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Shit.
How could I even forget? I’ve been working alongside Sydney to put together our big bike display outside of the saloon.
We’ve reached some kind of temporary truce, where we focus on the matter at hand, and get the job done.
But that’s just it—it’s temporary.
Nothing’s changed between us. I don’t and won’t ever trust her. I’ll still do anything to make her life hell and run her off.
I quickly finish my shower, then towel off with thoughts circling back to my wet dream before I know it. The latest included a scenario involving the shower and Sydney on her knees.
My dick wakes up and twitches.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I swear under my breath. “Get a fucking grip.”
* * *
It’s obvious from the first few minutes of the fundraiser that it’ll be a success. We open up to crowds gathering on the street. Curious families and motorcycle club enthusiasts alike. We’ve got plenty of things that’ll interest everybody.
A booth selling King merchandise like patches and t-shirts. A temporary tattoo booth where Elijah “Moses” Youngblood, our resident tattoo artist, gives guests a fake Steel Kings tat. We’ve got our big bike display that Sydney and I put together, and a lunch menu of burgers, dogs, and fries inside the saloon. We’ve even got a ring toss game booth for people to win prizes. Ozzie heads that one.
I stand beside Sydney, and we watch the crowds move every which way.
“Pretty decent turnout,” she says.
I nod. “Better than I was expecting.”
“Do you see how much merchandise Velma and the other old ladies are selling? We might need to restock. That’ll be a lot of cash for the club.”
“Let’s hope Bush and Mick are satisfied,” I say, sticking my hands in my jean pockets. “I’ll give credit where credit is due. This was all you, Singer.”
The words leave my mouth before I give them much thought.
Just hours ago, I was swearing on my life this truce was temporary. I was never going to get along with her.
But seeing the turnout, watching as the area fills up with people from all over town, it’s impossible to deny it.
Sydney’s saved the Steel Kings. Her fundraiser idea is bringing in so much cash we’ll not just reach our goal. We’ll far exceed it.
“Thanks,” she says hesitantly. She glances at me with a subtle smile on her lips. “Maybe we should celebrate with steak and lobster for the whole club.”
“And beer. Lots of it.”
“Always beer. That’s a given.”
I meet her gaze from a sideways angle. “You just might be a biker after all.”
“Can’t be. I’d have to have been on a bike before.”
“You’re fucking around. You’ve never been on a bike?” I turn my body to face her more directly, my chin tilting as I address her.
She shakes her head. “Not once. I’ve never even sat on a bike.”
It shouldn’t happen.
It’s something I’ll regret. Something I’ll curse myself out for once I come to my senses. Sydney Singer’s fucking trouble and I can’t stand the girl.
But it’s a breezy Saturday afternoon in the summer sunshine and we’re surrounded by dozens of people from around town who are checking out our fundraiser. If it weren’t for Sydney, today wouldn’t even be happening.
