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The sun has heated his leather vest, which is warm under my cheek when I press it against the stitched Wild Hawks logo. My arms snake around his waist, my hands gripping the T-shirt covering his rock-hard stomach.
He vibrates under my cheek as he chuckles, revving the engine and turning the bike onto the road. Oh, god. I press my face into his vest, squeezing my eyes shut as the wind whips at my hair.
I take another deep, steadying breath, focusing on his leather and oak scent rather than the idea that a crash will see us very, very dead.
I have no idea if the ride is faster or slower than the other night. I’m mainly trying not to hyperventilate. Warm, rough hands caress mine, prying them off his shirt.
“It’s over, Peaches.”
He’s laughing at me. I can hear it in his voice. My breath comes out in a shaky whoosh, and I stagger off the bike. Those rough hands find mine, squeezing.
“Can you walk?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure? You sound like you need a shot of whiskey.”
Still laughing at me. Straightening my shoulders, I snatch my hands back, lifting my chin and shooting him a glare.
“I’m fine. Where is the crèche?”
He eyes me again, dropping his arm around my shoulders as he steers me from the parking lot into the clubhouse building.
Some older guy calls out to my escort, “Viper. My office. Ten minutes.”
He nods, walking me through the double doors with aKeep Outsign.
“Viper? That’s your name?” I ask, looking up at him. He grins down at me, even white teeth showing.
“That’s me, Peaches.”
It sounds…ominous. I look away, unsure if such apoisonousname means I should be wary of my companion. The corridor we are standing in is long, straight, and lined with black and white photographs of men with motorcycles. A few doors lead off it, and another set of highly polished double doors are at the other end, drawing my gaze.
Viper notices my distraction and gently grabs my chin, tipping my head so our gazes lock again.
“You don’t go through those doors, Peaches. Ever.”
The quiet command has a shiver running through me.
“I won’t,” I squeak. He searches my eyes, nodding when he is satisfied with the honesty of my answer, releasing my chin.
We stop at one of the doors, this one partially open, and Viper places a large hand on it, gently pushing it until we can see in. My breath catches as he walks me through the doorway.
They weren’t kidding about the whole crèche thing. This is a proper Pre-K space. There is a walled-off change area with a kid-sized toilet and sink and a door with a toilet symbol on it – obviously for adults. There’s even a mini-kitchenette with a dishwasher on the other side of the room from the bathroom area.
In the middle is a bright space with a tiny table, cute, colorful rugs, cushions, and so. Many. Toys. The young woman who desperately offered me this job is sitting in the middle of the space, on one of the rugs, laying out wooden train tracks.
She looks similar to how she was dressed the other day, in low-slung denim shorts and a slightly baggy T-shirt. A strip of skin is exposed between her shirt and shorts, and I can see a stylized tattoo on one hip. Her masses of dark hair are piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and she grins up at me, abandoning her train tracks and scrambling to her feet.
“Hi! Naomi, right?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“I’m Shelley. Thanks, Viper. You can leave now.”
Oh, I almost forgot about Viper. I blame being distracted by how amazing this place looks. You would never guess it was here from the outside. He winds a strand of my hair from my ponytail around one finger, tugging sharply. It doesn’t hurt, but it does jerk my head around.
“I’ll be back when it’s time for you to leave, Peaches.”
