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“At what?”
“Me. While I change.” She hurries to the car and pulls a bag from the back seat. “Although, could you come stand here and maybe give me some cover? I think it’d be rude if I flashed my butt to all the dead folks.”
“I doubt they’ll mind.” But I walk over and stand between the two open car doors, doing my best to form a fourth wall for her makeshift changing room.
“You have such nice, broad shoulders,” she murmurs behind me.
I resist the urge to turn around. “Uh, thank you.”
Her elbow pokes into my back and she mutters an apology. Fabric rustles. A stronger whiff of vanilla tickles my nose. Her dress hits my arm, then flops over the car door. I turn slightly. In the side mirror, I catch a flicker of bare skin hidden under black lace.
Fuck.
I tear my gaze away and aim it at the trees in front of me. I manage a strip joint, for fuck’s sake. Naked skin doesn’t hold much interest for me anymore. No need to creep on a friend of the club when I can go to work and see all the lace-covered tits my heart desires.
She bumps into me again.
“You’re awfully violent when you get dressed,” I say over my shoulder.
“Nah, I just have a big butt. Gets away from me sometimes.”
I smother the urge to tell her everything looks good to me. That quick wit and razor-sharp tongue of hers interest me even more than her body.
“Ta-da. All done,” she announces.
I back away from the car and turn, taking in her jeans and sweatshirt imprinted with “Wander with Purpose,”the words scrawled around an image of a compass. A sense of déjà vu washes over me.
“That’s my symbol.” I tap the compass patch stitched into my cut. “And a very Lost Kings kind of saying.”
She glances down at her shirt and a wry smile twists her lips. “Well, it’s full of shit because I haven’t had much chance to wander. With purpose or without.” Her expression softens. “But I like the sentiment.” She lifts her head and stares at my patches. “I thought your club’s symbol was the skull and crown?”
“It is. But we each have our own patch.” I’m not in the mood to give more details to a civilian.
“Ah, right.” She nods as if things are clicking into place for her. “Grayson’s symbol is the lock and key.”
“Right.” I pull out my phone. After a few attempts, I manage to get a signal and send a text. “I’m having a friend tow your car—”
“What? Where?” She crams in closer to peek at my phone. “How’d you get a signal?”
“Better service?” I shrug. “I just sent a text.” Another whiff of vanilla fucks with my need to keep my hands off Emily.
If life’s taught me anything, it’s to temper my desires. Emily’s not meant to be mine. She’s forbidden fruit—too bright and lively to be swallowed by my darkness.
