Page 34 of That Girl is Trouble

Kat crosses her arms and stares out the window, her hot anger filling the cab and making the gasoline-laced air even heavier.

I sigh. “Why don’t you want to go to school, Kat? Something happen?” I glance over my shoulder. “And put your seat belt on.”

“Just some stupid bitch talking shit.”

Reaching behind me, I grab the seat belt and pull it over her. Once it’s clicked into place, I settle back into my own seat. “Talking shit? She know who you hang out with? Girl must have a death wish.”

She laughs, but it’s a bitter one. “Spare me. People don’t talk shit about you. About the Sinner men. But your women? We’re biker whores. I’m with Jesse. That’s why people talk shit about me. Missy Gleason can blow half the hockey team, but I sleep with one dude and I’m the slut.”

I raise my eyebrows and stare back at her. “One dude? You gave Jesse your cherry? Jesus, Kat. That must have been disappointing. And quick.” I snort.

“Careful,” Graves warns, but I shake my head and laugh.

Kat pulls her lip gloss out of her jacket pocket and unscrews the lid. With a steady hand, she lines her bottom lip. And that fucking sweet smell drifts into my nostrils. Cherries.

“There’s nothing disappointing about Jesse, asshole,” she says, a small smile curling up her face as she shoves her gloss back into her pocket. “But if you must know”—she gives her lips a quick smack—“I didn’t give my cherry to anyone. Something battery operated took that long before I let Jesse at me.”

I cough and clap a hand to my mouth, because Jesus fucking Christ.

Graves slams on the brakes, barely stopping in time to make the red light, and twists in his seat, giving her a disgusted look. “Can we change the fuckin’ subject? I don’t need to be hearing about that. And you,” he says, pointing a finger at me. “Don’t fuckin’ say shit like that to her.”

Kat throws him another eye roll. “You seriously making me go back? Come on. Triss will still be at your place. I can convince her to make pancakes. Day’s half over, anyway.”

Graves glares at me, irritation flashing across his face as he grips the steering wheel so tight his knuckles go white. The light turns green, and he turns back to the road, shaking his head.

“Please? I’m hungry. The cops cut open all Axe’s cereal boxes and I missed breakfast. Triss will make us something. Pancakes, Graves. Tasty, fluffy pancakes.”

“Yeah, man,” I say with a grin. “Pancakes.”

“Now we gotta go eat. Even Axe is smiling.”

“I smile all the time.”

“Please. Barely.”

Facing her, I throw on a deep grin, showing her my teeth.

Kat laughs so loud it’s more of a cackle. A full body giggle. “Don’t ever make that face again. It’s giving… serial killer.”

“Yeah? Well, that laugh is ridiculous.”

“I’ve been told I have a very cute laugh.”

I snort. “Whoever told you that is lying.”

“You shut your mouth,” she teases as she lays a hard punch on my shoulder. “Come on, Graves. Let’s go eat breakfast.”

He sighs, making a right turn towards the clubhouse instead of a left towards South Bay Sec. “Guess I could eat. But if Triss gets pissed, I’m blaming the two of you.”

I shrug. “Fine by me. Only one person in this truck is scared of that woman, and it ain’t me.”

“Me neither,” Kat says with another laugh.

We roll up to the clubhouse, and I get the fuck out of the truck the second it comes to a stop, sucking fresh air into my lungs and chasing away the thickness of the gasoline that’s been coating the inside of my nostrils for the last half hour.

Another thing I fucking missed while I was locked up. Open air. Wind. The smell of outside. I used to fucking hate winter. Living here, we get more than half a year of it. Half a year of not being on my bike, of biting cold temperatures and two feet of fucking snow in my walkway every other morning. After my stint though, I don’t mind it much. Especially on days like today—no wind, the sun still warm enough to melt the thin layer of snow on the ground, the roads still mostly bare and free of ice.

It doesn’t beat the feeling of riding fast down a highway with the wind in my face, but it sure fucking beats an eight-by-six concrete cell.

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