Page 17 of Fang

“How generous of you to not watch me shower.”

He shrugs. “I’m a gentleman.”

“You’re a jailer,” I counter, but there’s no heat in it. At least he’s letting me wash all the sweat and dirt off. I’m sure I stink too.

I wait until he closes the door before turning on the water, letting it run to warm up while I assess the tiny space. The mirror above the sink reflects a face I barely recognize anymore—hollow-cheeked, dark circles under eyes that have seen too much, my black hair a tangled mess, and there’s a smudge of something dark on my jawline.

I strip efficiently, placing my clothes in a neat pile where I can grab them quickly if needed. Even naked and vulnerable, I position myself so my back is to the wall, never to the door. A habit I developed living the cartel life. The shower is brief but glorious, hot water sluicing away grime and tension in equal measure. I find pine-scented soap and shampoo and use them judiciously, aware that I’m replacing my scent with his.

I dry off with a surprisingly soft towel, then realize I have nothing clean to change into. Wrapping the towel around myself, I crack the door open.

“Problem?” Fang asks, looking up from his phone.

“I need clothes.”

His eyes flick down to assess my body. His gaze is clinical rather than lecherous. “T-shirts are in the top drawer of the dresser. Bottom drawer has sweatpants with a drawstring. They’ll be big, but they’ll work until we can get you something else. Vapor said we should eat then he’s calling Church later.”

“That’s what you call your meetings, right?”

“Yeah. You study up on MCs or something?” His attention is back on his phone as it pings with a new message.

“Or something,” I say, walking past him to get clothes.

Clutching the towel to my chest with one hand, I grab the first t-shirt I can find along with a pair of sweat pants. Fang turns his back without being asked, facing the door like a sentinel. I retreat to the bathroom, changing quickly into a black t-shirt that hangs to mid-thigh and sweatpants I have to roll at the waist four times.

I glance at the mirror and can’t help but grin at my reflection. His shirt has text on it that reads, “I’m not procrastinating, I’m doing side quests.” The 8-bit style symbols at the bottom of the text are kinda cute. There’s a red diamond, a gray and black sword, a golden trophy cup, and a blue diamond.

When I emerge, Fang is typing something on his phone. He looks up, assesses my borrowed outfit, and nods once. “Better. Now let’s get you fed.”

Chapter 8: Mina

The clubhouse kitchen is a large space filled with state-of-the-art industrial appliances. Framed photographs of motorcycles and men wearing the club’s colors hang on the wall. The savory aroma of sizzling meat mixes with a cloying wave of cotton-candy scented perfume. I’m sure the second scent is coming from the woman standing at the stove. She’s sporting a head of poofy platinum blonde hair that looks as if it’s been teased half to death. She stands with one hip cocked, her denim shorts so tiny they’re practically dental floss. She turns when we enter, her smile for Fang wide and practiced, while her glance at me is dismissive.

“Fang, baby,” she coos, voice pitched to a frequency designed to make men stupid. “I was just about to send Mikey to find you. Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Thanks, Trixie,” Fang says, and I file away the name, though I doubt it’s the one on her birth certificate. “This is Mina. She’s staying with us for a while.”

Trixie’s smile dims a few watts as she gives me a more thorough once-over, taking in my borrowed clothes and damp hair. I see the calculations running behind her heavily mascara’d eyes: not a threat, not competition, not worth the effort.

“Well, aren’t you just swimming in Fang’s clothes,” she says with a saccharine laugh. “Hope you like chili. It’s my specialty.”

From the casual way she tosses ingredients into the pot—a handful of this, a splash of that—I doubt anything is her specialty except the art of strategic cleavage display. Her tank top is stretched so tight across her chest that the club’s logo is distorted into unrecognizability.

“Smells good,” I say, moving deeper into the kitchen to observe my surroundings.

The space is well-used, with knife marks scoring the wooden cutting boards and burn patterns on the industrial stove. A massive refrigerator hums in the corner, its surface a collage of magnets—motorcycles, beer brands, and pin-up girls in various poses. The wooden table dominating the center of the room could seat twelve easily.

Fang leans against a counter, watching Trixie with an expression of patient tolerance. “How many are eating tonight?”

“Just us three,” Trixie says, giving her hips a little wiggle as she stirs. “Most of the boys are out on a run with Vapor. Won’t be back till late.” She looks at me again, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re that computer girl, right? The one who’s supposed to help with the cartel thing?”

I offer a noncommittal hum, neither confirming nor denying. Information is currency, and I’m not spending any of mine on her.

Fang intervenes smoothly. “Mina’s helping us with some tech work. That’s all you need to know, babe.”

She pouts, lower lip glossed to a shine that catches the overhead lights. “I was just making conversation. No need to get all secret-agent on me.”

Trixie turns back to her cooking, adding a generous splash of beer to the pot—half for the chili, half for herself as she takes a swig from the bottle. She moves with the languid confidence of someone who is used to being watched, every action choreographed for maximum effect. I wonder briefly how longshe’s been here, and what her story is. Everyone has one. No one ends up in a biker clubhouse by accident.

---