Page 26 of Crow

I try not to look over at the bed. It’s not because I think that Crow is faking sleep as some kind of snoop or creep test for me. I just don’t know how I’d feel about a virtual strangerwatching me sleep. Especially one who makes my blood sing like a damn freaking choir every time he’s near.

Then again, to think that I do that for him is just downright vain.

But why else would he be helping me unless he finds me… uh… attractive? Intriguing? Nice?

Those are all very different things.

A man like Crow could have anyone he wanted. He’s that level of ruggedly sexy. It doesn’t matter that he’s broody and scary looking. Women are drawn into that kind of aura, aren’t they? Jealousy twists through me like the hot, acrid snake my dad would liken it to. I feel myself growing uncomfortably sticky under my clothes, the fabric too tight and prickly even though it was soft and loose enough just a few seconds ago.

I smash my thighs together in front of the bookcase, my nipples hardening in my bra at the memory of what I did in the shower while thinking about Crow. Now, I’m in his inner sanctum. I’d be a liar if I said that the thought of him pounding me into his mattress doesn’t make me short of breath. My stomach flips with nerves, the rest of me tingles, and there’s an instant ache between my thighs.

I’ve had thoughts before, usually prompted by whatever smut I was reading, but I’d never had thoughts about a specific man. A man who is lying just feet away from me looking all manner of hot and sexy. I’m creeping, aren’t I? My cheeks flush with shame at the thoughts I’m having about him, so I tear my eyes back to the bookshelves, but my brain continues to put on a sexy time show until I can feel how wet my leggings are. Not damp.Wet.

I bend down and pick out a book blindly from the bookcase’s lower shelf, pleased to find a Jules Verne leather bound tome with golden tipped onion skin pages. He’s one author that I’ve never read, though I did see the movie adaptation ofJourney To The Center Of The Earth.

I hope it’s a good distraction. I need to occupy my mind for so many different reasons.

Three hours later, I’m wondering just how on earth I’ve made it this far without ever knowing how amazing Verne’s books could be. I feel like I’m really there, on the greatest underwater experiment of my life, receiving an in depth biology lesson at the same time. I’m so into it that I didn’t know how much time had passed until I get blasted by sunshine from the small window by the bed. The blinds are closed, but it’s so strong out there that it’s pushing through.

It has to be two or three by now and now that I’ve just surfaced from the book, my stomach makes demands in a big way, growling viciously. I haven’t eaten anything since an early dinner last night before I left for work.

Crow’s warning about the naked, passed out people, and this being a biker clubhouse with real bikers in it has me shrinking back into the chair at the thought of leaving this room.

To distract myself, I pull my coil bound notebook and a pen out of my backpack. I turn to a fresh page and start making a list. It’s corny, but writing things down in list form or as a journal entry helps me get my thoughts in order.

I don’t want to be the world’s biggest cliché and title the list GOALS or THINGS TO DO, so I leave it blank and just start jotting out points.

1.)Apply to cosmetology school. Figure out funding. Get a loan if need be.

2.)Living space. Figure out a budget. Change my address on EVERYTHING.

3.)Get my wheels and learn how to ride.

4.)Get my license so said wheels are actually valid. Figure out a way to get to work until then. Do buses even go that far out here?

5.)Work on a side hustle.

6.)Stave off loneliness and any urge to go back to being ridiculously repressed by finding some new places to volunteer. Or adopt a cat.

7.)Side hustle could be buying a used sewing machine and making mitts from old sweaters like we used to do and give out to the homeless in Seattle.

Before I can write down an eighth point, my stomach starts to burn so badly that I have to set the notebook aside.

I scramble out of the chair. I hesitate by the bed. What if Crow is one of those people that reacts by doing some kind of weird karate when you wake them out of a dead sleep? Either way, I saw how tired he was. He needs to rest. I can’t help but sneak one quick peek at his face. He’s on his side, his bandaged hand hiding most of his face, but the way his thick, dark lashes fan against his bronzed cheek and a swatch of long, dark hair has fallen over his forehead, partially obscuring the side of his face, he’s almost adorable.

I back away from the vulnerable scene, hunger chasing me out of the room. I don’t know the code for the door, so I leave it open just a crack. I saw the way the hall opened up when wecame in. If I want to find anything more than a row of locked doors, I have to go that way.

Even though it’s early afternoon, the place is so quiet that I can hear my boots squeaking with every step. Maybe I’m just imagining how loud they sound.

I trace my earlier route to the wide open space. All the lights are on. As soon as I turn the corner, it’s not just the sight of big, leather clad—erm, half leather clad—bodies that hits me. I get the full assault of old weed and stale alcohol. It smells a little bit like a late night at Patti’s, which isn’t entirely uncomfortable.

I don’t take a good look at the bodies, feeling that it’s an invasion of privacy. I’m the intruder here.

I walk past the area with the couches and TV, skirting quickly past. Thankfully, the first space that opens up is what passes as a kitchen. A round wooden table and chairs sits looking fairly unused in one corner, while on the opposite end of a bank of cabinets there’s one large stainless steel fridge followed by two commercial drink coolers with glass doors right next to it. Those are fully stocked with beer, which isn’t going to help my hunger issue. Even if it would, I had a sip once at Patti’s and couldn’t stand the taste.

Yup, that’s me. The waitress who serves alcohol all night long and has never had more than a single sip of wine and beer in her life.

I pull open the fridge slowly, trying not to make a bunch of noise. Thankfully, it’s fully stocked. The packages of deli meat and cheese all have expiry dates that are still good and there are several loaves of bread on the top shelf. It seems strange to put it in the fridge, but it’s probably to keep it from going moldy in the summer humidity.

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