“I have no desire to know what they get up to,” Raisin groused.
Neev tossed her hair. “I’ve tried to listen in, but they’re too good at catching me.”
I bet.
“Well, we can keep it that way if you stay with me.” I compounded the warning with a firm look.
I knew I hadn’t triggered a rebellion, but stirred a natural caution when Neev nodded at me and didn’t answer back—had a miracle just happened?
Hoping to God that I wouldn’t lose an Irish girl to an MC in the next twenty-four hours, I listened for the roar of a dozen motorbikes heading our way while Raisin chirped at Neev for being a bitch and Kitty played the part of ref.
Could this day get any fucking worse?
THIRTY-ONE
STAN
Dumb question.
Of course it fucking could.
And did.
THIRTY-TWO
KITTY
The MC compound looked nothing like those I’d seen on TV.
It wasn’t clean and tidy, despite being relatively well put together. Okay, that was mean. A couple dozen men lived here, so the fact we didn’t walk straight into a pig sty said a lot. More asscheeks hung out of short-shorts than could be sanitary, and I managed to catch the tail-end of a blow job as a door to one of the bedrooms closed.
The whole thing reminded me of that night out when Neev had accidentally doped me with a tab of LSD.
In fact, that trip had psyched me out less than being led into an overly large office where four men and a woman in skintight, head-to-toe denim waited for us—armed like the IRA and we were the British.
Luciferwas older than me by at least a decade and a half, but I seriously hoped I could pull off a catsuit like that when I hit her age.
She fascinated me more than her men. And they were sexy silver foxes. Each and every one of them.
Especially the guy with the bright, gray-speckled red hair andcheeks so full of freckles you couldn’t drop a needle where one didn’t take up any room on his face.
To contain four guys like this—four brothers. To have them drooling over her in a place with sex on tap from the women who considered anything below the ass cheeks demure?
Now that was impressive.
The head honcho behind the desk, slouched and twirling a knife on its point into the blotter, barely lifted his head as we strolled into his study.
“We don’t often have guests,” the woman, Lucifer, cooed as she ambled over to us. That was when I saw her hooker heels and had to stop myself from drooling.
“Where did you get those bad boys from?”
“Oh?” She paused that boss-ass stride to frown. “I grew up with them.”
“She meant your shoes,” Stan commented.
He gave me a look that said for my sake, he hoped that was what I’d meant.
Preening, Lucifer chuckled as she displayed her shoes to my fascinated gaze, angling them this way and that. “These old things?”
