She stares moodily at her empty glass. “Thanks, but I’m tired of having to patch things back up.”
I rise off the couch, grabbing the glass out of her hand and pouring myself a shot. I drink it down, even though I prefer the sweet burn of rum. “Isn't that your job?”
Her hazel eyes are dull and tired as they watch me steal her liquor. “I s’pose. But I know what I’m dealing with there.” Her lips quirk in a bitter smile. “I know the rules, because one thing you can say about biology is that it rarely surprises you.”
“I don’t know,” I murmur, setting the glass down between us. “Wings presenting kind of hit me from left field.”
“True.” Her hand flutters up to her neck but stops short of her butterfly ink. “You really think he’ll be safe back at the club?”
“I’ll bet my cut on it.” She raises her brows at me, because even a guy who’s bounced around clubs like I have doesn’t make that wager lightly. I pull one of her chairs away from the table and nod at it. “Sit down. Let me try something that won't give you a hangover in the morning.”
She eyes me warily. “You’re not going to tie me to that thing, are you?”
A dozen filthy images involving complicated knots flicker through my head. “Nothing that exciting. Come on. It’ll be worth it, I promise.”
She’s still watching me suspiciously, but she finally circles the island and perches on the edge of the chair. Even with exhaustion dragging her down, her spine is as straight as an iron bar, and I’m not surprised that she stiffens further when I sweep her hair off her neck. She’s wearing an old cotton tee and sleep pants, and her scent rises off her in a heady wave.
Focus, asshole.
I touch her lightly at first, waiting for her to get used to the feel of my hands on her shoulders. As expected, they’re balls of tension, but they slowly soften as I increase the pressure. I run my thumbs along the meridians, digging into the tight areas to increase blood flow, and she drops her head forward with a moan. “Oh, God. Wicked, wicked hands.”
I smirk as I find a sensitive spot and a shiver plucks at her spine. “I boxed for a while. My corner guy was a retired physio, and he said you should always learn to fix what you break.”
“Smart man,” she sighs, but as my hands slide further down her spine, she stiffens again. “Don’t... not my back.”
I eye her carefully. Everyone has their limits, but I don’t think I’ve hit a ticklish spot. “Okay. But just for the record, this works even better if you’re lying down.”
She smirks at my flirty wink. “Maybe next time, Magic Hands.”
I take the win, carefully massaging her neck until she pushes me away. She gets up to put the vodka back in the freezer and I return to my seat on the couch. “Another couple of nights there and you’ll be the one needing the massage,” she tells me.
I shrug, the humor fading under the reality of her situation. The butterflies were disturbing, but there was real rage leveled against her bike. “Thought any more about who could have done that to your bike?”
She stiffens, all my good work undone with a single question, but it’s too important not to ask. “Do you agree with Ark? That bikers couldn’t do that to a ride?”
“I think we both know that putting on a cut doesn’t cancel out the bad shit.” In fact, Ark knows this better than anyone, but it’s Abbie I need to convince. “I think we should assume these attacks are related. The butterflies to get your attention, and the bike to let you know they’re serious.”
Anger flashes in her eyes, her scent taking on a bitter edge. “Oh, I know they’re serious. What I don’t know is who they are and why they’re targeting me.”
“We’ll find that out,” I assure her, “but in the meantime, we have to prepare for what comes next. Maybe the deadbolts will keep them out, but there are plenty of dark corners between here and the street.”
I don’t need to spell out the dangers that exist beyond that, and her frown deepens. “You think we're safer at the clubhouse?”
“I think they're going after things you love, and that makes you vulnerable.”
Her gaze has been drifting around the room, like she’s mentally checking her defenses, but now her head snaps towards her bedroom door. “Wings...” She swallows, her hand grippingthe counter until I can see her knuckles glow. “You think he’s in danger?”
“He’s tough,” I say slowly, “but the two of you can’t prepare for every scenario. And what happens when one of you goes into heat? Or both of you, for that matter? Who's gonna watch your back then?”
Her eyes narrow, but I can see a hint of heat stirring in their depths. “Are you applying for the job?”
I stare straight back at her, because this is another question that’s too important not to ask. “Would you consider me if I did?”
Instead of answering, she turns back to the sink for a glass of water. She drinks it down then crosses to look out the window. I don’t know if she’s thinking about my offer or checking the street for potential threats, but there’s a hint of a smile in her eyes when her gaze slides back to mine. “I haven’t kicked you off my couch yet, have I?”
Chapter Seven: ABBIE
I sniff the air as the exhaust from the cab clears, leaving me standing outside the gates of the old bubblegum factory on Liege Road. Memories cluster at the edges of my mind, back when this place was a refuge from the never-ending tensions in the Flyers’ clubhouse. That compound had been converted from a warehouse, and to a kid with a vivid imagination, it always felt like a cold, soulless shell. But as the scent of grape bubblegum wafts around me, the ten-foot metal gate starts to roll back, and I shove my nostalgia to the back of my mind.
