Page 38 of Boulder's Weight

This is what it could be like if I were just a regular girl on vacation, flirting with a local guy.

No murderous brothers, no dark family secrets, no lies about who I am or why I'm here.

For a moment, I allow myself to indulge in the fantasy.

I could text back, meet him for dinner, spend another night wrapped in his arms, pretending that everything is simple and uncomplicated.

That I'm just Kelsey, that he's just Boulder, that we're just two people enjoying each other's company.

But the sedan is still there, a reminder that nothing about my life is simple.

My thumbs hover over the screen, thinking about what I could say, when the bell above the door chimes.

My eyes automatically lift to check who's coming in—standard for anyone who's spent time looking over their shoulder—and my entire body goes cold.

Boulder strides through the door, his massive frame filling the entrance.

Behind him are two other men wearing Reapers Rejects cuts, club members I've never seen before.

They're in the middle of a conversation, something about a shipment coming in later this week, their voices dropping to hushed tones as they enter the café.

Boulder's wearing dark jeans that hug his thighs, heavy boots, and a gray t-shirt beneath his cut.

His hair is slightly damp, like he's just showered, and he's got that easy confidence I find so magnetic.

For one blissful second, he hasn't noticed me yet.

Then his eyes scan the café and lock with mine.

Everything seems to slow down.

The smile drops from his face, replaced by confusion that quickly morphs into something harder to read.

"Kelsey?" he says, his deep voice carrying across the room.

My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I'm certain everyone can hear it.

I feel trapped because I am.

I’m caught in a lie I’m not ready to explain.

The two men with him stop talking, instantly picking up on the change in atmosphere.

The first one is tall with a shaved head, tribal tattoos crawling up his neck and disappearing into his beard.

It only takes me a second to remember his name—Python.

The second is shorter but built like a tank, with forearms covered in faded tattoos and a weathered face that's seen its share of fights.

"You know her?" the tattooed one asks, his eyes darting between us, obviously interested.

Boulder doesn't answer, just keeps staring at me like he's trying to put together pieces of a puzzle.

I force myself to breathe, to appear normal even as panic floods through my entire body.

"Hey," I manage, my voice impressively steady considering the circumstances.

Boulder takes a step forward, then another, closing the distance between us.

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