“Where are your sandals?”
“In the bottom of a box.”
“Show me which one,” he ordered, his hands sliding away. “I’ll grab them while you do your makeup.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Will it get us out the door quicker so you can stop runnin’ around like a chicken with your head cut off?” he asked.
I turned back toward the bathroom and pointed at a box near the dresser. “They’re in that one. I need the black ones, not the brown. Thank you.”
“Does it really matter which color they are?” he called as I went back to the bathroom counter and pulled out my makeup.
“Says the man who’s wearing motorcycle boots when it’s ninety degrees outside.”
“Shoes are shoes.”
“Incorrect,” I called, leaning forward to line my eyes. “I’m wearing a black and white tank top. I need the black ones.”
“You’re wearing blue shorts.”
“They’re denim, and it doesn’t count.”
“Jesus, how many shoes do you have?” he called.
“A lot less than every other woman you know,” I replied, adding mascara. “I have like three pairs of sneakers, one pair of heels, three pairs of sandals, and two pairs of work boots. That’s nothing.”
“Found ’em,” he replied, stepping into the doorway.
I looked at him in the mirror to find him dangling the sandals from his fingers and staring at my ass.
“Done,” I announced. His gaze rose slowly and unashamedly met mine in the mirror.
“There a reason these things are so heavy?” he asked as I turned around.
“They’re Docs,” I replied, taking them from his hand. “I’ve never found a light pair.”
“May as well be wearin’ the work boots,” he muttered as I slid my feet in and hurried past him.
“What’s the holdup?” I joked as I sailed out of the bedroom.
A few minutes later, I was staring at Curtis as he tried to hand me a helmet. The kids had already piled into Dylan’s truck and were waiting at the curb, which I wasn’t super stoked about. The kid had barely left his room since we’d been there, and he was only seventeen. I had no idea what kind of driver he was, and I generally didn’t let the kids ride with anyone under twenty-one, much to Jesse’s dismay.
“They’ll expect you on the back of my bike,” Curtis said, setting the helmet on my head when I wouldn’t take it from him.
“I’m wearing shorts and a tank top,” I replied flatly. “I don’t even have boots on.”
He moved closer as he buckled the helmet at my chin. “You think I’d let anythin’ happen to you?” he asked softly. “It’s about ten minutes of back roads.”
“I…” I looked down at my bare legs. “Fine,” I conceded. Climbing onto the back of Curt’s bike was the least risky thing I’d done in the past week.
I let him tug me toward the bike and waited as he swung his leg over, climbing on behind him as soon as his ass was on the seat. My palms were clammy as I wrapped my arms around his waist, pressing my front to his back. Seconds later, we were pulling onto the street, and I closed my eyes, resting the helmet against the Aces insignia between his shoulder blades.
Once upon a time, I’d loved riding on the back of a motorcycle. My pop had one when I was a kid, and I loved nothing better than the weekends when he’d take me out with nowhere to be, usually ending up at some random ice cream shop or hole-in-the-wall diner. They were some of my best memories. All that had changed when I’d made the mistake of riding with Mike, who’d thought it was hilarious to scare the shit out of me. Finn’s father hadn’t had an ounce of self-preservation, and he’d been more than willing to drag me down with him. I was lucky we’d made it home in one piece.
Curtis must’ve felt my fear, because after a few minutes of the smooth ride, he peeled my left hand from where it was fisted in his shirt and brought it to his mouth, kissing the back before setting it back where I’d had it. He dropped his hand to my thigh and gave it a squeeze, keeping it there until we slowed into a tight corner. A few minutes later, I lifted my head to find that we were turning off the road. Dylan’s truck pulled through a guarded gate ahead of us, and Curtis nodded to the man monitoring the entry as we rolled past him.
I let out a long, relieved breath as I looked around. The Aces compound was out in the woods down a long, freshly paved driveway. You couldn’t really see it from the road, even though the buildings were big. The clubhouse and garage were connected, and there was a sea of Harleys out front, lined up like soldiers. Further down, there were a bunch of cars parked, and that’s where Dylan drove to while Curtis and I rode toward the bikes.
