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I gripped the wrapper in my hand, squeezing it until my knuckles turned white and beat a path for the door.
“W-wait,” he mumbled, his voice sounding groggy again after the moment of lucidity.
I looked back over my shoulder.
“What am I s’posed to call you?”
“Doesn’t matter. Rest up. You need to be on your way ASAP.” I slammed the door on my way out.
8
Wilde
Before he left, Doc told me I couldn’t walk on the cast properly without a crutch. He’d left one in the bedroom, but there was no way I was going to use it. Crutches were for the weak and feeble, and I was neither. I pulled myself up and used the bedroom furniture to hobble across the room. The bathroom smelled just like her—some kind of orangy-vanilla scent that assaulted me as soon as I hobbled in. And I’d be an angel if my mouth didn’t water or my cock didn’t jump to attention at the delicious scent of her. I stopped breathing, had to if I hoped to take care of the business I’d started this journey for. Couldn’t do both, so I needed the cockstand to go away.
When I was done, I sucked in a nose full of her smell. Same damned reaction. I fumbled to the sink, leaning on my good arm and hanging my head. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t figure out how this woman kept hijacking my thoughts.
Focus, man. I flexed my shoulder in the sling. This one-handed, one-footed bullshit needed to go. I removed the sling and rotated my arm. Stiff, but it was more of a dull ache than anything. My cock throbbed worse than the shoulder pain, so I tossed the sling on the counter and pumped some soap, which smelled like her too. “Fucking perfect.” I groaned.
After I’d dried my hands, I sized up the cast on my left leg. She’d been right about shifting. My ankle wouldn’t budge, much less rock the heel-toe shifter. I dropped a fist on the counter, needing to be on the road. I needed to find Daddy, get him back to LA—stat, and put this whole little excursion in my rearview mirror. The law wasn’t my friend, and I had nothing against taking out rivals over turf. I’d participated in my fair share of taking out rivals for nothing more than selling a dime bag on the wrong street corner. But my old man... Fuck. Getting wrapped up with the AX3 had just been sloppy.
An engine started up on the other side of the wall—not a bike or car. An air compressor, maybe? I limped around the tiny apartment looking for my bag, clothes, something. I opened the wardrobe in the bedroom; there was nothing but clothes that would fit her petite frame. The closet turned out to be a dead end too, but there was a book sitting on an empty shelf above the clothes. I picked it up and flipped to the first page—some kind of scrapbook. Celt and Bou, it read over a photo of a preteen freckle-faced boy with his arm around a dark-haired little girl, maybe ten years younger than him. With the desert in the background, they both squinted at the camera, so their eyes were hard to see. I’d heard Goatee call the angry man who’d been there earlier Celt, so the girl in the photo must be her.
“Bou?” I murmured, “Odd name.”
You’re one to talk, motherfucker! My unwanted inner voice chimed in and I snorted.
I put the book back in place, wondering for a split second why she had it hidden in her closet.
Not your circus, Wilde. Move on.
Coming up empty on the clothing front, I grabbed a towel from the bathroom, tied it around my waist, and went to see what the noise was outside the apartment. And hopefully, I’d find Betty and my saddlebags out there as well.
What I walked into was a motorcycle repair shop. A few motorcycles scattered here and there were in various states of repair. On the far side of the shop, Bou was masked up and spraying a motorcycle tank. I wobbled over on my casted leg, using a workbench for support and glancing at each bike as I passed. None were mine.
“Bou,” I said, close to her side, but far enough away to avoid the fumes. Hell, the sound of her name sang from my lips.
She kept painting.
When she stopped and lifted the goggles to look closer at her work, I said louder, “Bou!”
She jumped. Her goggles flew through the air, and the air gun puffed out with a hiss. She reached over and shut the compressor off, leaving us in silence.
Bou ripped the mask from her nose and mouth, her eyes roaming wildly. “Shit, don’t sneak up on me like that, asshole.”
I raised a hand—only one, because I wasn’t sure I could raise the other, plus it was the only think keeping the small towel covering my manhood.
Her eyes roamed up and down my body and I swear I saw the hint of desire in them. I wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing. I was under her care, but I was also a hot blooded man and she was a grown ass woman. A grown ass woman that seemed to like what she saw if I was reading her expression correctly.
I cocked a smile and asked, “You like?”
She tightened her lips. “No.”
“Ouch.” Guess I wasn’t reading her correctly after all. Way to put a man down.
Turning back to the bench, Bou cradled the air gun. “What are you doing up? Thought you’d be out cold for most of the day.”
“According to the clock on your bedside, it’s almost four.”
