“You were always determined to be one of the boys, so are you refusing a free helmet because it’s pink?”
My eyes narrowed. “Not because it’s pink, but because I don’t know who the hell wore it last. I’m not down with a case of lice anytime soon. Or ever, really. And shaving my head won’t do me any favors. Know what I mean?”
His brows furrowed while he closed his eyes as though it hurt for him to listen to me speak. He focused on me with big eyes. “No. Only half of what you just said made any sense, but I don’t care. You need to wear the fuckin’ helmet so you don’t get a goddamn ticket, Combes. My guess is that you haven’t updated your license and a Mississippi cop will love hauling your ass in for not carrying a current ID and failure to wear a helmet.”
He was right.
I took the helmet from him with a resigned smile. “Got any Lysol?”
His expression soured. “’Nic’s ex-wife didn’t have fuckin’ lice, Steph. Get over yourself.”
My apology died on my lips when the door across the hall opened and another biker stepped into the hall. He might have been Hispanic, or mixed-race based on his skin-tone. His brown eyes looked through me even as he eyed me up and down.
“Who’s she?” he asked.
I saw the name patch on his cut read ‘Roman.’ Part of me wanted to answer his question, so he’d look at me instead of through me, but Har’s reaction to his question surprised me.
He angled his head toward the man and used an excessively stern tone. “Who she is doesn’t matter to you or any other damn brother. Got it?”
Roman’s eyes widened as his head reared back. “My bad, Prez. Just curious.”
Har made a grunting noise at the man. Then he turned to me. “Get inside the room. Lock the fuckin’ door and do all of us a favor, get the fuck outta here while we’re in church.”
TURNS OUT, I SHOULD’VE insisted on the Lysol. Whoever Cynic’s ex-wife was, she used a ton of cheap hair spray because it was the only thing I could smell while wearing that helmet. Compliments of the odor, I returned to my efficiency with a mild headache forming.
For once, I didn’t have to work this afternoon or tonight. A Sunday off was so rare for me, I wanted to spend it lounging the day away, but it was not to be. I gathered my dirty clothes because my uniform from last night reeked of cigarette smoke. That was ultimately what made working the poker room better than working the floor. No smoking in the poker room meant I rarely came home smelling like an ashtray.
I left the laundry basket by the door and went to the bathroom to fetch my detergent and quarters. As I walked back out, I eyed the ceiling. The outline of the stain hadn’t grown, but it seemed darker. I made a mental note to call the office about it, but on a Sunday they weren’t very responsive. No sooner had the bottle of detergent hit the top of my laundry than an ominous knock sounded from my door.
My instinct said it wasn’t Brute on the other side of the door, and checking the peephole, I was right.
Har stood outside with a blank expression on his face.
Once the chain and deadbolt were undone, I opened the door but tried to block his view into my space.
I tried, but I failed.
Har took one look at me and the door, before he moved toward me while shoving the door wide open. He stood so close to me, I could smell his sandalwood cologne. Quickly, he shut the door, locked it, and scanned my place. His blank expression became disgusted within seconds.
“Jesus. Sam wasn’t yanking my chain.”
Since I always called him Sammy, it took a moment before I realized he was talking about Brute. My spine straightened. “It isn’t a hovel.”
His head turned while his lips twisted to the side, his goatee proving more fabulous since it framed his lips so well. “You’re right. Not a hovel... because it’s a slum.”
My fists went to my hips as I said, “You are wrong—”
But the weird groaning noise from overhead cut me off, just before the ceiling dropped onto the edge of my futon.
My alarm had to be written on my face, but Har’s face showed acceptance, which only added outrage to my alarm.
In a blink, I noticed his expression shifted from acceptance to something which looked like curiosity. He warred with himself before his hand shot to my neck, holding me in place, and he kissed me.
I found myself in sensory overload between his whisker-framed lips on mine, that insanely warm hand at my neck, and his insistent tongue probing into my mouth.
If I had learned anything in my life, it was to strike when opportunity knocked and something told me I wouldn’t have the chance to kiss him again, so I kissed him back.
Eagerly.
He tasted of toothpaste and something yeasty. Possibly beer, but just as easily bread. Whatever it was, I knew it was my new favorite flavor – bar none.
My fingers slid just into his hair before he reared back, halting their progress.
“Shit,” he groaned in such a way that I doubted he was as thrilled with our kiss as I was.
I dropped my hands and opened my eyes to see him focused on my futon.
His head shook, and he let me go to examine the hole in the ceiling.
He skirted the futon and the debris, all with his gaze cast upward and the occasional head shake.
When he stopped moving, his eyes met mine. “Yeah. Whatever’s worse than a ‘slum,’ that’s what this is, Steph.”
I clenched my teeth, but he wasn’t paying attention to me. He focused on my futon and the floor. He shoved the futon out of the way of the dripping water, only to find three pairs of my shoes beneath the futon. In a
