Being a part of something. Being out on the road. Feeling the air hit your face and watching the miles of road spread out in front of you.
Which is why it’s a giant warning light that I’m riding on autopilot and don’t remember the last thirty minutes on the bike, because all I can think about is Maren Caldwell.
Have I thought about the way her pussy felt when I took it a second, third, and fourth time? The semi-hard-on I’m sporting would call me a liar if I said anything other than yes.
But, if I’m honest, I’ve thought more about the way she looked on the sofa while we watched the movie. Studying her profile, the way she looked in my shirt when she tucked her feet up beneath her and rested her elbow on the back of her sofa to explain to me why the actor was the perfect protagonist. The way she looked at the pretty little hotel on the water where theheroine was staying and said how amazing it would be to go there and paint for a week. Her smile when I said something funny, or the way she paid attention to the things I said with every part of her being.
Never once did I see a cellphone in her hands; meanwhile, I popped outside a few times just in case of emergencies. There were messages. Sometimes with important logistics, others, ripping on Havoc because one of the club girls said he was so drunk, he lasted eleven seconds.
Because I was feeling close to her, I told her and she laughed.
Wait, the thing about club girls is actually true?
Her nose had wrinkled across the bridge of it, then, she’d said, “Men are disgusting sometimes.”
I agreed. We are.
And even though the rest of the club and I are headed to meet up with the man himself and Vandal, I still can’t stop thinking about the way Maren stepped up onto her toes to kiss me goodbye.
Not sure anyone in my whole life has told me to stay safe like they meant it.
But Maren did.
She cupped my cheeks, made sure we were looking each other square in the eyes, and made me promise I’d be careful.
So, if I want to obey, maybe I should focus on what I’m about to do, then, instead of thinking about the way she looked on her knees for me.
The motel crouched along the highway looks like it was forgotten about by the chain it belongs to at some point in the nineties.
There’s a buzzing, neonvacancysign flickering on and off above the office window. The cream walls and green door paint have both seen better days, with chunks and chips all over the place, and weeds forcing themselves between the cracks in theconcrete. And two rusted trucks, one sitting on bricks, are the only things in the potholed parking lot besides the two bikes that belong to Havoc and Vandal.
I kill the engine to my bike as the rest of the club pull up and park alongside me. The air already feels moist, a word I despise almost as much as the feel of humidity in the air.
Havoc steps forward. When I finally got to the clubhouse this morning, I sent my brothers out in pairs to go farther afield to find out where the two men were staying or had stayed.
If anyone noticed I was in later than usual, they didn’t say anything.
And my mood was definitely better. Coming four times in one night was fun. But the way I was able to relax afterwards—in safety, where no one knew where I was—had been an unexpected bonus.
I slept like a log in the boathouse apartment, once more, Maren wrapped in my arms, and I felt like a million bucks. My entire system felt like it had been reset.
“Room nine,” Havoc says, waving a key in his hand. There’s a bandana covering his Viking braids. “Desk clerk says they’ve been here for two nights. Arrived just before the storm hit. They’re paying cash. Day to day, so far. So, she doesn’t know if they’re still here, and her cleaning girl doesn’t come around until two.”
“So much for guest confidentiality,” Lock says.
Vandal grins. “Havoc leaned in real close and smiled at her. I swear I heard the sound of her panties voluntarily sliding down her thighs.”
Havoc shrugs. “Might go back and help her look for them before I leave. Change of scenery and all that.”
North snatches the keycard out of his hand. “At least she won’t get into trouble if you do.”
“Why’s that?” Havoc asks.
“Her smoke break is likely ten minutes,” North says with a grin. “And you only last eleven seconds.”
Everyone laughs as Havoc shakes his head. “I fucking hate you all.”
The walkway outside the rooms is cracked and narrow, the uneven concrete stained with old cigarette burns and fuck knows what else.
