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Another woman I recognize from my visit to the clubhouse joins us. I don’t think she’s an ol’ lady, but she seems to be friendly with everyone.
“Lilly’s looking for you,” she says to Willow. “Everyone sort of gathered in the front room.” She points toward the kitchen doorway. In case Willow forgot the direction she just came from.
Willow touches my arm. “I’ll come back for this.”
“Sure.”
I take in the newcomer’s white, spangled minidress that shows off her long, toned legs, and her silver platform sandals. She looks like she’s ready to go clubbing, not hang out at a friend’s house.
“Do you want help?” white-spangled dress asks.
“I think I’ve got it. Thanks, though…” Damn, what’s her name?
“Swan.” She touches her chest. “I don’t think we officially met when you were up at the clubhouse.”
She remembers me. Anxiety slips over my skin. Is it because I made an ass out of myself when I was there? No, Trinity said I did fine.
“So.” Swan steps closer and grabs a few of the empty plastic wrappers off the counter and tosses them in the trash, then opens the refrigerator. “You and Dex are Lincoln’s godparents but you’re not together anymore?”
Her question might sound casual to anyone else. But for some reason, it stinks of cattiness to me.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles.
“Why are you asking?” I don’t bother hiding my irritation. I’ve never been good at the “smile to your face while stabbing you in the back” games that some women like to play.
She leans on the counter next to me, pops the tab on a can of Coke, and takes a quick sip. “He’s a hot commodity. Girls like him a lot.”
“I’m not surprised.” My fingers tighten around the handle of the knife I’m holding. “He’s very likable.”
She snorts and I can’t shake the feeling she’s making fun of me.
“Well, he’s never seriously dated anyone. Girls who hang around the club are thinking now that he has, maybe he’s open to the possibility.” She gives another shrug that’s probably meant to be casual but seems forced.
“Let me guess.” I stab the knife into a stalk of celery. “You’re one of those girls?”
Her light eyes meet mine. “Nah, been there. Done that.”
My heart pounds wildly. Done what?
“I wouldn’t waste too much time figuring things out.” Her gaze scans the counter. “He might not be banging any of the bunnies right now but if you keep him waiting too long…” She shrugs and sips her drink again.
“Thanks.” I tip my head sideways. “If he’s that fickle, then I guess it’s not meant to be anyway.”
“Men have needs.”
“That’s disgusting,” I snort. “Either you care about someone, or you don’t. I’m not interested in a man who feels compelled to stick his dick in random women whenever the urge strikes.”
Why am I letting this chick rattle me? Nah, screw her. She might think she knows Dex better than me. But I know him. He’s not the kind of man she’s describing.
“You have no idea what you’re doing,” she scoffs. “No clue what dating a biker actually means.”
“And I suppose you’re an expert?”
“At dating them? No.” The corners of her mouth twitch. “Fucking them, yes.”
“You sound so proud of yourself,” I sneer.
She lifts her shoulders. “Why lie—to myself or anyone else?”
“Good point.” I blow out a nervous chuckle. Why should I be scared around this girl? She looks like a solid breeze could whisk her away.
Hey, look at that, I still have the knife in my hand. I wave it at the stool closest to me. “Come. Sit. Enlighten me about dating bikers.”
Hmm. That sounded awfully snotty out loud.
She glides toward the stool. I drop the knife in the sink. No reason to keep weapons within easy reach.
Bird girl perches on the stool and elegantly crosses one leg over the other, then clasps her hands over her knee. So prim and proper for someone who just said she’s an expert on fucking bikers. “Well, for one thing, bikers are rarely faithful.”
Something tickles at the back of my mind, but I can’t quite get the thought to form.
“That could apply to a lot of people.” I crunch into a stray baby carrot. Bad idea—a piece gets lodged in my throat. I cough hard and grab my can of seltzer to take a long sip.
Chew much? Jeez, Emily.
Swan doesn’t ask if I’m okay, but she waits until I’m no longer coughing to continue. “And they usually prefer much younger women.” She tilts her head. “You’re what? Thirty-five, thirty-six?”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m twenty-eight.” You catty little twat. Thankfully that last part remains in my mouth.
“Oh, sorry,” she says without an apologetic tone anywhere to be found. “The club keeps girls like me around to satisfy their…needs, you know?”
“That’s…convenient.” This isn’t anything I haven’t read about online. “Whose needs are you servicing at Lincoln’s baptism party?” I ask sweetly.
