Page 14 of Spinner's Luck

Her jaw tightened, but she nodded reluctantly. “Fine. For now.”

It wasn’t much, but it was all I was getting.

As she turned back to the railing, her gaze fixed on the horizon once more, I decided it was the right moment to tell her. “You’ll be bunkin’ with me.”

Her head snapped toward me, surprise clear in her eyes. “What do you mean by bunking with you?”

“You’ll be in my room,” I said, holding up a hand before she could argue, “but I’ll sleep on a cot. Devil’s got me watchin’ over you.”

“More like spying and guarding,” she snapped. “And don’t think I’m some easy lay, ‘cause you’d be dead wrong. Dead is what you’ll be if you try anything.”

I raised both hands in mock surrender. “I enjoy breathin’, so no worries. I don’t force myself on women.”

“I know,” she said, her tone softer now. “But I figured it needed saying. Felt appropriate.”

Her chuckle eased the tension between us, her eyes softening as she added, “Let me grab my bag from the car. Then you can show me these fancy accommodations.”

I FOLLOWED SPINNERdown the narrow hallway,curiosity buzzing in the back of my mind. I wasn’t sure what to expect from his room, probably the usual biker aesthetic: dark, messy, and overdue for a deep clean. My time at Dragon Fire’s clubhouse had left me with a permanent association between bikers and the smell of rotting food and the pieces of shit that inhabited the place.

But when Spinner opened the door and I stepped inside, I froze.

The soft glow of a desk lamp cast long shadows across the walls, but what caught my eye first was the art. It was everywhere. Framed sketches, old tattoo flash sheets, and intricate drawings covered the walls, some faded with age, others vibrant and alive with detail. The room carried a sense of history, like every piece had a story Spinner had chosen to preserve.

“Wow,” I breathed, stepping further inside. My eyes moved slowly across the swirling patterns of ink and paper, several signed with the name Hayden Elwood. His real name, I guessed. “This is... not what I expected.”

Spinner leaned against the doorframe, watching me with that quiet intensity that seemed to be his default. “What did you expect?”

“Messy,” I said with a smirk, running my fingers lightly along the edge of one of the frames. “Dark, dirty, smelly, maybe a poster of a naked woman on a Harley.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, like the rumble of his bike. “Gotcha. Look, Lucy, even bikers got standards, and a healthy fear of catching somethin’ that soap won’t fix.”

I turned to him, arching a brow. “Clearly. These are incredible. Did you draw any of them?” Suddenly, all his tattoos made sense, his skin was as much a canvas as these walls.

“Some,” he admitted, stepping fully into the room and closing the door behind him. “But most of ’em are pieces I’ve collected over the years. Old tattoo flash, stuff from artists who’ve passed or stopped workin’. It’s... somethin’ I enjoy. A hobby.”

“Hobby?” I repeated, tilting my head as I studied him. “This feels like more than a hobby, Spinner. This is... passion.”

He shrugged, but the flicker of pride in his eyes gave him away. “Maybe. My interest in the art’s why I got into tattooing in the first place.”

My gaze drifted to the far side of the room, where a small table sat under the window. It was covered in tiny, colorful bricks—Lego pieces scattered like a rainbow explosion. At the center of the mess was a half-built city, its tiny plastic parts coming together with surprising precision.

“Is that... Legos?” I asked, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice.

Spinner rubbed the back of his neck, his ears turning faintly red. “Yeah.”

I walked over to the table, picking up one of the pieces and holding it to the light. “Did not peg you for a Lego guy.”

“It keeps my hands busy,” he said, his voice quieter now. “And my mind.”

I glanced at him, setting the piece back down. “From what?”

His jaw tightened, and he leaned against the wall, his eyes distant. “The past.”

The weight of his words settled in the air between us, heavy and unspoken. I didn’t push. Instead, I turned back to the table, letting my fingers trace the edges of the tiny bricks. “You’re good at this,” I said, gesturing to the half-built city.

“Helps to have somethin’ to focus on,” he said, his voice steady again. “Legos are simple. You follow the instructions, piece by piece, and eventually, you build somethin’ solid.”

I nodded, my fingers lingering on the table before turning back to him. “You’ve got layers, Spinner. You know that?”

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