She didn’t say shit.
“You said you learned how to massage to make you more employable, so I figured you must do it as a side job or something? If not, I’m sorry I made that assumption. I really don’t know why you’re lookin’ at me like you’re about to rip off my arm and shank me through the heart with it. Having skilled fingers is not a bad thing, and I was just asking about what you charge because I’m not sure if the VA will cover massage or not, and I’m a little fuckin’ desperate to find some goddamn relief.” I was rambling, desperately trying to dig myself out of whatever hole I’d fallen into.
Her eyes softened. Pink flooded her cheeks and she dropped her arms. “No, I’m sorry. I… overreacted. I don’t charge for massages. I’m a… teacher.”
That admission only created more confusion. Why would a teacher learn how to massage to make her more employable? What the hell was she teaching? Questions ate at me, but there was no way in hell I was asking them aloud. Not after barely surviving the last one.
“Sorry. I… it’s been a rough past couple of weeks and—”
I didn’t want her apologizing. After all she’d been through, she deserved a little grace. “I get it. You don’t gotta explain. You’ve been uprooted and now you’re staying with a biker club and the one person you know here just rode off for the night. You’ll do well to keep your guard up and not take any shit. Even from me.”
She watched me for a moment longer. “No. I was out of line. You’ve been very welcoming and kind, and I… I got a little crazy there for a minute. Forgive me?”
I shook my head. “There’s nothing to forgive. Really.” And strangely enough, I kind of liked seeing her crazy. Her temper had proven that this perfect, beautiful goddess was still human. She was still out of my league—way, way out of my league—but at least we were the same goddamn species.
My pain level was down to a dull throb and I felt like taking a little walk to stretch out my muscles. “Hey, Morse said he didn’t get much of a chance to show you around the place. Want me to do that, now?”
She was still studying me like I was a goddamn curiosity, and I thought for sure she’d turn me down. “Are you sure you’re up for that?” Her gaze dropped to my leg, making it clear what she meant.
“That?” I asked shrugging her off. “That happens all the time. It’s nothing. And thanks to your voodoo hand witchcraft, I can walk around for a while.”
“Voodoo hand witchcraft, huh?” she asked.
“That’s what it felt like to me. I feel at least 90% better.” Afraid she’d call me on my posturing, I drifted toward the kitchen. “Come on, I’ll even show you all the secrets.”
She seemed reluctant but followed me through the swinging doors.
9
Mila
HOUND’S ENTIRE BODY tensed the moment my hands landed on his leg. I’d seen that happen before with clients who weren’t used to being touched or had some sort of aversion to contact. Although he was clearly uncomfortable, he allowed my touch. When I dug into the knot in his leg, it had to hurt, but he didn’t ask me to stop. Either he trusted me enough to continue, or he was used to people doing whatever they wanted, even when it caused him pain. Regardless of the reason, I was glad to work out the knot and bring him some relief.
“Unless science makes some miraculous breakthrough, he’ll most likely live with that for the rest of his life.”
Levi’s previous statement about Hound’s condition carried more weight now that I’d seen the kind of agony Hound was living with. While I finished massaging his leg, I eyed his back, wondering how bad the damage was. Like the rest of the bikers, he was wearing a black leather vest over his T-shirt. Between the patches that marked him as a prospect of the Dead Presidents MC, and the vest itself, I couldn’t even discern where his backbone was, much less inspect it. I considered asking him to remove it, but bit my tongue.
As Hound stood, he seemed grateful, but also embarrassed. He should probably rest his leg, but I didn’t want to emasculate him by making the suggestion, especially after I’d jumped to conclusions about him wanting to pay me, so I agreed to the tour he offered.
“Are you sure you have time for this?” I asked, offering him an out in case he was in too much pain to continue.
Opening a cupboard, he replied, “What else would I be doing? It’s Sunday. Glasses are up here.” Closing that cupboard, he opened the one next to it. “Plates. Silverware can be found in that drawer to the left of the dishwasher.” He pointed. “Pots and pans go here. I don’t know if you’re into cooking or not, but we love a good meal around here. A couple of the club whores usually split cooking duties with the prospects, but they have a sign-up sheet on the side of that big fridge right there, in case anyone wants a turn.”
“Club whores?” I asked, certain I must have misheard him.
He threw his hands in the air. “Don’t look at me. I didn’t name them. I called Sherry a club ladyone time,and she jumped down my throat. Said if she’s okay with the title, I damn well better be, too.”
I needed more information. “What exactly is a club whore?” I asked.
“Some clubs call them patch bunnies, which seems more appropriate to me. They like to sleep with bikers, and aren’t too particular about who and when. From what I gather, it’s pretty common for clubs to have them hanging around.”
His use of the term “sleep with” and not “fuck” was kind of sweet. I didn’t know if he was watering the description down for me, or if that was the terminology he always used, but it was… refreshing in a strange way. Still, I felt my eyebrows rise at his definition. “Carly and Jessica and that group…”
“No.” He shook his head, chuckling. “They’re called ol’ ladies. They’re in committed relationships.”
“Oh.” Made sense. I couldn’t see any of them fucking their way through the bikers. Especially not with the protective way Wasp had his arm draped over Carly’s shoulders. “The ol’ ladies don’t have a problem with the club whores?”
Hound looked genuinely confused. “No. Why would they?”
