Page 13 of The Biker's Last Rodeo
I set the frame back on the dresser, pull open the top drawer, and grab the first thing I see. A red flannel with a tear on the sleeve.
It’s oversized, hangs clear past my knees, and smells faintly of motor oil, like he wears it when he’s out working in the barn.
Why do I love it?You shouldn’t love it, Maci.There’s no point in loving it.
This isn’t going to develop into some fuzzy, little, love story. This is a train wreck finally crashing into the station. Too bad the train wreck doesn’t come with a side of giant cock spreading me wide.
I should really rub one out. The amount of hormones raging inside of me right now is embarrassingly ridiculous.
I let out a breath and head down the creaking stairs, following the scent of cracked pepper and frying chicken as the flannel sways against my thighs.
Duke’s standing at the stove, bathed in the golden spill of kitchen light. His shirt clings to his shoulders, and the muscle in his forearm flexes as he flips something in the pan. The smell hits me with full force now.
“Damn, you’re multi-talented. Contract killer, bike fixer-upper, fried chicken maker.”
“Sit down, bunny,” he groans, as though he’s not amused by my banter.
The corner of my mouth lifts as I move further into the room, eyes locking on the mason jar beside an empty plate. Sweet tea, ice floating inside.
“You always cook like this for your hostages?”
He finally turns, gaze flicking over me in one clean sweep, eyes lingering at my knees where the flannel stops. “Not usually, no.”
“I’m special then,” I say with a grin.
“You’re special, alright. Eat up. It’s gettin’ cold.”
I slide onto the edge of the worn stool, the wood groaning beneath me like it has opinions about what I’m doing here.It should. I’m up to no good.
Duke sets the plate in front of me. Fried chicken, buttery corn, and what might just be homemade mashed potatoes. The man’s full of secrets.
He grabs his own plate. He doesn’t sit, just leans against the counter like comfort’s something he doesn’t trust. His fork pierces the chicken with more precision than necessary.
I can’t help but wonder what else he’s hiding, who he is when he’s not trying so hard to be mean.
I take a bite. Crunchy. Perfect. Delicious.
“You know,” I say between mouthfuls, “this might be your real deadly weapon.”
“Death by chicken,” he says, that gravel voice dipping lower. “I’ll have to add it to the list.” His mouth twitches, almost smiling.
“So,” I shrug, stuffing more food into my mouth than necessary, not realizing how hungry I was, “what do you do when you’re not tying people up in the center of your horse ring?”
“I guess I like cooking.”
“It shows.”
“What about you? You have any hobbies that don’t involve interfering with other people’s lives?”
“No,” I shake my head and take a sip of sweet tea, “not really. I mean, truthfully, until I was chasing after you… I wasn’t doing much of anything.”
“Find that hard to believe.”
“Really? You claim to know me so well. You didn’t read any of my past articles?”
“You mean the one entitledPrize-Winning Tulips?”
“Prize-winning roses, but yes, it was a stellar article. Also, the most boring story of all time.”
