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"Thanks. Basements and me... not a good combination," I shared, surprising myself. She had that quality though, a warmth, almost maternal, that made you want to open up to her.
She gave me a wobbly smile. "When V had me," she started, recounting the months she spent with a local skin trader who used her as a pawn to try to get her father to let V use his shipping containers to bring in women, "the basement was where all the beatings and... everything took place. It took me a long time to be okay with basements too. Anyway," she said, her tone getting cheery again, "Reign and I are two doors that way," she pointed. "Cash usually doesn't stay here anymore. He and Lo go to his place. But if you need anything, just ask."
"Thanks Summer," I said and watched as she moved into the hall. She turned away, then back, looking like she was fighting whether or not to say something. "Just say it."
"I'm glad he's dead," she said, shrugging. "And I'm glad you came to me for help. I know it ended up not really being much help, but still. Everyone always turns to the men. It's nice to be thought of."
"We girls got to stick together," I said with a tight smile.
"That's for damn sure. We're so outnumbered," she said, closing the door and making her way back to, I imagined, her man.
I grabbed my laptop and made my way toward the bed, the sheets smelling like laundry detergent, not autumn like Wolf, and I sighed at myself for noticing.
I could think about Wolf later.
I had work to do.
Like find out who the hell Marco, the new blood, really was.TWENTY-ONEJanieI woke up screaming.
Five seconds later, pushing my hair out of my face and adjusting to the only mildly familiar surroundings, there was slamming on my door. My heart flew up into my throat until Repo's smooth voice called through the door.
"Janie open up!"
I sighed, climbing out of bed in one of Wolf's tees that was discarded on the sink in the bathroom and, unlike his bed, still smelled like him. I unlocked the door and pulled it open. "It's..." I started, but found myself hauled up against his bare chest, one of his arms around my hips, the other at the back of my head.
"Jesus Christ. You scared the fuck out of me," he admitted, rawness in his voice as I heard other voices in the hall. "Fuck off, she's fine," he called to them, pushing me backward into the bedroom and slamming the door. He let me go and I sank numbly onto the foot of the bed, feeling both a little disoriented and thrown off by his unexpected reaction. It wasn't that I thought Repo was a jackass (okay maybe I did a little) but I didn't think he was the kind of guy to worry and offer hugs. "Bad dreams," he half-asked, half-declared as he leaned back against the door and crossed his arms over his chest.
It was the first time I got a good look at him without his shirt. He had a huge chest plate that he was working on getting colored-in. It was American traditional style, two pistols crossing butts, facing downward surrounded by roses and vines with two sets of fishnet-clad women's legs poking out of it. Directly above the giant piece, the word "Henchman" crossed him shoulder-to-shoulder in a bold, black font.
"Wow. That's some good work. Did you go to Paine?" I asked, thinking of the extremely hot light-skinned black guy who was, next to Shooter and Cash, the most charming guy I'd ever met.
"Nah. Hunter Mallick."
"Planning on branching out?" I asked, gesturing toward his bare arms and torso.
"Eventually. So stop changing the topic, Jstorm. Bad dreams?"
"I can't imagine how they're any of your business," I countered, my head turning to the side slightly.
"Just curious, honey. I don't sleep either. Was just seeing if I had a non-sleeping buddy 'round these parts. These fucks all pass out around three, leaving me to sit awake by myself until they crawl back out of their rooms around ten in the morning."
"Bad dreams too?" I asked, finding myself genuinely curious. So far, aside from knowing he worked on cars and liked pulling open doors, was loyal, and in no way shy about calling people on their bullshit... I knew nothing about him.
"I can't imagine how they're any of your business," he threw my own words back at me with a smirk.
"Fair enough," I said, nodding. "I need coffee."
"It's brewing," he said, turning to the door and giving me a quick view of another outlined piece covering his whole back, something with a snake and words that weren't filled in yet. "I'll grab a shirt, you grab pants, and I'll meet you in the kitchen. I make a mean breakfast scramble," he added and my empty stomach suddenly clenched painfully.
Alright. So he was loyal, a bit of a jackass, a worrier and hugger, into cars and tats, couldn't sleep because of bad dreams, lived on caffeine, and could cook? Oh yeah, Repo and I were gonna make good friends.
I threw on pants and shoes, tamed my hair, brushed my teeth, and made my way quietly toward the kitchen. It was a small and square room with reasonably white tile, white cabinets, and stainless steel appliances. There was a window overlooking the backyard over the sink and a small gray folding table with two chairs against the wall. Nothing fancy. But then again, it was all men that lived there. Nothing about a biker screamed 'we should put curtains on those windows and some decorative hand towels would really spruce up the joint!'.
"Cup by the machine," Repo said, back to me, now wearing a plain white tee along with the black sweats, standing near the stove and whipping eggs in a bowl.
I walked over to the machine and poured a cup, hauling myself up onto the counter and watched as he chopped peppers, onions, spinach, and mushrooms and mixed them into the eggs. "So you cook," I observed.
