Page 7 of Kneeling to Candy

Though I’m not used to hearing his voice, it’s apparent he’s trying to speak gently. His damaged vocal cords inhibit how his tone comes across.

Poor biker boy. It makes me want to reach out and run my fingers over his scar, to soothe him from the outside.

“I thought maybe talking in the closet would be easier for you.” Looking unsure of himself, he rubs at the back of his neck again. His eyes drop to the floor between us. “Honestly, it may be easier for me to talk to you in the closet, too.”

Surprised, I ask, “Easier for you how?”

Looking deep in thought, his lips and eyebrows pucker, like he’s trying to find the right words to say. “’Cause no one else will hear me except you.”

There’s sadness in his voice. It may be hard to discern through his rough tone, but I hear it. Or maybe I feel it in his words. My heart clenches, guessing why he’s embarrassed to speak around others has a lot to do with how he sounds to others.

Still confused as to why he’s asking for permission to join me, I wave him into the small space.

He steps into the closet, shutting us both in the dark. I hear the flick of a light switch before a little overhead light floods the space with a soft glow.

The supply closet becomes a lot smaller with a six-foot-two giant practically bumping chests with me. He tries to create space between us by leaning against the back of the door, like he’s attempting to honor my personal bubble. Hard to do when the man is a solid wall of towering muscle and thick limbs. Besides, I like him filling the once vacant space surrounding me. It chases away some of my loneliness.

Having Butch within touching distance has a zing of excitement running through my bloodstream. It’s a little dizzying.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

All I do is gape at the quiet giant, unable to think clearly as his smoky clove scent invades my senses. It’s a pleasant smell, reminding me of cozy, peaceful bonfires on a fall night. I want to bury my face against his chest, breathing him into my lungs.

My tongue involuntarily dips out of my mouth to lick my bottom lip, hoping to taste his scent in the shared air between us. I bet he tastes as earthy as the spice he smells like.

Gaaawd. I want to lick him like a lollipop, from head to toe. See if he tastes as good as I imagine.

Butch’s eyes follow my tongue. He swallows, hard. I watch, transfixed, as his Adam’s apple bobs against the puckered outline of his scar.

“I’m always watching you,” he slowly answers in a gravelly voice.

Say what, now?! Did I hear him correctly?

My heart takes off sprinting, giddiness fizzing like soda in my nerves.

Sure, some women see men spying on them through cameras as a major red flag. With me, red flags seem pointless to wave about when red is my favorite color. Had I known he was watching, I would’ve put on a little show, get him revved enough to throw himself at me.

If this biker is watching me, it could only mean he’s interested, right?

He dips his head, the floor of the closet suddenly holding more interest. I want to stomp the floor with the heel of my shoes out of jealousy for breaking his eye contact.

“It’s kind of my job as tech security to monitor club members’ whereabouts,” Butch further clarifies.

My insides deflate at his words.

“Ah,” I mutter, fighting my face from expressing disappointment while my heart sinks like a ball of lead into my gut. Perhaps the stomach acids will do this useless organ in, ending my suffering and humiliation.

Stupid me for thinking he wanted to watch me. And of course, he’s monitoring the cameras located around the club when he sees me slip inside the supply closet like some recluse weirdo.

Ugh! Can fate give me a break for once? Geez.

It’s ridiculous I considered Butch may be interested in me at all, and I’m disappointed with myself for getting my hopes up for someone I have no chance of being with.

What would I bring to the table?

Butch’s a hot mercenary biker with an IT background who takes down bad guys each day with the work he does in the club. I’m an ex-call girl with no other work skills or education. Not to mention, I betrayed the club a few short weeks ago. I’m not exactly exuding fantastic character.

He’s an all-around ten. I…let’s be honest. I probably don’t register on his scale factor.

---