Page 8 of Texting the Wrong Bikers

I take the phone from Dash before he sends something even dumber. The screen glows against my palm, the phone warm. I send off a message, trying to find out where she might live without giving away that I have no idea who she is or where she is. For all we know, she might live out of state.

Did you text because you’re scared of the storm?

The typing bubble appears again.

Well, that was an abrupt change of tone.

Dash points immediately. “See? She knows there are multiple personalities happening.”

I ignore him and type back:

I’m just working out what you need.

The response comes almost instantly.

Mm. There he is.

Something low twinges in my stomach at that. Not the words, though they are arousing, it’s the familiarity of them, the ease. It feels like she’s already telling us apart without realizing it.

Dash notices my expression immediately and grins wider. “Oh, Chief likes this one.”

“I don’t even know what she looks like.”

“She could be hideous,” Trigger suggests happily. Either way, he’d pursue this as long as it entertains him.

“Didn’t say you did. But I bet she’s hot, she sounds hot,” Dash says with authority.

Thunder rattles the windows hard enough to shake the bottles behind the bar. Daggers of rain slice inside, spattering the entrance every time the front door opens. Somewhere behind us, two prospects argue loudly over their game of pool. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a club bunny lazily dancing, her miniskirt covering only the barest of skin. She catches my eye and crooks her finger in invitation. I shake my head, turning my attention away from her disappointed pout.

Like me, every man at the table is focused on the same glowing screen. The phone buzzes again.

So what exactly are you doing tonight besides taunting me?

Dash leans forward instantly. “Tell her you’re knitting.”

Trigger snorts beer through his nose. I ignore both of them.

Sitting around bored. Storm knocked half the town dead tonight.

Three dots appear, then disappear. I hold my breath.

I like storms.

Trigger points at the screen. “See? She’s got taste.”

“Doesn’t scare easily either,” Shadow notes.

Lightning flashes again outside, bright enough to illuminate the row of bikes parked beneath the awning. Rainwater drips steadily from leather jackets hanging by the door.

The phone buzzes again.

Especially late at night. It makes everything feel quieter.

The room goes still for a second after that. She sounds lonely. I regret my earlier message. Dash’s grin fades just slightly around the edges. I stare at the message longer than I should. Suddenly, I can picture her. Curled up somewhere warm, a glass of wine in her hand, while rain hits the windows. Alone. Waiting for something, but not sure what.

Trigger reaches for the whiskey bottle and pours us all a healthy glug. “Well, now I’m invested.”

“Of course you are,” Shadow mutters.