She lifts a shoulder, giving the black Nissan with the windows tinted too dark and Arizona license plate one more glance.
“If I had to guess, he’s following Hector’s orders.”
“Which are?”
“Shoot me if I run.”
I give her a sideways glance. “Are you planning on it?” I stub my cigarette out against the concrete wall, then flick it into a nearby trash can.
“Not unless you give me a reason to,” she answers, not even looking up. The sun glints off her hair, and for half a second, she almost looks like an angel.
Not like a junkie that’s been rode hard and put up wet. I hate myself for being so quick to judge while knowing she’s been through hell.
“I guess I should be flattered Hector cares that much about me,” she says like it’s an honor or some shit. “Normally he tosses girls like me out with his weekly trash.” There’s no bite to her tone. She delivers the truth like someone who’s had the thought beaten into them.
My hand itches to squeeze hers when I reply, “You’re not garbage.” The words come out too low and soft. I clear my throat. “We should get back on the road.”
She slides off the picnic table and rips open a packet of Skittles, and tips the whole rainbow down her throat. Her tongue darts out red and blue all at once, then she wipes her mouth and looks me over. “You’re the boss.”
Chapter Four
Lunatic’s motorcycle rolls through the gate of a fancy house. Not as big as the Juarez compound, but it’s still rich. He pulls up at a garage and puts it in park.
“Go ahead and hop off,” he tells me after cutting the engine.
My legs wobble and my ass is still vibrating as I try to stretch. My thighs ache from clenching them so tightly for the past six hours or so.
I stand off to the side as some of the other bikers head inside the house. Lunatic is speaking with Big Daddy and Hero. Their glances shooting my way every couple of seconds. I guess they are debating what to do with me.
Big Daddy takes off and Hero goes around the back, leaving me on my own with this Lunatic guy. He’s handsome. Darkish curly hair. Blue-gray eyes that remind me of a storm cloud before lightning cracks the sky. A goatee and mustache trimmed short but rough enough to tickle you in all the right places. Tattooed, tan, tall, and muscular. The kind of guy you know is trouble because he knows he’s hot. Throw in the badassmotorcycle and the fact that he’s in a motorcycle club and he’s every girl's dream.
The bad boy you want to tame, but will likely never settle down. He probably has a girlfriend and a side piece. He’s the perfect target. He won’t become attached to me. I made the mistake of caring for someone once when I was younger and a helluva lot dumber. I won’t make that mistake again.
“Come on. I’ll show you to your room. I’m sure you’re exhausted and in need of a shower.” He grabs my stuff from his saddlebag, and I follow him across the driveway to the big house.
The first thing I notice is the sleek motorcycle parked just inside the entryway and the crazy amount of black and white pictures framed on the walls.
“Upstairs,” Lunatic’s voice comes out deep and rough, exposing his own exhaustion.
Up the stairs and two hallways later, he takes me to a bedroom that’s nicer than anywhere I’ve ever stayed in my life outside of the times I was taken to Hector and Jose’s rooms at the compound.
A bed I could swim in, the bedding of it’s so wide and deep.
Lunatic closes the door behind us and places my plastic bag on the dresser.
“There’s a bathroom through there if you want to wash up. If you need something to eat or drink, or whatever. Let me know. I’m your guy.” He rolls his lips inward, his tongue darting out to wet the top one. The motion is swift but sexy. Effective if he wanted my mind to wander to thoughts of all the things he could do with that tongue. Those lips.
“A shower would be great.”
He goes to a dresser and tags a tee from the top drawer. “You can sleep in this.” He slings the soft black cotton my way. A whiff of laundry detergent that smells like cologne hits my senses.
“Is this your room?”
“When I get too shitfaced to drive home. If you need anything, let me know.” He kicks off his boots and shrugs off his leather cut. I watch, unable to look away as he crosses his arms over his stomach and lifts his tee up in what feels like slow motion. The fabric creeps up his sides, revealing a patch of hair under his navel that narrows into a trail that dips beneath his jeans. My gaze travels along the grooves of his abs and slides up his chest as the fabric tugs up over his shoulders and head.
The man is built.
His lips curve into a devilish smirk as he stands before me shirtless with the button of his blue jeans undone. The sight steals my breath. I’ve never seen anything more perfect than him. An inked god in denim.
