed us a vacation outside of the town. There was something so restless inside me. Any chance I could get, I talked with my older sister Esther and her husband in California. I loved hearing about their trips to the Pacific Ocean, and I dreamed of the day I could dip my toes in.

  I headed down the street, closing in on the railroad tracks. I looked back and decided I’d cross the tracks and then come back on the other side of the street. Hopefully by then, my mother would be done adding to her collection.

  As I passed over the endless steel rail, the wind picked up again. It was more blustery this time, and I reached down to grab the bottom of my dress as it tried to escape me. The wind picked it up, and I pushed it back down, flattening it against my thighs. That’s when I heard the whistle.

  I almost wish it had been from a train; at least then it would have been a warning instead of a catcall.

  I don’t know what made me turn toward him instead of ignoring him completely. Maybe I thought it was part of the adventure, or maybe it was the autumn heat. Whatever the cause, a smile crept onto my face as I looked to see whose lips the whistle had come from.

  The first thing I thought of was Tom Sawyer. My mother had read it to me when I was younger, and the image of the clever, adventurous little boy always stuck with me. This was no boy, but that childlike, mischievous glint was in his eyes. He had a boy’s eyes, but a man’s body.

  He was leaning up against an old wooden fence that did little to shield the shops from the sound of the passing trains. His jeans were rolled up, and he had his white t-shirt tucked in. James Dean was the next image in my head, and that devil-may-care attitude that screamed “cool.” He had a smile that matched the tone of his whistle.

  There was something about him that just looked timeless. He could have stepped out of the fifties. Nothing he wore screamed 1986, and I’m sure I stared at him because of that. Everyone my age worked so hard to follow fashion, but not this stranger.

  I tried to get angry. My mother and father’s conservative parenting had taught me that attention from the boys was bad. The worst. My father excelled at religious rants relating to
sexuality, and my mother had already started pushing me toward certain boys in church, dull boys too shy to look me in the eye. This was no boy, and he couldn’t look anywhere but my eyes, which was at least better than his eyes wandering downwards.

  My heart jumped, not because of the whistle, and not because of the man standing a few feet away, but because of what I was about to say.

  “Is that all you can manage? A whistle?” Standing between the two infinite strips of steel, I put my hands on my hips.

  He smiled wider. “No, but it only goes downhill from there.”

  Redness rushed to my cheeks. My heart was pounding hard inside my chest. I stole a quick glance back toward the bookstore, wanting to make sure my mother wasn’t outside searching for me. The street was almost bereft of cars, let alone people. I turned my attention back to the man with the mouth.

  He stopped laughing at his own wit and pushed himself upright from the fence. “Sorry, but that’s the best way I've found to get a pretty girl’s attention.” His voice was smooth enough to match his attitude, deep and rich.

  The thumping in my chest only grew faster and stronger. My mind was already screaming at me to turn around and meet back up with my mom. My feet had other plans. I smiled at him, even though I recognized the flattery.

  I was free from the family for a moment, so I did my best to act like the type of girl he’d take out on a Friday night. “You got a name?”

  “I sure do. What about you?” He was so cocky that I could hardly stand it! His smile was electric. He didn’t wear it, he used it, and he probably knew it, too. The white teeth, the dimples at his cheeks—it was all working against me and for him.

  “Faith.” I didn’t say it with the usual pride. Any time a friend of the family heard the name, they fawned over me instantly, as if my name made me our Father Himself.

  Tom Sawyer/James Dean nodded. “I know your type. Mommy and Daddy drag you with them to church every chance they get. You read the Bible every night before bed, and I bet there’s a golden cross beneath that pretty little dress, isn’t there?”

  Out of instinct, I reached up beneath my chin and pressed against my dress. I could feel the thin chain that did, indeed, hold a cross. He was partially right, but he only knew half the story. He was a little too cocky for his own good.

  My voice was sour and quick. “They do drag me every chance they get. The cross is so my parents leave me be. I read John D. MacDonald before bed, but I’m sure you wouldn’t know—”

  “Travis McGee, or his other stuff?” The sure look was still on his face. I hated to be bested, but I had to admit that he had an answer for everything. He was refreshing, even if he was a bit of a smart ass.

  “Travis McGee.” After I spoke, he stared at me, waiting for the next move on the board. He had a counter for all of them, even the ones I hadn’t thought of yet.

