Page 6 of Sexting the Bikers
The man in the middle—salt-and-pepper hair, cold eyes—steps closer to Bakum’s desk.
“Bakum,” he says, voice low and steady. No fear. No fake respect.
Bakum leans back slowly, the glass of vodka forgotten in his hand. “Reaper,” he says. “You’re early.”
Reaper.
The name fits him. Dead calm. Deadly serious.
“We don’t like waiting,” the messy-haired one says, flashing a quick grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.
Beside him, the one with the icy stare stays quiet, arms crossed over his chest. Watching. Measuring. Waiting for something.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, feeling the tension coil tighter in the room.
Bakum wants them gone. Fast.
Which means whatever business they have—it matters. And maybe…just maybe…I can use it.
“You know how it is,” Bakum says. “Business.”
Reaper glances back at the other two.
“Dog, Bishop—watch the doors,” he says.
Dog—the one with the grin—shrugs. “Looks secure to me, Prez.”
Prez. President.
So Reaper’s their leader.
Bishop says nothing, just moves toward the corner, his pale blue eyes sweeping the room like he’s counting exits.
I move toward the side table, my steps slow, careful not to draw too much attention. My fingers brush the neck of a crystal bottle, tilting it toward them.
“Drink?” I offer, my voice smooth.
All three bikers look at me at once, and the heat in the room kicks up another notch, thick enough to taste.
Bakum’s head snaps toward me, his frown deepening. “What do you think you’re doing?” he says, his voice low and warning.
I don’t flinch.
I smile.
“Being a good hostess,” I say lightly. “Isn’t that what you want from me?”
His eyes narrow, dark with something I can’t quite read. Behind him, the three men watch the exchange closely. Dog’s mouth twitches, almost like he’s impressed.
The man with the salt-and-pepper hair—Reaper—cuts a look toward Bakum.
“She shouldn’t be in here,” he says. Voice flat. Hard.
Bakum smiles thinly, the kind of smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Unfortunately, she’s not trained yet. Doesn’t take orders well.”
Inside, my fists clench at my sides. Heat crawls up my neck, but I smile sweetly, like I don’t care. “I guess you’ll have to work harder, then,” I say, voice sugar and venom.
For a beat, no one speaks.
