Ben chews his lips before grabbing a pair of scissors. “Bend over and don’t move.”
Holding on to my ankles, I’m just about to ask what the problem is but before I can he starts cutting up the legs of the jeans I’ve been dressed in.
“The shoes need your booty-patootie to sing,” he promises as he snips away. Each time he cuts, the cool press of the scissors creeps higher and higher. He’s definitely following the outline of my butt cheeks.
Ben does a triumphant harumph when a whole jean leg falls away. I stay still as he starts cutting the other to match. Harry helps me up and the two of them twist the clothes this way and that until they’re both chuckling in agreement and looking smug as hell.
“Go, Tris,” Ben says quickly, pretty much pushing me out of the door while at the same time still adjusting what I’m wearing, which is considerably less than before.
You also get quickly used to not seeing what you look like when you’re on a job which is a weird concept because you’d think all models do is look at themselves, but how I feel about how I look is kind of irrelevant. If the client is happy, my manager is happy and that’s how you distinguish a good day from a bad one.
Walking down the stairs, Big Tom waits at the bottom and clearly by the stony look on his face he’s got something to say.
“Spit it out.” I shoulder bump him when he goes to look away.
“How the hell do you know I got something to say?” he says softly, a rare smile on his face. But that disappears before my next blink.
I roll my eyes but then wait for him to spill.
“Look, not my business but at the same time, if my woman put her ass on another man’s bike I’d be mighty pissed.”
“What?” I ask, pulling him to a stop. Big Tom stares straight ahead and I follow his gaze and discover for myself what the issue is. And it is an issue because Maverick’s spread out looking like a fucking dish on a bike that looks eerily similar to King’s. Not the same by any manner or means, but there’s obvious similarity.
“Is Maverick patched?” I ask, trying to keep my voice down but at the mention of his name his attention snaps my way.
My relationship with King has been a deep dive in pleasure and the shady, overly complicated yet brutally simple world of MC. Irrespective of both of those things it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out if Big Tom is alluding to shit, we’ve got issues because the other thing about my relationship with King is that only three people know about it: Joker, Big Tom, and my other guard Tonka. A quick glance over towards Tonka and I can see he’s got a phone glued to his ear with his eyes locked on Maverick.
Before either of us can say another word, I’m rushed out of Big Tom’s space by one of the assistants and steered towards Maverick who continues to look like a dirty fucking hooker in his tight black shirt and ripped jeans. He is most definitely the sort of Alpha you’d want to see on your Hen’s night. He oozes sex appeal and a wicked smile spreads on those criminal lips of his the closer I get to him.
I pull to a stop. “So slight problem, I’ve got an allergy to bad boys on bikes,” I mutter to the director while looking at the devil himself who keeps taunting me by simply looking at me.
Where I stop gives Maverick a better view. Perhaps he does know how he affects me because he gives a slow and very intentional sweep up my legs, taking in the extra high cut of my shorts.
“You want to take a photo? It’ll last longer,” bursts out of my mouth, at pretty much the same time my hip pops to the side.
He doesn’t say a word, instead he answers with a dirty suck of his lips before he locks his eyes on mine. In them I read exactly what he wants to do and it has nothing to do with taking photos.
And yes, I’m a fucking hussy, responding to him, scenting up a storm making the photographer and the director both swing around to look at me.
“Set the fucking shot up,” Maverick growls, silencing and spooking them into action as he swings his leg over his bike, storming my way.
He shocks the crap out of me though as he all but shields me from the rush of people. His obvious step is not missed by anyone, and the gossiping models all stop talking to watch.
“Don’t make a scene, and keep your hands to yourself,” I warn, throwing my hands up. And it’s more for his sake than mine because the way he’s getting a little territorial on my behalf is inviting trouble from my team.
“Bit fucking hard since we’re working together which means I get paid to touch you. Jesus, everyone needs to settle down.” His words flow fast out of his pretty lips.
His eyes are dancing all over the place before they stop moving and start glaring behind me. But I already knew Big Tom and Tonka would be closing in and fast.
Up this close I could count his eyelashes. I seriously don’t know how he hasn’t been snapped up by some big cosmetic brand already, but I’m glad he hasn’t because I’d be full of feminine rage if anyone else saw what I was seeing; he’s a right fucking honey.
“And what was it you said about a photo lasting longer a second ago,” he teases as he leans down to whisper into the space between us before he turns to face my bodyguards. “What’s the issue?”
His question is aimed at Big Tom.
“Who you patched to?” Big Tom answers with a question of his own, delivered with an expectant flick of his chin. There’s no way to mistake the lingering threat on Big Tom’s face: he won’t be waiting too long for a response.
“No one,” Maverick bites back just as impatiently, rolling his shoulders. The tension in our huddle skyrockets.