  “Walk with me,” I said. “I don’t have long.” I decided that might be something he hadn’t planned for. He wasn’t expecting me to give in so soon. I guessed I was right, because he nodded and kept his mouth shut for a change.

  I turned and began to head back down the street on the opposite side for a change of scenery. He walked beside me, looking at me and smiling before turning back to his own thoughts.

  As we passed an art gallery, he stopped in front of the large window and spoke again, keeping his gaze on the inside of the store.

  “What school do you go to? I don’t recognize you, and I’ve bounced around between quite a few of them.” He said it as if it was casual conversation. I knew what he was implying, and it only made him seem more mysterious and dangerous. I was sure that was exactly what he was going for, too.

  I hated the answer. I always had, but my mother wouldn’t budge. “I’m homeschooled, actually.”

  As I spoke, I watched his reflection. His eyes were more alive than any I’d ever seen before. The boys in Bible study had the eyes of followers. This one was no follower.

  “Homeschool. Sheltered. How much time to you actually get to yourself?”

  I smiled. “Well, since I don’t have a car or a job, very little. Time away from my parents is time spent with the other homeschoolers at Bible study.” I sounded dull as hell.

  “Wow, Faith. When is it that you cut loose?”

  The paintings inside weren’t anything spectacular; the standard Native American crap that tourists ate up, but for whatever reason, the fast-talker next to me was transfixed.

  I stood next to him, staring at the earth tone abstract, and the realization struck me. “I don’t know...” I was eighteen and I’d never left the state, let alone made my own friends outside of the church. I lived a boring life, and I didn’t see any end in sight. The plan was to attend Nazarene Bible College in the fall, and more boring life after that.

  The kid turned to me, his face serious for the first time since I’d met him. “But you want to, don’t you?”

  “Want to what?”

  “Cut loose.” His eyes were like glaciers, a glowing blue that froze you in place. “You’re just dying to cut loose.”

  He could read me so well, and we’d only just met. I whispered my reply with more reverence than I gave any prayer. “Yes.” I stared into his eyes, finding some kind of truth there that I’d never felt before.

  I hated that he knew what I wanted. I hated that he’d pulled the word from me. Most of all, I hated that it had taken me so long to find someone to do just those things.

  The stranger stared at me, drinking in the shocked look on my face. He saw right through me, down to my very core and deepest desires. He smiled and nodded.

  He spoke like the guest pastors I’d seen, slick and confident, knowing our interaction would be fleeting. “I thought so. You and me are going to have some fun, Faith.”

  I snapped out of my daze. “Who do you think you are? You act like you know me, but you don't have any idea who I am. Heck, I don't even know your name.”

  He took a step back, raising his hands, “Hey, hey, I’m sorry. Nobody likes to hear the truth; I get that. I’m just saying that you could use a little bit of fun.” He stepped back toward me, closer than he had ever been before. “Something to get your heart rate going like it is right now.”

  He was right again. My heart was pounding in my chest, pumping adrenaline throughout my body. Every sensation was heightened, and somehow he knew it. It was like he could read my mind. Of course, talk was easy—living under the conservative reign of my parents wasn't.

  “Yeah, I’ll just go ask my mother if I can run off and have some fun with a slick-talking stranger. That will go over—”

  He cut me off. “Like a fart in church?”

  “Oh my goodness!” I hit him in the arm while he laughed. It was like he enjoyed pushing my buttons. I turned to head back to the bookstore and my mother, and he caught up to me in a second.

  He was still cracking up. “I’m sorry, I had to. Couldn’t help it.”

  I ignored the remark, but I couldn't ignore him. There was something magnetic about him. “Are you going to tell me your name?”

  “Eventually, yes.”

  I rolled my eyes. “So mysterious.” I hoped it sounded sarcastic instead of betraying the genuine interest I had for him. “You know my name, my history, where I don’t go to school. You gotta give me something, buddy.”

  “I could give you a kiss.” That cocky son of a gun.

  I turned to him as we walked. “I could give you a slap.” He looked hurt for a split second. I liked that. I didn’t want him to think he knew me inside and out. I was full of surprises. My face cracked into a smile as disarming as his own.

  His worry faded, and I could almost see him reevaluating what he thought he knew about me. I looked across the street to see that we were almost across from the bookstore. It killed me, but it was time to say goodbye.