With a roll of my eyes, I screw up my face. “Then why else would I ask you to be here?” I throw my hands out to my sides.
Most of my wardrobe, which isn’t much to begin with, is strewn about the room. And I still don’t know what to wear.
“Because of my sparkling personality.” She huffs and sticks out her tongue at me. “Duh.”
“No,” I bark out the words, “that’s not why at all.”
“You wanted my help?”
I run my fingers through my hair and am about a second away from canceling this whole thing, even though I desperately want to be on the back of Turner’s bike. Then I’m going to pull my hair out strand by strand.
“Of course I want your help.” I go back to my closet to find the same clothes that were just hanging there. Again.
I really was hoping that everything inside this black hole of a fashion mishap would disappear and something else would pop up for my dressing pleasure. But no.
“I should have gone shopping,” I bemoan. I really should have.
“My brother didn’t give you time to go shopping.” She rolls over and then stands up before heading toward me and my closet. “He must have figured out the same thing I did.”
“What’s that?” I eye her warily as she starts to move some of my clothes around.
“That if you’re given any lead time, you’ll have too long to figure out a way to cancel. The blitz is the only way to go,” she helpfully adds, her voice breezy.
My mouth turns down in a scowl. “So,” I say the words slowly, “what you’re saying is that Turner tricked me.”
Her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline and the look she gives me is incredulous as fuck. “Turner?” Her voice goes up an octave, “Turner?”
“Why are you freaking out right now?” I lean away from her because it looks like she’s either going to explode or lift off into orbit. I’m not really sure which one is more likely, but one is definitely on the horizon.
She grabs my shoulders with a little too much force and my eyes widen. Then she’s moving me back toward the bed with a single-minded focus which is freaking me out a little.
When we’re sitting, she gives my shoulders a squeeze and then my hands.
“My brother has been ‘Snake’ since he was 16. That is when he got a tattoo of a snake wrapping around his arm with the head on his shoulder looking like it’s about to strike,” she tells me, her face serious. “He doesn’t even like snakes.”
“When he was 16?” I hiss the question and Opal gives me an epic side eye.
“Yeah,” her voice takes on a wistful quality, “and then when Playboy was 16, Snake had him tattoo another one on the other shoulder. Not to match, but to juxtapose. They wanted to provethat Playboy was ready for the next step of his apprenticeship, regardless of his age.”
“Seems the club plays it fast and loose with age restrictions,” I’m not sure if I sound more scandalized or pissed. Probably both. Definitely both.
“Not where it counts,” her voice doesn’t leave any room for argument. “I get you didn’t get a lot of time with everyone, but they would put themselves in front of danger and protect someone in need. That’s just who those men are. I’ve seen them fight for each other, for love, for their way of life, for those who have been left behind, and for this town.”
As much as I try to fight against it, her words sway me in a way I wasn’t expecting.
“You love the club,” I whisper the words like they’re a secret even though everything about her tells the story of how she feels.
‘I love aspects of the club,” she corrects gently. “There are things I don’t like too.”
My eyebrows pull together and gently prod, “Like what?”
“Club loyalty is supposed to supersede everything, including the woman you commit to, the woman you love. The brothers who want to will find a balance between their woman and the club. Not everyone can,” her words are filled with sadness and something that has me reaching for her hand and gently squeezing it.
“How is that sustainable?”
She shrugs one shoulder and gives me a small smile. I almost ask if she’s talking from experience, but before I can, she visibly shakes it off and sits up straighter.
“Here’s my point—there are two things that are simply true when it comes to the bikers in this club,” she tells me. “Only certain people will be on the back of their bikes. Their Old Lady and family. That’s it.” She looks at me, her eyes intense and pointed. I swallow hard, already suspecting what else she’s going to say.
