And I couldn’t stop myself from secretly wanting alittlemore.
Abraham didn’t have to know exactly how fast my heart was pounding to look down and see a big oil-stained hand tightened on my hip as he pounded into me from the rear.
One day Vladdy was sitting next to me at the table as I prepped some food.
“Have any Russian recipes you’d like me to try?” I asked.
The big Head of Security was always quiet, but I saw him shift uncomfortably in the chair.
However, I was fine with restful silence. Mostly. So I said nothing and we sat together as I shelled peas for dinner.
Finally, he spoke.
“I saw how you helped Fizz. I—too have a problem.”
I waited.
“There’s—someone,” he said in a low voice. “Someone I’ve been. . .” He cleared his throat. “. . . hooking up with. And I—want it to be more than a casual thing but I don’t know how to say so.”
I pondered this for a moment, and there was a loud noise from the side as Uncle rolled through the clubhouse and into the Shop, with Fizz following behind, the two of them arguing about something to do with a bike.
And the way Vladdy’s eyes tracked Unc’s every move. . . I knew exactly who he was talking about.
“Maybe. . .start out lowkey. Just ask if he’s interested in going to get food. Just the two of you. Or bring him a little present.”
“Like what?”
“Just something small that he’s into. Something personal. Then you can gauge and see what his interest level is.”
Vladdy looked like he was considering this.
“Boxing. . . NASCAR. . .” I ventured, trying to pretend like I didn’t know who he was talking about.
Just then Abraham walked into the room, practically having to turn sideways through the doorway, talking to a customer with that intense, focused look he always had when he worked on a bike.
Should I really be giving anyone relationship advice when I was foolishly gettingwaytoo attached to an MC Prez who didn’t even like women. . .
CHAPTER 8
Abraham
Somehow things had changed in the clubhouse, and I wasn’t sure exactlywhenit had happened. Only that there was a different feeling, like the cobwebs were being swept out, only swept out so cunningly that I hadn’t even realized what was going on.
As I came in one day after a long ride to arrange for an upcoming parts shipment, I noticed there was a long yellow checkered tablecloth on the scarred old wooden table, with little yellow bunnies embroidered on it.
“I’ve killed a man on this table,” I said.
Polly looked up, blinking in surprise, but the little dimples in her smile were already popping out despite my harsh words.
“Oh, did I cover up a bloodstain you had a particular attachment to?”
She looked up at me, those big hazel eyes so wide and innocent, and I found I could not exactly explain why this bunny tablecloth was so offensive.
“When did you kill him?” she asked.
“Who?”
“The main you killed on this table,” she replied patiently. “I can take the tablecloth off if it’s something you want to remember.”
