“Thank you,” she whispers, confusing the hell out of me, and a ball of guilt forms in my stomach.
As I leave her apartment, her thanking me taunts my psyche.
I push the throttle of my bike harder.
She thanked me for stopping her humiliation.
I push harder.
Why the fuck couldn’t she have said she hated me?
People say there’s a fine line between love and hate, and I can tell the line between us is becoming blurry.
There’s no way I’d fall for my enemy.
None.
CASSIDY
After stacking the empty plates onto the tray, I wipe the table with the cloth and exhale. I lift the tray, balancing it on one arm, and turn, feeling pretty damn impressed with myself and my new skillset. My footing falters and my brain short-circuits when my eyes latch on to the same blond-haired, blue-eyed guy who’s been here four days in a row now. I cringe as a flush travels over my cheeks at his scrutiny. The way his eyes roam over my body has me wanting to swoon one minute and cover up the next, an odd contradiction.
My mind goes to Killa, the opposite of this guy. His body is thick and solid, with muscles beneath the black T-shirts he wears. His weathered skin is covered in ink, andhe smells of smoke, whiskey, and poor decisions. Such a contrast to the clean-cut guy in slacks and a polo. Still, the attention is rare for me, and I really don’t know if I like it yet.
I’m sure my younger self would have had a crush on someone like this, but now? I’m not the same person I once was. I’m tarnished, darkened by evil, so maybe that’s why I’m drawn to Killa’s brutality.
We’re like two lost souls fighting to survive in a world of darkness.
There’s a tremble in my step as I make my way over to the counter and push the tray onto the service station where the dishwasher will take it to wash. His eyes are on me the entire time, and if the past four days are anything to go by, he’s probably spun around on his bar stool, waiting for me to ask him what he’d like to order.
Steeling my shoulders, I turn to the guy, take out my notepad, and pull the pencil from my messy bun. Averting my eyes, I stare down at the notepad and try to act indifferent to his attention. “What can I get you?”
When he doesn’t answer, I glance up, and those blue eyes of his dance with mirth. I fidget from foot to foot, struggling to remain in control under his presence.
“A date?” He cocks an eyebrow and bites his bottom lip, and a gasp escapes me. I want the world to swallow me whole for the dumb reaction to his question.
I blink. A date? I’ve never been asked on a date before.
My mouth opens, to say what, I’m not sure, then I close it and attempt to speak again. A mocking chuckle leaves him, and this time, I actually want to kick him in the balls. I’m not sure why he’s finding my discomfort so amusing, but I don’t like it.
He slides off the stool and steps forward, invading myspace. He puffs out his chest, a sly smile slithers onto his face, and when he reaches out to touch me, I still. With his pointer finger, he twirls my loose hair, toying with it. I remain motionless, a voice inside of me screaming for me to move, yet I remain stuck to the floor. That longing I thought I felt is eradicated with his one action, and in its place, I become the old me. The vulnerable, compliant, empty me.
A shell of myself.
“I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Someone like me taking you out.” His hand extends, and ice seeps into my bloodstream, rendering me powerless. He glides his fingers over my arm, creeping them up toward my neck. A rush of sickness washes over me. “I bet you’d like being my whore, wouldn’t you?” I jolt at his words and feel myself pale while willing my feet to move, but they won’t budge.
“Get your fucking hands off her!” Killa’s deep voice sends a shiver of relief through my body, and when I dart my eyes up to his, the sheer intensity behind his stare is enough to make my panties wet and ignite a surge of confidence back inside me.
Oh, dear God, I’m in so much trouble.
I find the inner strength to take a step away from the blond, and the ice that previously flooded my veins is becoming a distant memory. In its place, heat penetrates my soul as Killa scans me up and down, assessing me.
“She doesn’t belong to you, and you touched what’s mine,” Killa says through gritted teeth, his face murderous, his hands balled into fists by his side.
I replay his words in my mind: “You touched what’s mine.”
The guy faces Killa, and seeing them side by side heightens the differences. The guy is preppy looking, like he belongs in a college for the elite, preened to perfection,with his dazzling white teeth and polished shoes. Whereas Killa looks all dominant male, standing on booted feet, with ripped jeans, a black tee, and the leather vest cut that bikers wear over the top, with the MC club name and his position in that club—Road Captain.
“Are you part of his gang?” he asks, humor in his tone. The blond wafts his finger from me to Killa, looking between us.
