Page 7 of Crash’s Secret

“Tacos,” I say. “Noon. You order for yourself.”

She holds my eyes a second longer than she needs to. “See? You’re trainable.”

I push off the rail and go find something to do with my hands before they do something on their own.

It’s going to be the longest week of my life.

CHAPTER 3

CASSIDY

The bartender shows up at eleven, a server right behind him, and Crash spends forty minutes pretending he has work to do that requires standing at the opposite end of the bar from me.

At noon, I close the ledger and put my pen down loud enough for him to hear it.

“Time to pay up, VP.”

He looks at the bartender. The bartender suddenly has glasses to polish. The whole club knows about the deal—nothing stays quiet in that building longer than an hour.

He grabs his wallet. “Alright, tacos it is.”

He walks around the bar, and I follow him to the door, where he holds it open for me.

Outside, he straddles the bike and waits.

“Problem?”

“No problem.” Six minutes to Rosa’s. I can behave for six minutes.

Six minutes pressed against him, my thighs bracketing his. Easy.

He doesn’t offer instructions. He knows I grew up on the back of my dad’s bike, then Saber’s bike.

I know where to put my feet. Now the only thing left to figure out is my hands.

I settle behind him and rest them on his hips. Light. Polite.

He reaches down, takes my wrists, and pulls my arms around his waist until I’m flush against his back.

“Hold on tight,” he says, and starts the engine before I can respond.

That’s a good thing, because right now, anything I say would be embarrassing.

During the ride to Rosa’s, my mind is not on tacos. All I can think about is the feelings of his hard muscles against me, how he smells like leather and soap, and how every gear shift moves his body into mine. And then I think about how he’d react if I moved my hands down—just two inches.

I don’t do it. But for six whole minutes, I think about it.

Rosa’s is half full, all locals. Heads turn when we walk in, and then turn away fast, the way they do for anyone wearing a Hellborn Kings patch. We take two stools at the counter.

“Order whatever you want,” he says. “You’ve already warned me about the consequences.”

“I’m going to get three steak tacos and a lemonade.” I fold my menu and lock my gaze on his. “It feels good to give me what I want, doesn’t it?”

He drags his lower lip through his teeth, but we’re interrupted.

The waitress who comes over is pretty—dark hair, red lips, and a shirt unbuttoned one more than it needs to be. She doesn’t look at me once.

“Crash.” She smiles and leans on the counter, giving him the full view. “Been a minute. What are you having?”