“That asshole at the school pulled a gun on you?” I ask Holly. Her hair falls over her shoulders and stops just a few inches down her back. It’s a messy rat’s nest right now, which is sexy as fuck. The doe-eye blinking thing she’s doing, and the stuttering as she tries to get the story out, and the hair… I’m not twelve anymore. I shouldn’t feel like I have to go into a bathroom and rub one out just to have a conversation with a chick.
“He didn’t exactly point it at me, but it was in a holder thing on his hip. He showed it to me,” she says. In a matter of seconds she goes from scatter-brained to annoyed, and she’s scowling at me. “I want to go home.”
I had a feeling she’d get here at some point. She wants to go home, but I’m not sure that’s the best place for her right now. I doubt Mancuso’s guy has anything on her, but I can’t be so sure. He had enough on me to get to Chey, and while he didn’t actually hurt either Chey or Holly—and he certainly could have if he wanted to—it fucks me up to think about either of them out on their own. The guy’s clearly got some resources, and until I know what they are, I don’t know that I’m good with letting Holly leave.
Wyatt suggested I let her go home and have one of the guys sit on her, but I don’t think we have enough resources for that. As it is, we’re stretched to the limit. We got guys watching the roads in and out of here during high traffic times, and we got guys watching Alex at Jim and Ruby’s. We had ten patched members, but that was before. Now we’re down to nine. I can’t see pulling anyone off of Alex. If I let Holly walk, then she’s going unprotected. And I still don’t know if I can trust her to keep her mouth shut.
“Follow me,” I say and turn around. When no movement sounds behind me, I pause and turn back to find that she’s standing in the same place with her lips pursed and her arms folded over her chest. Out of all the shit I could do to this woman—shit so depraved that she probably can’t even fathom it—and how goddamn patient I’ve been, she still doesn’t trust me.
“Fine,” I say. I let my feet carry me away from the kitchen and toward the far side of the house past the guest room. It’s not until I’m already in the garage that I hear her footsteps. When she appears in the doorway, it’s just her head and hands as she grips the frame and peeks around. Layla doesn’t enter rooms like that. She just kind of floats in. Always has. Elle doesn’t just enter a room. She fucking owns it. But not Holly. She’s not a part of my world, and I try to remind myself of that for the fiftieth time. I can’t expect her to know how shit goes when she’s never been a part of anything like this.
Ignoring her, I tag a couple of beers from the aging refrigerator in the corner near my bench saw and crack them open. I give her a brief glance over my shoulder and head over to the mess that takes up an entire car bay. Set atop a work blanket, I have most of the parts of the 1972 Shovelhead that I’ve been working on for the last few months. It’s a slow project, but one day I’ll get her upright and racing. Right now she looks like nothing more than a pile of crap—all dirty and scratched up—but she’s going to be a beauty when I’m done with her.
Taking a couple swigs of my beer, and setting the other one on the wooden chair beside me, I sit myself on the floor and get to cleaning the old oil out of some of the smaller parts. I hate cleaning this shit up, but the prospects never do it right. I keep telling them that to make something work well, you have to take care of it, and when you’re building a bike that means making sure her parts are in the best condition possible. But they’re all young and impatient and they have yet to learn how to give care to do something right.
“What are we doing in here?” Holly asks from behind me. I can’t tell where she is in the room, and that puts me on edge. I should be able to track her movements. Having spent years honing my senses, I should be capable of following the subtle hints that tells me where she’s gone and when she goes. Little things like the scent of her perfume drifting past me, the quiet little murmurs of clothing as pieces brush against each other, and the careful pitter patter of her feet against the cool concrete floor. But her voice feels so close and yet so far at the same time. It’s like she’s closing in on me and dulling my senses.
“Building a bike,” I say then clear my throat to rid my voice of its hoarseness. “And having a beer.” I clear my throat again, but still, it sounds so gravelly and unnerved even to my own ears. What the hell is wrong with me?
“I don’t drink beer,” she says. Her voice is closing in now, and her jean-clad thighs swish as she approaches. It’s the wrong visual—now I have the image of Holly, spread bare and tossed over the open tail gate of the bed of my truck that takes up the second bay of the garage. I’ve never been all that patient, and I’ve always struggled with being told no. Once I want something, I have a hell of a time not having it. And the more time I spend with this woman, the more I want her, and the less I’m willing to accept that she won’t let me have her. Until I can see for myself, her thighs will haunt me.
But more importantly, who the hell doesn’t drink beer?