“Prez told you not to feed us.”
I tilted my head.
“And you always listen to him?”
His answer was immediate.
“Yes.”
“Boring.”
Before he could protest again, I stepped closer and set the tray directly on the seat of his motorcycle.
“There,” I said sweetly. “Problem solved.”
The biker stared down at the tray like it had personally betrayed him.
“You’re trying to get us killed.”
I leaned casually against the motorcycle beside him.
His entire body went rigid.
“Oh relax,” I said. “I’m just standing here.”
“Emma.”
“What?”
“You can’t lean on the bikes.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re—”
He stopped himself.
I raised an eyebrow.
“They’re what?”
He sighed.
“They’re the club’s.”
“Oh,” I said.
Then I smiled.
“So they belong to Hawk.”
He didn’t answer.
Which was answer enough.
I studied him openly.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark beard. Tattoos creeping out from under his sleeves.
