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“I didn’t hear you telling me to stop, and if you’re going to call me a name, get it right. I’m an asshole.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “My apologies. I forgot that you want me to own my opinions. You’re right. You are an asshole.”
Oz
FUCKIN’ A, I’M an asshole. I’m also a moron for almost letting that spiral out of control.
The windows of the clubhouse are blacked out so I stand by the door keeping an eye on the security monitor by the bar. The gun feels heavy on my back, but if trouble’s arrived I won’t necessarily have to pull it. There’s so much tension and anger built up in me, I’m practically shaking. A part of me wishes for the Riot to show so I can throw a punch in someone’s face.
But it’s not the Riot. It’s Chevy and when he gets close enough, I open the door.
I expect his easygoing grin and smart-ass greeting; instead he stalks in like a tiger that lost his dinner in a bloody battle. “We need to go.”
I eyeball Emily then zero in on him. “Can’t. I’m babysitting.”
“Did you say babysitting?” Irritation leaks into her tone.
I ignore Emily and so does Chevy. “Olivia called. Violet and Stone are broke down on Applewood Pass. They have a flat and the spare is busted. I sent out a SOS to the club, but everyone is on that ride with Eli.”
Not everyone. Eli held a few guys back to watch the perimeter of the property. I massage the knots out of the back of my neck. Violet’s dad was a member of this club and he died not too long ago. Violet, Stone and their mother are our responsibility now.
“I have my own problems,” I mutter.
Chevy glances over at Emily. She immediately looks away. “I see that, but I need the truck and I can’t be alone with Violet. I’ll be damned if we fail her on this and she has one more excuse to bitch about the club.”
Technically, Applewood Pass is on Cyrus’s property and Emily and I do need a chaperon and a distraction. I dig the keys Eli gave me last night out of my pocket. “Let’s go fix some tires.”
Emily
STOP ME IF you’ve heard it before: one girl and two bikers ride together in the cab of a truck... Yeah, I know. I haven’t heard the joke myself, but I sure feel like the punch line.
Oz opens the passenger-side door and does a sweeping motion indicating for me to enter. The guy who just showed hops into the passenger side and flings the door shut. The truck is old...like God created it on the eighth day then decided he made a mistake and went with us using horses for a few thousand years.
Rust lines the bottom edge of the frame. The pleather material of the bench seat is ripped and wires hang out in various spots in the dashboard. The scent of stale cigarettes drifts out of the interior. It’s what I rode in the other day with Eli, but without him this has a more foreboding atmosphere.
I climb in and the guy near the passenger door rolls down the window. The second I’m across the seat, Oz is in and I attempt to make myself smaller. It’s nearly impossible when I’m squished between two huge guys. Oz starts the truck and heads down the road.
“Hey,” says the overly huge, brown-haired biker Ken doll. “I’m Chevy.”
“Nice to meet you.” Not really. “I’m Emily.”
He rests his elbow on the open window and grasps the roof of the truck. “I know. I’m your cousin.”
That draws my attention. “We’re related?”
“By blood,” he admits, sharing my enthusiasm for this family reunion. “Our fathers were brothers.”
He doesn’t even attempt to allow me space as he settles in his seat. I’m the equivalent of a thin slice of moldy unwanted cheese between these two massive guys.
Chevy spreads his knees and I scoot over only to end up with my thigh touching Oz’s. I jerk back and crash into Chevy. He tosses me an are-you-impaired glare and the sigh that leaves my mouth is painful.
Oz peeks in my direction and my stupid body tingles. I’ve been kissed by three guys. Two of whom I at least liked and they liked me back. Both of those kisses were also comparable to licking live fish out of the ocean.
Never once did my heart race for them. Never once did my mouth dry out. Never once did my universe explode into fireworks like it did when Oz kissed me. I lower my head and rub my temples to keep from groaning in frustration. I don’t even like Oz and for some stupid reason I dream of crawling onto his lap, wrapping myself around him and kissing him until our lips fall off.
The truck rocks on the worn-out road and when Oz accelerates, the potholes become unforgiving as my body is flung from one side to the other. First knocking into Chevy then back into Oz. This is freaking horrible.
My fingers fumble at the seam of the seat, but not a seat belt in sight. Neither guy wears one and I feel completely naked not strapped in. Oz hits sixty-five and with both windows rolled down, wind whips through the truck, causing my hair to sting my face. I gather the locks at the nape of my neck and my body flies into the air again as the truck pounds into a hole.
