Page 38 of Striker’s Rebel

Too soon.

Don’t give a fuck about that either.

“Get dressed, Rebel.”

“Bossy bastard.”

I grin.

“Now you’re catching on.”

She grabs her clothes, still muttering under her breath, and disappears into the bathroom to get dressed.

I watch her go, and all I can think about is wanting this again. Her mouth. Her attitude. That look in her eyes when she forgets to fight me for half a second and just feels.

I want all of it.

Mine.

Soon.

Chapter 5

June

Razor’s name does him no favors.

If someone told me a man called Razor was about to examine my shoulder inside a motorcycle clubhouse, I’d expect a folding table, questionable lighting, and maybe a bottle of whiskey for anesthesia.

Instead, the medical room looks better equipped than some urgent-care clinics I’ve seen on medical TV shows.

Razor himself is broad, tattooed, and unsmiling, but his hands are careful as he checks my shoulder and upper arm.

“Nothing broken,” he says. “You’ll be sore for a few days, but you’re fine.”

Striker stands near the door with his arms crossed, watching closely enough that I’m surprised Razor doesn’t charge him for assisting.

I look at him.

He looks back.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

Razor gives a quiet huff that might be a laugh.

I point at him. “You’re supposed to be neutral.”

“No such thing in this building.”

Striker’s mouth twitches.

A few minutes later, we step into the main room with his hand resting at my lower back. I notice the touch because I notice every time he touches me now, and that is becoming a problem.

The clubhouse isn’t what I imagined. There’s noise and enough leather to outfit a small army, but it feels more lived-in than dangerous. Men crowd the bar, argue across the room, and insult each other with the easy familiarity of people who have been doing it for years.