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Her posture changes when she notices me, and she stands up a little taller. She’s clearly expecting me to stop. That’s the problem with bitches, you take them on one little date, and they think the game’s changed. I don’t hide the smirk that pulls on my face when I pull back the throttle and speed up, passing her without looking back.
She wouldn’t want my help anyway. She’s an independent woman.
I’m less than half a mile away from her before the guilt kicks in. The nights have been pulling in lately, and it’s getting cold, she’s at least two hours on foot from the nearest gas station. Surely she has a phone, she’s probably waiting on the tow truck. But what if she isn’t?
Guilt overrides the victory in pissing her off, and I signal to Screw to pull into the next layby we pass. Screwy looks puzzled when he pulls up beside me, and before I can register my actions, I set to turn my bike around.
“You go on back to the club, I’ll be right behind you,” I shout over the roar of our engines. Screwy doesn’t argue with me, just rolls his eyes and shakes his head. Then with a quick glance over his shoulder, he shoots back onto the road.
Even he’s fuckin’ judging me now, and when you’re starting to get judged by him, you know there's a snowstorm brewing in hell. I head back toward Alex and her car, angry at myself for giving her a single one of my fucks. And when I get close enough, I notice the hint of a smirk that appears on her face when she sees me. It makes my cock strain against my jeans before I’ve even pulled up beside her and cut my engine.
“You don’t call. You don’t write. You know it’s been more than a week,” I call out as strut toward her.
“I was starting to worry, haven’t been seeing you around, maybe I don't need that restraining order after all.” She rests her back against the driver's door.
“So I take it you don’t want my help.” I turn my back on her and start heading toward my bike.
“Wait,” she shouts out. I spin around and look her up and down, letting her see the smug grin on my face. “Maybe you could take a look at it for me, I haven’t got the number for a tow truck company, and I can’t get any signal.” I see the frustration that asking me for help is causing her and get one hell of a kick from it.
I’ve missed this.
Why do things that are bad for you always have to be so fucking addictive?
“You only had to ask, darlin’.” I move toward the front of her car.
“Pop the hood. There should be a little lever under—”
“I know how to pop a hood, Squealer.” She looks at me through narrow eyes before dropping into the driver's seat and releasing the hood so I can prop it open.
I do a quick look over, and it doesn’t take me long to locate the problem. “Your fan belt's gone.”
“Can you fix it?” she asks, coming to stand beside me to check it out, even though she has no clue what she’s looking at. The wind blows through her hair, forcing a whiff of it under my nose, and I close my eyes for a split second to get the full benefit of it.
“Sure…” I shrug, causing her to look instantly relieved. “…Back at the garage. This bad boy's going nowhere unless it’s on the back of a tow truck.” I slam down the hood and dust off my hands.
“Shit.” She kicks the bumper in frustration.
“You want me to call Rogue so she can have Storm come pick it up?” I ask, turning around and resting my ass on the hood. Alex looks too damn hot when she’s pissed not to appreciate.
“How long will he be? I start my shift in two hours.”
“I’ll call it in.” I pull my cell from my cut and call Rogue.
I watch Alex pacing on the side of the road while I explain the situation to Rogue, and she promises me she’ll get someone out to me within a few hours.
“Couple hours max,” I tell Alex after I've hung up.
“Great, just great. Now I’m gonna be late for work.”
“Jeez, thanks, Squealer, really appreciate the help,” I stand up and bite sarcastically. She puts her bitch fit on hold and takes herself a calming breath before looking a little guilty.
“Sorry, I’m just having a bad day. I do appreciate the help.” Her tone is much softer, and I find myself wondering what's gone wrong for her, like I might actually fucking care.
“You want a ride home?” The words come out of my mouth before my brain can register them. Sliding my hands in my pocket, I focus on where my boot divets into the rough ground.
“You want me… to get on that?” She eyes my bike in shock and snorts a laugh.
“I don’t want you to.” I make that part very fucking clear. “What I’m saying is that I’ll give you a ride so you won’t be late.”
