She shoots me a look over her shoulder. “The Poker Run is today. I’m supposed to take care of the guys this morning.”
My brows snap together. “What the fuck does that mean?” The green monster inside me rears its ugly head, surprising the hell out of me.
Since when do I get jealous?
She rolls her eyes as she pulls on her tank top. “Cook. Serve breakfast. That sorta thing.” She smirks. “You’re acting like a jealous boyfriend.”
I ignore her observation as my hackles lower. “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.” She leans over the bed and plants a long, wet kiss on my mouth. “Thanks for one helluva night.”
Did she just give me the morning-after brush-off?
My lips twitch. She sure as fuck did.
Before I can say anything, she’s sliding into her sandals and slipping out the door.
Damn.
I scrub my hands over my face.
“Fuck it.” I’m awake, I might as well get up and go downstairs. Maybe grab some coffee and see if my boys are up and at ‘em.
Throwing off the covers, I roll out of bed and pad to the bathroom to handle my morning business. I take a leak and wash my hands, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
You’re too old for that girl.
Blowing out a breath, I uncap my deodorant and roll it on, then brush my teeth with the travel kit I always carry. Running a hand through my hair, I decide it’s good enough and head back into the bedroom to look for my bag.
“There you are.” I grab it off the floor and toss it on the bed.
I pull a fresh t-shirt out and tug it over my head, threading my hands through the holes. I step into the jeans I had on last night and attach the chain on my wallet to the belt loops. Then I stomp my feet into my Harley boots, slide on my cut, grab my keys off the nightstand, and head downstairs.
When I hit the bottom step, my eyes lock onto Pinky like a heat-seeking missile. She’s behind the bar, her pink hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun that’s sexy as hell on her. She’s got on a different pair of short shorts and another scrap of fabric that barely covers her tits.
My pecker twitches behind my zipper.
Down, boy. She blew us off.
I spot my brothers sitting at a table near the windows and they wave me over. Weaving through the crowd, I drop into the chair across from Crazy Train.
“Morning, sunshine,” Train says with that shit-eating grin of his. “You look like hell.”
“Fuck off,” I mutter.
Cleo, Train’s old lady, smirks at me from her spot tucked against his side. Her purple hair is down today, cascading over her shoulders. She’s wearing one of those steampunk getups she favors—black leather pants and a corset top with red lacing. “Late night?”
I flip her off, and she laughs.
Klutch sits next to her with Demi on his lap. The kid looks tired but happy, her head resting on his shoulder.
My eyes drift back to Pinky, and I catch her looking at me. I wave her over. She nods, grabs a carafe of coffee, and makes her way to our table.
She fills Crazy Train’s cup first, then moves around to me. I flip over the empty cup in front of me, and she fills it without a word.
“Want some breakfast?” she asks, not quite meeting my eyes.
I smirk, leaning back in my chair. “Yeah, I’m fucking starving. I worked up quite an appetite after last night.”
