Page 29 of Iron Heart

“Prospect!” shouts Rourke. “Clean this fuckin’ glass up.”

“I’m on it!” cries Mensa. I shoot a look at him as he moves out from behind the bar. He’s gaping at me and Bama like he’s got front row seats at the new Avengers movie. Christ almighty.

“How’s it hangin’, prospect?” I ask.

“Like my bike,” he murmurs back with a grin. “Busted, rusted, and maladjusted.”

I snort. “You get those tires put back where they were?”

“Sure did.”

“Good.” I nod toward the exit. “Once you’re done cleaning up this shit, move ‘em again to the first place. And take pictures this time. I wanna compare the aesthetic qualities of each location.”

That shitwith Bama leaves me keyed up and itching for the end of a fight that barely got started. If I stay here at the club right now, I’m likely to get back into it with him, and my prez has made clear he wants us to cool it.

I go outside for a smoke, half-expecting Bama to follow me out there, but I’m guessin’ the other brothers have talked some goddamn sense into him. I shoot Dom a message that Axel and Rourke want to talk to him about doin’ some transport for the club. He doesn’t answer right away, meaning that he’s either out of range — or more likely, somewhere gettin’ his dick wet.

It’s still early enough in the afternoon that I can probably get in a couple of hours’ work at Tori’s place if I hustle. Probably a good idea to get out of here and away from the clubhouse for a bit. I text her and ask if she’s good with me going by. About a minute later she replies, telling me to stop at the newspaper office so she can give me the keys.

I pull up on my bike and park outside the nondescript square building that houses thePost-Gazette. On the way in, I pass by a wire rack holding a stack of the current issue. On impulse, I bend down to pick up a copy. Above the fold, there’s a big photo front and center of Crazy Millie and Eddie, with the headline: “Local miracle has area mother and son singing ‘Amazing Grass.’”

Chuckling at the bad pun, my eyes slide to the story’s byline: Victoria Lowe. It’s kind of funny to see her name in print like that. I wonder how long she’s been working here, anyway. My cock twitches at the idea of seeing her again.

I take the paper in with me.

Inside, there’s a young chick at a reception desk, sitting there tapping on a computer. She looks up at me as I walk in, but before she can say anything, I grunt Tori’s name at her. Her eyes grow wide as she points me into a big room with six or seven people milling around or sitting at desks of their own. The smell of overheated, burned coffee hits my nose. The murmur of a radio broadcast at low volume is coming from somewhere off to the right.

Tori’s in the back of the room, talking with a guy who looks to be about thirty or so. She’s wearing this cute little tank top thing, and her hair’s in that same high bun that shows off the curve of her neck. She’s got on a pair of tailored pants, with high heels that tilt her ass up just right. The whole outfit is supposed to look professional, I can tell, and it does, but there’s something about the way Tori wears it that makes her look hotter and more alluring than a porn star. My cock thickens in my jeans. Shit, the girl looks so sexy it’s practically indecent, and she probably doesn’t even know it.

The guy she’s talking to is wearing wire rim glasses and has this former frat boy look to him. Tori seems to like him — she’s smiling and laughing at something he’s saying to her. He flashes her a big goddamn smile in return, his eyes dropping for just a split second to her tits.

I wonder if she’s into him. Fuck, maybe he’s her boyfriend. The idea makes the blood start to pound in my ears. One thing’s for sure: if he ain’t her boyfriend, he wants to be. I can see that in the way he’s lookin’ at her. I wonder if she’s into pretty boys like him.

As I watch, Pretty Boy leans into her and puts a hand on her arm.

Back off, douchebag,I telegraph at him. Suddenly, I’m all fuckin’ pissed off again. I want to beat the shit out of this guy, just for bein’ within ten feet of Tori. My jaw clenches, as does the fist that’s holding the newspaper I hear it crinkle under my fingers.

Just then, Tori turns and sees me across the room. She gives me a smile and a little wave. Pretty Boy’s eyes follow hers, and when they land on me I give him a look that could cut glass. He flinches a little and takes a step back, murmuring something to Tori before disappearing down a corridor.

“Hey,” Tori greets me as she gets closer. “Thanks for coming by.”

“No prob.” I hold up my copy of thePost-Gazette. “Nice article.”

Tori grimaces. “Shut up,” she mutters, coloring. “I hope Mildred and Eddie are happy with it, at least.” She peers at my face. “What happened to your cheek?”

“Nothing,” I grunt. “Just a scratch.”

She eyes me. “Well, it’s bleeding a little. Come on. My desk is over here.” She turns and starts to walk toward a desk which I assume must be hers. I follow, using the few seconds to watch her ass some more and memorize the way it looks for later. When we get to her desk, she opens a drawer and starts to rummage around in it. After a second, she pulls out a box of those wet towelette things.

“Here,” she says, handing me one.

I take it from her and rip it open, then reach up to swipe at where I think the cut is. “Shit,” I wince, and pull the thing away. “That stings like a motherfucker.”

The corners of Tori’s mouth tilt up. “Are you serious?”

“Fuck yes. That hurts worse than getting the goddamn cut did in the first place.”

“So, what did you actually do togetthe cut?” she repeats.

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