Page 88 of Sexting the Bikers
I can’t help but smile. In Moscow, women stayed in the background, always careful, always waiting for permission. Here, they take what they want and everyone just accepts it. For a second, I feel something loosen inside me, something that’s been wound tight for years.
Reaper nudges my arm. “You fit in better than you think,” he says, his voice quiet but sure.
Bishop pushes through the door, still in his riding leathers, a faint smear of gun oil across one cheek. He glances around the busy room and calls out, “Where’s a man got to go for a beer in this place?”
“On the table, Bishop,” Donella replies, not even looking up from the giant mixing bowl she’s attacking with a wooden spoon. “Try not to spill it everywhere this time.”
Bishop just grins and heads for the row of bottles and cans at the end of the table. I slip in beside him, curiosity prickling at the back of my mind. “Funny way to have a war,” I say under my breath, just loud enough for him to hear.
He cracks open a can and tips it back. “We don’t play by the rules,” he says, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Never have, never will.”
“I can see that,” I reply, watching as Donella waves a spatula in his direction.
“Here’s the steaks, Bishop,” she says, handing over a heavy stainless steel tray stacked high with raw meat. “Grill’s hot and ready. And don’t burn them this time.”
“I’ll get right on them,” Bishop answers, already heading for the back door, tray balanced in one hand, beer in the other.
I watch him go, even more confused than before. I expected tension, battle plans, men arming themselves for a fight. Instead, there’s potato salad and grilled steaks, a dozen side conversations, and laughter echoing from the kitchen.
Before I can make sense of it, Donella turns her attention to me. “Katya, can you help me stir up this potato salad?” she asks, holding out the wooden spoon.
I nod, moving around the table. For a second, all the noise and chaos recedes, and it’s just me and Donella and a giant bowl of potato salad. I grip the spoon, feeling oddly steady.
“Just give it a good stir,” she says, her tone practical and warm. “Don’t worry about the war. Men always think they’re running the show, but we’re the ones who keep it all together.”
I glance at her, and for the first time tonight, I almost feel like I belong.
29
DOG
Icatch Katya by the arm while she’s rinsing her hands in the kitchen sink, pulling her close with a quiet urgency. “There’s something I need to show you,” I say, lowering my voice so the others don’t catch the edge in it.
Reaper, who is of-fucking-course standing right next to her, looks at me suspiciously.
This isn’t how I pictured this would go. I feel a sting of annoyance, but it’s familiar—he’s always been in the middle of things.
Katya wipes her hands on a dish towel and looks between us. “Why don’t you come as well?” she says to Reaper, that calm voice of hers making it sound like the simplest solution in the world.
I hesitate, glancing at Reaper. It was supposed to be a private thing, but hell, maybe that’s not what tonight’s about. Because despite everything, he’s always looking out for me, and the rest of the crew. I know I would be dead if it weren’t for him.
“What the hell, come along,” I say finally, trying to play it cool but not quite pulling it off. As we climb the stairs, the oldwood creaking under our boots, I take out my phone and thumb out a message to Bishop.
Get up here, Bishop. Trust me. Now.As I type, I mutter to Katya, “Might as well call Bishop too. If we leave him out, he’ll be sullen all night, and no one wants to listen to him grumble.”
Reaper snorts, falling in behind us, his boots heavier than mine, but I don’t mind his company as much as I pretend. Katya gives me a curious glance but follows along, the three of us moving up the narrow stairs like we’ve done it a hundred times.
Bishop’s room is at the end of the hall, always the cleanest of the bunch—military neat, or at least, it usually is. When we push open the door, I notice stacks of books sliding off his desk, a shirt tossed over his chair, and a couple of empty mugs crowding the windowsill. Not quite chaos, but definitely not his usual sharp lines and clear surfaces.
Katya glances around, a little smile playing on her lips. “It wasn’t like this the last time I was in here,” she says softly, running her finger along the edge of the dresser.
I pause, a slow grin spreading as I catch her words. “When were you…?” My brain fumbles, and I turn to look at her, just as Reaper gives me a look. Then it clicks, and Katya blushes, color blooming up her throat and cheeks.
I laugh, low and teasing. “Guess we’ve all had you, huh?” I lean back against the door, giving her a wicked smile. “Not that I’m complaining.”
Reaper shakes his head, crossing the room and crowding Katya against the dresser, his hand coming up to brush her hair back. “You’re trouble, kitten,” he murmurs, and there’s a roughness in his voice that I love hearing. “But Dog’s right for once.”
Katya looks at both of us, her eyes wide, her breathing faster now. “Should we really be doing this right now?” she asks, her voice shaky, but she doesn’t move away. If anything, she leansin, looking at me and then at Reaper, like she’s daring us to say no.
