Then I hear a motorcycle and feel him stiffen a second before he loosens his hold on my mouth and releases me.
I look up at him, all doe-eyed and with my lips still parted. I tried to match his energy, taking in his kisses and giving him all of me in return. But I’m the one who feelswrecked—and probably looks it—while he looks the same as before. Devil-may-care handsome with a smirk that makes me weak in the knees.
“We should get you home. Don’t want Nana to sic the dog on me.”
I pull back, confused by his words. “We don’t have a dog.”
He just laughs and shakes his head, then kisses my frowny lips in surprise and pulls on my helmet.
I don’t care that he laughed at me. I got an extra kiss out of it. And if I’m lucky, I’ll get a few more before Nana comes out of the house yelling about God knows what to just embarrass me. Which might be a good thing, because the last thing I want to do is have tonight end. And if Nana doesn’t come out screaming, I’m liable to just say screw work tomorrow and take Karter up to my room so he can give me an actual reason for calling in sick.
“You’re blushing again, Babygirl.” He breathes out a laugh as he starts the bike, and I get on with a nod.
I don’t think I’ll ever stop blushing. Especially if he keeps calling me Babygirl.
And I hope he never stops.
Chapter 8 - Karter
After dropping off Diana, I head to the clubhouse. Unlike Babygirl, that place has zero curfew.
Babygirl.
I keep calling her that. In my head and out loud. It just fits. Like it was always meant for her. I know how club life sees it, though, so I need to keep it on the DL. Last thing I need is a brother getting ideas in his head before I have a clear picture of what I want in mine.
“Hey, Law,” people greet me as I go inside, and I give a few nods as I walk to the bar.
Jumper’s behind it, and he hands me a beer before I ask for one.
“Thanks.”
He just nods in acceptance.
“Seen General around?”
“Think I saw him go into the back. Everything okay?”
I wave off his concern that I might need some medical help. “Just wanted to talk to him about something. Thanks, man.”
I take my beer and head to the clinic we set up for General in the back. Anyone can use it, but we all know this is his space. He helped create it, and everything is in the place he wanted it. Those who enter to get something do so at their own risk. He’s been known to stab a person for messing withhis system before. Of course, he patches them up after, and it’s just a superficial wound, so nothing too damaging long-term. Just a “friendly” reminder to not touch his space.
“Yo,” I say as I walk in and shut the door behind me, noting it’s just us in here as he looks over something on his clipboard. Property inventory.
The guy is like clockwork. He comes to the clubhouse often enough, but each time, he does an inventory check before he fully settles in. Doesn’t matter that there’s a rotating inventory weekly check. He does it as a ritual of sorts—his way of guaranteeing everything is on hand when he needs it without a moment’s notice.
“Sup.” He nods at me, then goes back to his paperwork.
I lean against the counter and sip my beer. He does his thing for a few minutes, then glances at me from the corner of his eye.
“Need something?”
“I know you saw.”
“Saw what?”
“Don’t bullshit me. Your bike is the only one with a high flow intake. I heard the sharp inhale before you gunned the engine. Only your bike has that, so I know it was you at the Ice Cream Shack.”
General shrugs and puts down the clipboard to reach up and pull some boxes down from the top shelf to a lower one.
