Page 77 of Coveted By Cupid

Everything he says is odd. One, I didn’t realize I’d have a bodyguard within the club itself. And two… I raise an eyebrow. “Your name is Cookie?”

He nods, unfazed.

“Cookie is a…well, it’s a different club name,” I say, trying not to sound condemnatory. “Why are you called Cookie?”

“I like cookies,” he says matter-of-factly.

Fair enough. I can inhale a sleeve of Thin Mints any day.

“I also like eating pussy,” he adds deadpan, like it’s common knowledge in these parts. “The name has a double meaning, but more the latter.”

The urge to roll my eyes is strong, but I suppress it. It’s my fault for asking.

Cookie grins, almost as if he knows this is ruffling my feathers. “Want to hear the story of how I got it?”

“Nope. Sharing time is over. Let’s head to breakfast.”

He stops me at the top of the stairs. “Hold up. Where’s your cut?”

“My cut?” I look down at my outfit, sans my property vest, and ponder why it’s necessary. Confused, I meet his eyes. “Why do I need to wear it to breakfast? Are there going to be bikers from another club present?”

“You’ll be meeting most of the crew for the first time. They’re expecting the president’s ole lady representing our club.”

Resigned, I grab my leather vest from the dining table where I left it the night before and don it. All these rules that I never thought I would become part of my life are sinking in.

The club is now a fundamental part of my life. I had better adjust quickly.

When Cookie and I enter the bar downstairs, I pause at the entrance to the dining hall. The space is filled with leather-clad and rugged bikers, eating and chatting over coffee. Conversations and laughter float through the room, and the smell of bacon sizzling on the griddle permeates the air with a rich aroma.

My stomach growls, ready to feast.

“Hey, I think that’s Cupid’s woman,” someone says in the group.

A wave of unease washes over me, not because the crew is intimidating—they certainly are—but because all eyes in the room turn to stare at me. Being the center of attention is not something I’m used to or enjoy. I’m half tempted to hide behind Cookie, but decide it’s best to stand my ground. They expect Cupid’s woman to hold her own, and I don’t want any of these club bunnies mixed in with the crowd to think I’m a pushover. Hopefully, my cut will work as a shield for anyone who may be tempted to test me.

Right. Like a cut is going to stop anyone from testing me?

Anxious about my appearance, I turn my back on the crowded room and face Cookie. “Be honest. Do I look okay?”

He raises a thick eyebrow. “Huh?”

“Do I look presentable?”

He shrugs, uninterested. “Sure, I guess.”

My lips pucker in disapproval. “Not helpful, Cookie. For being named a pussy eater, you sure know squat about women.”

“Oh, come on,” he whines, slighted. “I’m not a mind reader. Spell it out for me, will you?”

“Do I look like I fit the bill for being the club’s president’s ole lady?”

“And what the hell is that supposed to look like?”

“I don’t know. Tough, maybe? Like I can handle myself? Someone worthy of being on Cupid’s arm?”

Cookie steps back, looking me over, not in a sexual or creepy way, but in a way that lets me know he’s taking my question seriously.

After assessing me, Cookie meets my eyes. “Yeah, you’ve got that whole punk thing going on with the band t-shirt and vibrant lipstick.”