“Who?” I snapped, rage welling up inside me. The urge to punch and hurt this man in front of me was growing by the second. The only thing holding me back was Undertaker. I wouldn’t move without his approval or he’d kill me.
“Our favorite commissioner.” His smirk widened and he stepped forward. “King doesn’t want to kill our chatty little pal yet. He wants some dirty secrets. This piece of shit and the commish shook hands and met on more than one occasion. We think the Demons have a deal going with Commissioner Johnston, and we need to know what it is. King thinks they might be planning to take us out. We’ve had other clues.”
PD gritted his teeth tighter and spun toward Undertaker. “Will and I deserve to kill him.”
I nodded in agreement, my fingers straining in and out of a fist. Fury burned hot in my gut.
Undertaker waved his hand impatiently. “You’ll need to take that up with King. Right now, we have orders to bring this future pincushion here and leave him alone for tonight.”
“What?” I shouted. “Why leave him alone? He deserves pain.”
“And I’m not arguing against that,” Undertaker murmured, eyes darkening with his mood. “But King wants to grill him first. We’ll work our way to the fun part. No doubt there will be blood and guts. Maybe I’ll make a sculpture out of his teeth. Lee has been sending me some intriguing finds online.”
Lee straightened and hesitated, shifting nervously to stand near Undertaker, as though offering his quiet protection, something Undertaker absolutely didn’t need. What would it be like to have that type of relationship? My gaze slid to PD, and anger twisted his handsome face.
Undertaker sighed impatiently. “Come back tomorrow. We’ll get our answers, and you’ll get your chance at a bloody good time. Hell, maybe I’ll make a hat to go with my sculpture.”
My body vibrated with fury, but when PD touched my arm and nudged me, I went without argument. I walked back up the stairs, ribs aching with the climb. I tumbled forward as my toe caught on the top step, but PD was there to grab my elbow. I shook off his hold.
“I don’t need you to baby me,” I snapped. Guilt washed through me at the hurt expression on his face. His jaw firmed up again and he nodded.
“Let’s go home. This party is shit anyway,” he said, striding past me to our bikes, his boots crunching on the gravel.
As much as I wanted to argue for the sake of it, I was too tired. I needed sleep, so I followed him and hopped onto my bike.
He glared at my Harley, then me. “You know you shouldn’t be riding.”
Offer to let me pack on behind you.Of course, my silent request was ignored.
I snorted. Since the accident, they’d taken away my license. Not for good, but the doctor had decided he wanted me to retake my driver’s test to make sure I had the decision-making abilities behind the wheel. I hadn’t done it yet, the mixture of anxiety and irritation at retaking a test I did when I was a fucking teenager pissing me off. Apparently, I’d have balance issues, too, which was bad for a biker.
Fuck them. I was sick of being told the endless list of things I couldn’t do anymore.
“I ain’t not riding,” I growled out. “Don’t start this shit again. I’m not a kid.”
PD sighed.
With my keys in my pocket, all I had to do was lift the bike upright and the security system disabled. I pressed the Start button, and the Harley roared to life. I grabbed my helmet and slipped it on, then followed PD along the driveway and out into the street.
We didn’t ride for long because our small two-bedroom house wasn’t far. About ten minutes and we were there. We lived in an okay area, full of worn-down houses that were mostly kept up. The streets had potholes, but you couldn’t lose a bike in them, and most of the streetlamps worked. Not great, but not awful. It was home.Ourhome.
Out of all the houses in our neighborhood, ours was the nicest, with a freshly mown lawn and a new coat of white paint on the wooden siding. PD had a borderline neurotic urge to havethings neat, and I loved making him happy. At least, I did before the accident went down. It was harder to find motivation now.
Our garage was big enough for one vehicle—a metallic blue extended cab Ford Raptor that we shared—and our two bikes. It was detached from the house, so we had to walk out the door from the side and head around to the front to get inside our home. PD didn’t say anything as we walked together. Silent as the grave. That meant he was pissed off or thinking, and neither one was good, since I’d snapped at him before we’d left.
The guilt snowballed and I stopped him when he stepped through the door into the small, open-area TV-and-dining room. We didn’t have much furniture, but all we’d ever needed was the basics. A couch big enough for the two of us, an armchair, a TV, a tiny round table, and three chairs just in case we had visitors.
“I fucked up,” I said as an apology.
He blinked at me, those smoky gray eyes dark and unreadable, and then he sighed and waved toward one of the wooden chairs at our table. “Go sit. I’ll rub down your back.”
I didn’t have to tell him I was in pain, heknew, and that was the thing about PD—he always fucking knew.
I moved over to the chair like he’d ordered as he strode into the kitchen and opened the bottom drawer beside the stove to get out the bag he kept our ever-growing collection of medical junk in. It had started out as a first aid kit. He put on a pair of latex gloves. Turning the chair around so I could sit with my chest against the back, I sighed and slipped off my cut and shirt before I took a seat. He returned a few moments later, the prescription pain gel in his hands.
“Where does it hurt?” he asked quietly.
“Down at the bottom.” I rested my cheek against the arch of the wooden chair and closed my eyes when he flicked open the lid on the blue tube. The cool liquid slid onto my back and I gasped, but then his hands were there, massaging it intomy skin. Pain throbbed through me, originating from where his fingers kneaded. It fucking hurt. A lot.
