Page 66 of Coveted By Cupid

My head spins around to face her. “WHAT?!”

“Don’t wait up for me, Psyche,” Cupid says, planting a swift kiss on my cheek. “I don’t know how long I’ll be, and you need your rest.”

“Cupid, we need to discuss things,” I hiss when he heads for the exit.

“Sure. When I come home, we can talk all you want,” he hollers over his shoulder, walking out the door.

Oaks gives me a playful wave, all big smiles as he closes the door behind them, leaving me heated beyond words.

Marlene appears at my side. “Thinking about killing him?”

“Yes,” I spit through my teeth.

Her head falls back with a cackle. She slaps me on the back playfully, nearly causing me to stumble forward. “If a biker drives you to where you’re contemplating murder, it’s official.”

“What’s official?”

“That you’re his ole lady. Duh. Only an ole man can make you feel this out of control.”

My eyes must be the size of dinner plates as I stare incredulously at her.

She throws an arm around my shoulder, walking us back to the living room. “Come on. We have a date with reality TV.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CUPID

“Fucking balls,” Oaks gripes, following me into the damp basement of the bunkhouse next door to Whiskey Wheelers. “I forget how cold it gets down here. My junk’s retreating into my body like a damn turtle.”

He’s not wrong. It may be spring in Colorado, but that doesn’t mean it’s warm, particularly when going into the earth, and these old municipal buildings go deeper than modern builds today. The walls are stone and cold to the touch, making the holding cell for our guest a cold storage locker.

“Suck it up, Oaks. We have work to do,” I say, stepping off the stairs to the stone foundation.

We move down the narrow hall toward the back rooms where a dim bulb is our only light source. The closer we get to our destination, the louder a man can be heard shouting.

Our newest prospect—Cookie—sits on an old crate outside the holding cell, scrolling through his phone and looking bored as hell. He stands when he sees us coming, pocketing his cell and ready to take orders.

“Prez. Oaks,” he greets us with a head nod.

“Cookie,” I say in hello, smiling when I hear the asshole acting up on the other side of the steel door, banging on the metal. “Where’s Crypt?”

“Crypt needed a break from all the yelling. It was setting him off. I offered to stand guard to give him a break.”

I frown, upset with myself for not considering Crypt’s sensitivity to loud noises. If I assign him to guard another prisoner again, I’ll tell him to bring his noise-canceling headphones.

“Thank you for stepping in. I owe Crypt an apology for leaving him to deal with this piece of shit for too long.”

“It’s no problem,” Cookie says.

The pounding on the other side of the door intensifies as if our prisoner has heard our muffled voices and realizes he has an audience to curse at.

“He doesn’t sound too happy,” I say, my tone amused.

“Not very appreciative of our accommodations, I guess,” Oaks says with a chuckle.

Cookie shrugs. “He’s a bit of a complainer. Nothing I can’t handle.”

To show how he’s handling our prisoner, Cookie pulls out a small black box from his back pocket. It gives off a high-pitched whine when he turns it on. Cookie presses it against the steel door, and the man yelps on the other side.