Page 54 of The Biker and the Professor
A busty blond in a skimpy dress scrambles up from behind the barrel, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Sorry,” she mumbles again, before leaving dejectedly.
“Worse damn blowjob I’ve ever had in my damn life,” Onyx grumbles under his breath as he zips himself up. “Useless.”
When he looks up again and catches me with my mouth hung open, he shrugs. “Tonight’s our monthly communal night.”
I’d ask what that means, but from what I’m seeing so far, it’s self-explanatory. I need not know more. As long as Nero’s not taking part in it. At that thought, I panic, glancing around. He isn’t, is he? I don’t see him anywhere.
“Is he here?” I ask Onyx.
“Yeah.” He nods his head in the direction of the apartment building. “In his studio.”
Oh, thank God. “Isshewith him?”
He picks up his bottle of beer from the barrel and takes a swig while he studies me for a hot minute, then shrugs. “Dunno. Go check.”
“Real helpful, buddy,” I mumble as I walk off, and his low chuckle follows me.
As I tread past a trailer house that’s rocking wildly with vociferous noises of pleasure pouring from the windows,I quicken my steps toward the building. I chose the wrong night to show up here unannounced. There’s debauchery all around.
I take the stairs two at the time to the second floor where Nero’s studio is, dodging a couple sucking faces on the passageway three doors afar from his.
Taking a deep breath, I rap my knuckles against the door, hopingsheis not in there with him. I don't want to have to fight another woman for what’s mine, mostly because Ican'tfight. I have zero attacking or defensive skills.
When half a minute passes and the door doesn't open, I press my ear to the wood and listen for signs of life. Nothing.
I knock again and wait.
Still nothing. I get out my phone and dial his number, pressing my ear to the door again. Either he’s changed his ringtone, or I’ve been assigned a ringtone of my own because Kings of Leon’s“Walls”is what seeps beneath the crevice of the door.
“Professor,” he answers in a deep, sleep-laden voice.
“I’m outside.”
A pause. “What?”
“I’m standing outside your door,” I repeat. “Open up.”
He hangs up.
There are signs of life on the other side now, shifting, shuffling. Seconds later, the door swings open.
He stands across the threshold, bare-chested, barefooted, a pair of black boxers, and nothing else. In a rare form, his hair is free from its perpetual bun, flowing down to his shoulders in crimpling waves.
He looks tired, eyes droopy.
First things first, “Is she here?”
“Who?”
“Your Steady,” I clarify. “Leyana.”
He rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. “Oh. No.”
“Good.” I expel a relieved sigh. “Because I’d hate to have to fight a teenager.”
I breeze past him into the room and he closes the door behind me. Sweeping my gaze around, I take in his jacket thrown over the back of one of the chairs at his two-seater table. His jeans, t-shirt, and boots at the foot of the bed. The bedazzled purple purse hanging off the bedpost.
I point to the purse. “Is that hers?”
