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I huff as my gaze flicks over to Jumper and he has the decency to look sheepish.
“I’m Storm, the president of this club.” I turn back to the man with gray eyes and nod.
“Thank you for letting me stay here last night.”
He nods, the stern expression never leaving his face. “Of course.”
“Not like Rooster would have let you out of his sight,” Jumper adds with a laugh and Dalton turns to look at him.
“I will ground you into hamburger if you don’t shut the fuck up.”
He rolls his eyes. “God, you’re fucking grumpy this morning.”
“Yeah, you dummy,” Morgan says, slapping her hand against his chest. “Because someone drugged my best friend last night.”
The room goes silent.
I suck in a breath.
“We don’t know that for sure yet,” I whisper.
“You’re right,” Storm says with a nod. “Best if everyone calms down until we know what the fuck actually happened.”
His words seem to settle into the room and then Morgan, Jumper and Gear move over to the corner where several couches are situated around a large tv. Dalton begins walking again and carries me in to a large, industrial looking kitchen before setting me on the island.
“How do you like your toast, baby?” he asks as he turns away from me and pulls a toaster across the counter.
“Golden brown with lots of butter and cinnamon sugar.”
He lets out a laugh. “I should have known. Although, I think we’re just going to stick with butter for this first round and if you can keep that down, I’ll make you some more.”
“Fair enough,” I say, pulling my legs up and tucking them underneath me as I watch him work. He moves so fluidly that it’s not hard at all for me to imagine him in the ring. And the way all those other people spoke about him with such reverence, I know he’s good.
My gaze flicks around the room, taking it all in. It’s much nicer than I expected for a biker clubhouse with a bar in front of me, several pool tables lined up just beyond that and an entire living room in the far corner. Behind me are round dining tables all set up and glass doors that lead outside where I can see a punching bag.
“I assume that belongs to you?” I ask and he glances over at me, following my line of sight. He smirks.
“That’s the sixth one I’ve had so maybe it’s better to say that’s what I’m using right now.”
I arch a brow as he brings me a bottle of water and twists the cap off, handing it to me. “Why six?”
“Uh… ‘cause I broke the other ones.”
The bottle of water is halfway to my lips when I stop, my eyes wide. “You broke five punching bags?”
He nods, gripping the back of his neck as he meets my gaze.
“How… Why…”
“‘Cause Hyde’s a fucking beast,” Jumper calls from the living room and I glance over, heat rushing to my cheeks. I didn’t realize they were still listening to our conversation. Dalton rolls his eyes and steps closer to me, placing his hands on my thighs.
“It helps me.”
I tilt my head to the side, studying him. “Helps you how?”
“When I get angry or upset or anxious, I need somewhere to put that energy so I go beat the shit out of the bag and think. Or I just get it out of my body so I can function again.”
“Did you go hit the bag last night?” I ask, reaching up and dragging my fingers through the stubble on his jaw. He shakes his head. “Why not?”
