Page 9 of Unmasked Rivalry
Without an answer, he opens the door and gets in, waiting for me.
Exhaling, I rush inside, get some clean clothes, and then get in his truck, too.
“City girl, zero,” he murmurs, throwing the truck into reverse. “Biker, one.”
I snort, staring out at the sun setting on the horizon.
We’ll see about that.
3
The clubhouse is everything I didn’t expect it to be.
I was picturing run-down old sheds, naked women, and big fat hairy men everywhere.
It is nothing like that.
It’s well put together. Sure, it has bikes, men, and half-naked women getting around, but the grounds are tidy and the buildings neat.
I follow Knox in, making eye contact with everyone who is staring at me, no doubt wondering who I am and why I’m here.
“Oh, you’re here!”
Mera’s sing-song voice has my head whipping around to see her charging towards me, drink in hand, clearly drunk. She throws her arms around my neck, and I can’t help but laugh. Even harder when she lets me go and scrunches her nose. “Girl, you need to shower.”
“Tell me about it,” Knox grunts. “Come on.”
I give Mera a look, and she giggles. “I’ll get a drink for you when you’re done.”
Knox leads me down the side of the main warehouse, past a line of Harley-Davidsons that look—honestly—like they cost more than the entire house I’m trying to fix. Once we have moved past the warehouse, we come to what is a very tidy, U-shaped area with rooms and a section in the middle for mingling. It’s kind of dorm-like, in a weird biker way. My guess, most of them live here.
He stops outside the third door from the end, pushes it open with his boot, and gestures inside, like he’s some kind of dark, tattooed doorman.
“Ladies first,” he says, voice low and dry.
I step into the room, and the first thing I notice is clothes. Everywhere. Jeans flung over the back of a chair, an entire pyramid of boxers stacked in a basket by the bed, shirts draped carelessly across everything horizontal. The bed is unmade, the sheets dark and rumpled, and I wonder, for one split second, who else has been in them.
What do I care?
Right.
“Bathroom’s through there,” he grunts, tossing a fresh towel at me from the shelf above the dresser. “Should be soap and shit.”
Should be? When was the last time he showered?
I take the towel, holding it with both hands, and make my way into the bathroom. It’s surprisingly clean. Sparsely decorated, but the mirror doesn’t have a single fleck of toothpaste or mystery goop, and the shower curtain is industrial gray. I turn the taps, wait for the water to go from arctic to hot, and step out of my clothes. For a moment, I stand there, naked and shivering, staring at my own reflection. My cheeks are streaked with dirt; a smear of black grease is slashed across my jawline.
The second the water hits me, I swear, I moan a little. Hot water, actual pressure, and a space free of critters. Shampoo, conditioner, and—my heart actually flutters—body wash. I fill my hand with liquid, lathering my body, enjoying every second of this shower.
I enjoy it for far too long before finally getting out.
Wrapping a towel around myself, I step back out into Knox’s room. It’s only then that I notice the framed photo on thenightstand. Not digital, not casual, but a real printed photo, in a heavy silver-edged frame. It’s Knox, arm thrown around a girl I miss more than words. The girl is Harper. My cousin. The only family member I ever felt close to.
I stare at the photo, a hundred different emotions crowding my chest. There’s a dull pulse of anger, and something sharper underneath, something that feels almost like jealousy, which is a completely unhinged reaction given I’m looking at a dead woman. But still. It’s Harper, and her smile is the same as it was at sixteen, that sharp little upturn of the lip, always slightly cheeky.
I reach for my bag, determined to put on fresh clothes and get the hell out before Knox comes back. I unzip it. I find my panties, shorts, and...I dig and dig, but I come up empty. Shaking my head, I empty the bag onto the bed and curse loudly when I realize I have forgotten my shirt. I can’t put the dirty, smelly, greasy one back on. I just can’t.
Frustrated, I glance around the room, knowing I have no other choice but to borrow a shirt. I walk over to what I assume is a clean pile of clothes on the dresser and pluck a shirt. It’s black, long-sleeved, and when I pull it on, it hangs halfway to my thighs. It smells like laundry detergent and a little bit like him, and I try not to analyze why that makes my heart thump so hard. I roll the sleeves twice, check myself in the mirror, and decide it could be worse.
