"Don't take me home," she says against my back.
"You need to sleep this off."
"I don't want to be alone."
Fuck.
"Ingrid—"
"Please."
That one word destroys me.
I should take her home anyway.
Should walk her to her door, make sure she locks it, leave before I do something stupid.
Instead, I find myself steering toward the clubhouse.
Toward my room.
Toward everything I've been trying not to want.
The clubhouse is quiet this time of night—most members either gone home or passed out drunk in the common room.
Anyone who is up is getting shit-faced at Bubba’s next door.
I park my bike and help Ingrid off.
She's steadier now, the ride sobering her slightly.
Or maybe it's the awareness of where we are.
What this means.
"Your room?" she asks.
"Unless you want to sleep on the couch in the main room."
"Your room," she decides.
We slip inside through the side entrance, avoiding the main room where I can hear someone snoring on the leather sectional.
The hallway to the member rooms is dim, lit only by emergency lighting.
My room is the third from the end on the second level.
I unlock it, push the door open, and step aside to let her in.
She moves past me and I catch her scent—alcohol and perfume and something underneath that's just her.
The door clicks shut behind us.
The room is small, masculine, nothing special.
Queen bed unmade from this morning.
Dresser with bike parts scattered across the top.
