“Fuck off, Gator.”
Ahhh… Gator. The guy from Pretty Kitties who runs all Brooklyn’s big tippers off. They push past Journey into the apartment without even acknowledging my presence.
“Let’s move,” Bash says, his dark eyes flicking to me before scanning the loft. “The sooner we get her back to the compound, the better.”
Journey grunts. A switch in him flips, and the man who had his hands all over me a few minutes ago and showed me he has a playful side vanishes. In his place stands a no-nonsense biker with a ‘fuck around and find out’ expression on his face.
He swings his gaze to me. “Pack a bag, princess.”
“A bag?” I hesitate, glancing around my sanctuary that’s in disarray. I can’t leave, my stuff is still everywhere. Why do we need to go to the clubhouse, anyway? I’ve got questions.
“Now,” Journey barks.
“Okay, fine! I’m going. Sheesh.” I know he’s worried, but he doesn’t have to be such a grumpy grump.
Not wanting to set him off any more, I make quick work of my morning routine in the bathroom then drag my pink sparkly suitcase out from under my bed.
“Did you notice anyone lurking when you pulled up?” I hear Journey ask.
“No, nothing.”
Listening to them talk, I start throwing clothes inside my bag—a couple pairs of black leggings, a few tank tops, and some matching cotton underwear sets. When I dig back into the drawer, my hand hovers over the lacy red thong I got on sale at Victoria’s. Hmm… To pack or not to pack, that’s the million-dollar question.
I peek over my shoulder at Journey, and he must feel my eyes on him because he looks up and pops a brow in thatwe’re burning daylight waiting on youway that men do. So annoying, right?
Rolling my eyes I turn back to my panty drawer, grab the thong, and shove it in my bag.
What else? Biting my lip, I glance around. My eyes go right to the small pile of makeup that somehow survived. I could attempt to film at the clubhouse. It’s not ideal, but… Before I can second-guess myself, I scoop all of it up and cram it into the suitcase.
“What the hell are you doing?” Journey asks, standing over me with his arms crossed.
“I’m packing, Mr. Grumpy pants,” I reply, carefully wrapping the only eye shadow palette I have left between two shirts before looking up at him.
“What the fuck are you packing makeup for?” His brows snap together. “Did you miss the part where there’s someone watching you?”
Seriously? This asshole messing with my life is all I can think about. Standing up, I plant my hands on my hips. “I didn’t miss anything!” I snap back.
“Jesus Christ.” He drags a hand through his hair. “Babe. We don’t have time for tantrums.”
“What?” I narrow my eyes. “Tantrums?”
Gator snorts from his position by the door, and Bash remains expressionless.
Journey’s jaw ticks as he holds his hand out for my suitcase. “You done?”
I pull in a slow breath.
He’s not the enemy, June. He’s just trying to help.“Yeah. Sorry,” I sigh, rolling my shoulders to release some of the tension.
Journey takes the handle of my bag, and my belly swarms with butterflies when his fingers brush mine. It’s insane how a simple touch from this man sets my whole body on fire.
Get it together, June.
Gator clears his throat. “If ya’ll are done, I’ll take point,” he says, moving toward the door. “Bash’s got the rear.”
And just like that, we’re moving.
Journey’s hand finds the small of my back, guiding me down the stairs as Gator leads the way, his eyes constantly scanning our surroundings like he’s waiting for something to jump out and say boo, while Bash follows behind us silently like a ghost.
