Her brow arches. “I’ll never use it.”
I toss the pen down and walk out before I try to take what I want and smash those sassy lips under mine.
When I’m back out at my bike, I stare up at the building while I strap on my helmet.
Do I want this girl? Yeah, I do, but just how badly? Enough to complicate the fuck outta my world? Because that’s what she’s gonna do if I let her.
She’s got spirit and backbone, not to mention the sass she throws around that turns me the fuck on. But it’s more than that. It’s something I saw in her eyes, something I’m not even sure I can label, something that pinged back and forth between us.
Maybe it’s wishful thinking on my part, or maybe Miss Michaela Mooney is into bad boys. She may not even know it yet, but it’s there. I saw it, I felt it, and I’m betting she did too.
Question remains, do I want this girl? She’d be a complication I absolutely do not need right now. But since when have I ever let that stand in my way?
Eight
Michaela—
I’m still in the office when Phil comes back to tell me that the bar is closed up. I see the questions in his eyes, but he doesn’t ask, and I can’t help the sigh of relief. Last thing I want to do is explain any of what just happened between that damn infuriating man and myself.
Carlos comes in behind him with a brown paper bag. “Here, Michaela. Had some chicken tenders and fries leftover. Hate to see them go to waste. Put a container of my special sauce in there. Enjoy.”
“Thank you, Carlos. That’s sweet of you.”
He winks. “Gotta keep the boss lady happy. Besides, you’re too skinny.”
I grin and roll my eyes, and he leaves, whistling.
Phil head’s out, too, so I lock up behind him, then walk upstairs to the apartment and eat the food. It’s delicious and I’m starving.
After spending the night in a noisy bar, my apartment is too quiet. I wander into the living room and move to the window and stare outside. The street below is still; not a single car goes by while the traffic light at the end of the block changes from green to red for no one. Apparently, Uprising rolls up the sidewalks at one a.m.
I press my forehead to the glass and stare down at the spot where Sly’s bike was parked and imagine him standing down there, staring up at me. God, he was good-looking, and I was attracted to him in a way I haven’t been since I was fourteen and had a crush on Mike Murkowski freshman year of high school.
But his visit was unsettling. I know I had my suspicions about where all that money went every month in Da’s ledger, but to have Sly boldly walk in and confirm it with no shame is overwhelming.
He’s not like the bikers from my memory of the night I hid in the supply closet and watched them beat my father.
I know in my head he wears the same patch as those men, but I didn’t get the vibe that he would actually hurt me. Maybe I’m kidding myself. Maybe it’s just his good looks that are fooling me. Maybe he’s no different from those men at all.
Still, I can’t help remembering every detail about Sly: the way he smelled like leather and motor oil and fresh country air, like he’d been out riding tonight; the way his hard body felt when he pulled me tight against him; the way he stared into my eyes.
He has the most amazing light green eyes. I felt like they looked right into my soul and saw all my deepest secrets. I was drawn to him. Even Sly’s voice was addicting, low and soft with that sexy southern drawl.
Good God, Michaela, pull yourself together. He’s a filthy biker and possibly a criminal to boot. His club probably deals guns and drugs and who knows what else. Rumors have always flown around town about them. Most of the stories so outlandish, I have to believe they’re made up or at least exaggerated.
I bite my lip thinking about how I’m going to come up with that money. I’m not exactly clear on what the “or else” is, but I’m pretty sure I don’t want to find out. If I try to stand up to him and his club, will he burn down the bar? Break my legs like some nineteen-twenties gangster? Worse?
Do I want to dare to find out?
Sly said he wasn’t going to hurt me, and he called me “angel,” but if I refuse to pay up at the end of the thirty days he’s given me, will his demeanor change?
When he held me close and stared down into my eyes, I swore he was going to kiss me. Something inside of me that I really don’t want to examine too closely was almost sorry when he didn’t. I lift my fingertips to my lips. No matter how hard I try, I can’t forget the way he brushed his thumb just under them and the way he stared at my mouth, like he was thinking of all the ways he wanted to put it to use.
I press my hands to my heated cheeks. Michaela! Stop it right now! How can I feel this way? What if he was involved in Da’s death, maybe not directly, but maybe if it really was suicide, perhaps he and his club drove him to it. For years and years they were shaking him down. When I think of all the money they took from our family, I want to scream. Oh, what couldn’t we have done with that money?
Oh, how brazen he was, standing there in my da’s office—no, I have to correct myself, my office now—demanding my attention in a way a man has never done before, swooping me in his arms like he had a right to touch me, like I shouldn’t fight it. Then, he has the nerve to laugh and say I’ll never last a month. I’ll show him. I know it goes against all my plans, but God, I’d love to prove him wrong.
Nine
Michaela—
It being Sunday, I’m exhausted and lay around all morning until my cell goes off. I reach for it on the nightstand and see it’s Bethany. “Hey girl.”
“How are you holding up?” she asks.
“It’s so much harder than I thought it would be.”
“Meet me down the street at the diner in an hour for lunch and we can talk.”
I yawn, wondering if I can pull myself together by then. I haven’t even had a shower yet. “An hour?”
“Yes. See you there. Don’t be late.” She disconnects, and I grumble while tossing the phone on the table, “Ugh, fine.”
I throw off the covers and walk over to the window; it’s sunny and supposed to be warm today.
An hour later, I’m showered, my hair is dried, and I’ve thrown on a simple sundress and a pair of sandals. I pop small gold hoops in my ears and slip a delicate gold chain around my neck that holds my initial pendant and birthstone charm.
Then I weave my hair into a single French braid down the back. After a final check in the mirror, I decide to at least add a swipe of mascara and some lipgloss, and I’m ready to go.
Ten minutes later, I’ve walked down the block to the diner. The bell rings as I pull open the door. I spot Bethany in a booth along the window and slide in across from her. The red Formica table already holds water glasses for each of us, and there’s a glass of sweet tea in front of me as well.
Bethany jabs at her glass with her straw, chopping at the crushed ice in her cola. “I got you a tea.”
“Thanks.” I take a sip and then study the plastic-coated menu on the table in front of me. I haven’t eaten here in three years, but the menu still looks the same. “What are you having?”