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“I don’t know. That’s the truth.”
He stared at me a long moment, clearly studying me to see if I was lying.
“Come on,” Colt finally said, gesturing for me to get up.
“Oh, have you decided I’m no longer public enemy number one?”
He shot me a look that told me he wasn’t amused.
“Where are we going?” I asked, even as I followed him out of the office. He locked up and then gestured to a shiny black F-250.
“You need to get cleaned up and have someone look at that wrist.” Colt opened the passenger door to the truck. I struggled to get in due to its height. With little patience and no effort on his part, Colt lifted me up and set me inside. “Watch your feet,” he grumbled.
“We’re not taking your bike?” I asked.
He looked at me. “Why would we take my bike?”
“I don’t know. I just assumed… Don’t you prefer to ride your bike?”
“Your wrist is probably broken. I’m not gonna make you ride behind me with a broken wrist. I’m not an asshole.”
“You’re not?” I blurted out. “Well, you’re doing a great job imitating one.”
“Don’t poke the bear, babe. I don’t care how hot you are, I don’t need your lip.”
I grinned, feeling bold. “You think I’m hot.”
With a grunt, he shut the door and then walked over to the far edge of the parking lot and pulled out his phone. His face never lost its ferocity as he spoke to someone on the other end. The call was short and he marched back to his truck. He climbed in and got the engine going. When we were finally on our way to an unknown destination, I rested my head against the seat and looked out the window. My stomach rumbled, like an ominous thundercloud in the distance.
I pretended to ignore my hunger pains and Colt said nothing about it. But a few miles later, he pulled into a fast food drive-thru. I looked at him with gratitude.
“What do you want?” He reached into his pocket for his wallet. I asked for a breakfast combo and coffee. Colt handed over a few bills to the woman at the window before grabbing the bag of greasy fast food. As I unwrapped the breakfast sandwich, I mentally assessed him.
“Thanks.”
“For?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Food. For starters.”
He looked at me for a moment and then commanded, “Eat. Before it gets cold.”
When we were fifteen miles outside the city, Colt turned off the main road onto a dirt one. We jostled and bumped our way along for a few minutes until we arrived at a closed gate. Two men in leather cuts were standing guard, but went to open the gate as they saw Colt’s truck approach. With a greeting in the form of a wave, Colt drove through and parked in the corner of a gravel lot about twenty feet from a house. A cluster of parked motorcycles sat out front, right on the lawn.
The brown structure was large and looked new, the grass manicured and tended. It didn’t strike me that bikers could keep such a tidy place, and I wondered if the inside was as clean as the outside.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“The clubhouse.”
Colt got out of the truck and I fiddled with the door handle. Before I could get the door open, Colt was there, pulling me into his arms.
“What are you doing?” I demanded as he carried me toward the clubhouse.
“Your feet,” he said in way of explanation.
“I’m wearing flip-flops.”
“You could barely get into the truck.”
