Skip is probably having hot sex right now while I’m about to go clean man juice off the bathroom floor. The thought stings more than it should.
I glance at my reflection again and wonder if I’ll find someone of my own. I know it won’t be someone like Skip. But I’ll be happy as long as it’ssomeone.
Loneliness seeps deeper into my heart before I turn away and get back to work.
Chapter Six
Skip
I watch the naked woman sprawled across the motel bed, legs spread wide, pussy glistening with need for me.
And I feel… nothing.
Not a damn thing.
My cock doesn’t even twitch.
She’s sexy as hell. Big tits, perfect handlebar hips, lips made for sucking dick…and still, nothing. Not a spark.
Still fully dressed, I drag a hand down my face and turn toward the door.
“Sorry, darlin’,” I say over my shoulder. “Family emergency.”
“Motherfucker!” she yells as I shut the door behind me and head for my bike.
Lucky for her, she drove herself. Tried to climb on the back of my ride earlier, but that wasn’t fucking happening. A real biker knows that seat stays empty unless the person on itmeanssomething. That spot’s sacred. Reserved for the one fate picks out just for you.
Images of Eli flicker through my mind before I can stop them. His nervous smile. The way he blushes when I tease him. Those soft, sleepy eyes.
I grit my teeth and shove my keys into the ignition, trying to shake it off.
I’ve gotten so damn obsessed with that man that I didn’t even notice Knuckles slipping. Didn’t even recognize that somethingwas fucking wrong because I was so focused on his anger. I’m supposed to be a brother first, and I’ve been a shit one lately.
I thought burying myself in some hot, willing pussy would fix it. Would cure whatever spell Eli Waddell has over me.
But I couldn’t go through with it.
Didn’t evenwantto.
I spend hours doing random shit before I head back to the compound. I park my bike and head straight for Knuckles’ place…not surprised to see him sitting on his porch and drinking beer at nearly three in the morning.
“Must’ve been some magic pussy if you were gone that long,” Knuckles says, lifting a beer to his lips.
“Nah,” I chuckle, dropping into the chair beside him. “Dick wouldn’t cooperate. Went for a ride instead. Ate some Chinese and then went to the gym for a few hours. Needed some fresh air to sort through some shit.”
He snorts. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with a brown-eyed pretty boy, would it?”
I shoot him a look, but he just smirks like he already knows the answer.
Three days ago, Knuckles finally broke down and told us what the hell was going on.
Lung cancer. Stage four.
Docs gave him a year to live.
That was ten months ago.
The reminder hits hard.
