“What floor?” he asks.
“Sorry?”
“Where are you headed tonight?”
“Huh?” I blink, making an effort to understand and process his words. “Oh, uh…”
Even with a bad case of dizziness, I hesitate. He shuffles awkwardly from one foot to the other beside me, so close that his leather cut brushes my bare arm. Something about the leather he’s wearing sparks a memory, but it’s too far away for me to grasp.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
My eyes can’t focus long enough to look up at his face. God, I can hardly move my head as he turns toward me and places a hand on the small of my back.
“I’m…fine.”
“You don’t look it.”
There’s a reason he shouldn’t be touching me, some obscure fact that’s more than being a stranger. Alarm bells go off in my head. I glance down at the swimming carpet and behind me, vaguely noticing that there’s a goddamned dart sticking out from my hip.
Holy shit.
Did this guy just dart me?
“Please,” I whisper, unable fully form more words as my mouth goes dry. “I’m okay. Just leave me alone.”
The world around me is more and more hazy, merging together as I try not to buckle beneath this man’s steady, firm grip that helps to hold me upright. His touch feels equal parts hot and cold, and I can’t catch my breath because of it. Does he have something to do with me being attacked and darted? A jagged stab of fear makes my gut cramp. I push him away, but touching him is like trying to push through a solid wall, and he only holds on harder, speaking in low tones that warp in my ears.
Then I notice the skull-shaped insignia on one side his vest, and a ‘President’ patch stitched on the other.
Shit.
The head honcho of the Satan’s Saints Motorcycle Club, one of the most dangerous MCs around, has just wrapped me up in his arms.
“Lady?” his voice echoes, and his warm breath caresses the shell of my ear.
That’s the last thing I register in my haze.
