Page 29 of Klutch's Kryptonite

“Denali,” Klutch nods in greeting. “This is Demi. She works at The Underground.”

I recognize the name immediately. Denali—the President of the Bastard Saints MC.

I can tell just by looking at him that he’s not someone to be messed with. There’s a hardness in his eyes that speaks of someone who’s seen and done things I can’t even imagine.

“Sir,” I manage, not sure of the proper protocol for addressing the president of a motorcycle club.

His lips twitch as a flicker of amusement crosses his face. “Just Denali is fine, darlin’.”

Klutch shifts beside me. “Her place got broken into tonight. She needs somewhere to crash for the night.”

Denali’s eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t ask questions. Instead, he just waves a hand dismissively. “That’s fine.”

And that’s it. No further explanation needed. I’m struck by the implicit trust between them—Klutch vouching for me, and Denali accepting it without question.

“Thanks,” Klutch says, already turning to lead me away.

We weave through the crowd toward a staircase. As we climb the steps, the noise from the party begins to fade, and by the time we reach the second floor, it’s muffled enough that I don’t feel like I have to yell for him to hear me.

Klutch leads me down a hallway lined with doors on either side. He stops at the last door and pulls a key from his pocket.

“Home sweet home,” he says, pushing the door open and ushering me inside.

I step into what looks like a small apartment. There’s a living area with a couch and TV, a tiny kitchenette in the corner, and two doors that I assume lead to a bedroom and bathroom. Everything is surprisingly neat and organized—not at all what I expected in a biker’s bachelor pad.

“This is your room?” I ask, setting my bag down on the floor.

“It’s a suite,” he corrects, closing the door behind us. “All the officers have one.”

I walk further into the space, taking it all in. The furniture looks new and the walls are freshly painted. “It’s really nice.”

“Clubhouse is new. Well, new to us anyway,” he explains as he watches me explore. “We just moved in a couple weeks ago.”

“Oh?” I prompt, curious about the story there.

“Long story. Maybe another time.”

I nod, not wanting to push. My eye catches on a framed photo sitting on the entertainment center. I walk over and pick it up, studying the image. It shows a younger Klutch standing between a handsome older man with the same dark features and a beautiful woman with kind eyes.

“My parents,” Klutch says, coming to stand behind me.

“You look happy,” I observe, smiling at the genuine joy on all three faces. They look like a real family—something I haven’t had in a long time.

“We are,” he says simply, taking the frame from my hands and setting it back down. “Most of the time, anyway.”

When I turn around, Klutch is kicking off his boots. He straightens up and pulls his t-shirt over his head in one smooth motion, revealing washboard abs and a happy trail I’d admired during his fight.

Realizing I’m staring, I quickly avert my gaze, my cheeks warming. “Um...”

“Bathroom’s through there if you want to shower or whatever,” he says, nodding toward one of the doors, completely oblivious to my discomfort. “Towels are in the cabinet under the sink.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, grabbing my bag and practically running to the bathroom.

Once inside, I lean against the door and take a deep breath.

It’s fine. Everything is fine.I’m just staying the night in a strange biker’s room after watching him beat a man unconscious. “Oh God” I cover my face with my hands. What the hell am I doing?

Groaning, I drop my hands and look around the bathroom. Like the rest of the suite, it’s surprisingly nice. Clean white tiles, a large walk-in shower, and a vanity with a sink. It’s nicer than any bathroom I’ve ever had.

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