Page 12 of Throttle

“Why are you giving me food?”

“Because, like it or not, I’m stuck with you and I want to show you that I… well, maybe I appreciate you helping me.” That tasted bitter on my tongue. I reach for my own plate and begin to walk out of the kitchen. “And because you made me coffee this morning.”

I didn’t expect Throttle to follow me but that’s exactly what he did. Yet, he doesn’t touch his food when we return to his room. He sits on the bed, staring at his meal with odd curiosity as I devour mine. I was starving, which is not surprising considering I didn’t eat anything before going to bed last night.

I notice the way his jaw clenches every time I take a bite, as though he can taste it too. Why does the man have to be so attractive? Aren’t bikers supposed to be burly with beer bellies and long beards? Why did my biker bodyguard have to be a tall, roguishly handsome sex god who clearly works out every day, judging by his massive muscles?

Even last night, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his biceps as they moved beneath the sleeves of his T-shirt. He looks as though he gets off on trouble and danger. But men like him are trouble and danger.

“Why were you Tony Bertelli’s lawyer?” His question snaps me out of my sinful thoughts. There wasn’t a hint of judgment in it, just general interest.

I shrug. “Because someone had to do it.” I take another bite of my bacon. “And because I’m used to representing men like him.”

“Psychopaths, you mean?”

“Some of them can be, yes.”

When I was younger, I thought my father was a hero for wanting to defend people who weren’t given a fair chance in life. I would watch him with such pride, and when he finally taught me the ropes, I was excited to stand up in court alongside him. It wasn’t long before I realized representing these men wasn’t heroic at all—it was corrupt. They were corrupt and used my father’s legal genius to continue their lives of crime.

“Do you enjoy it?” Throttle asks and I stare at him warily.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m making conversation.” He shrugs.

“There’s no need. Just do your job and I’ll do my best to stay out of your way.” Wow, I sound like a bitch to my own ears, but clearly I’m in self-preservation mode. “Besides, don’t you have something to do? You went to fetch me clothes and you brought them to me. Mission accomplished. So shouldn’t you be out—I don’t know—working or something?” I almost flinch at how callus my words are, but at this moment, I can’t seem to stop myself.

Throttle scoffs, shaking his head before leaping off the bed and pacing the room. “What the fuck is wrong with you, girl?” he snaps.

I blink rapidly. “What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? Here I am, trying to understand you, being fucking civil, and you’re acting like a bitch.”

He’s right, but I immediately become defensive anyway. “Excuse me?” I slam down my empty plate on the bed and stomp toward him. “How dare you call me that? You don’t even know me.”

“And why do you think that is, sweetheart? I’m trying to get to know you, but that stick is so far up your ass you can’t act like a normal fucking human.” I open my mouth to argue with him but he cuts me off. “You think I didn’t notice the way you were staring at this place last night? Yeah, Princess, I saw you clutching your fucking pearls. Is our meager little clubhouse not up to your standards?”

I gasp with disdain as he continues to mock me.

“What? Did you want your pillows fluffed before you slept on my goddamn floor?” Thick cords of muscle tighten in his neck. “It’s clear you don’t want to be here, but I ain’t stopping you from leaving.”

I throw my hands in the air with irritation. “Of course, I don’t want to be here! I want to be home, sleeping in my bed instead of on a hard, dirty floor!”

He crosses his beefy arms over his chest and widens his stance. “I offered you a comfy bed. Not my fault you declined,” he dissents, as if that’s my problem.

“I’m not sleeping in a bed with you!” I shout, standing my ground as Throttle edges toward me.

He tosses his head back with a laugh. “Why not? It’s not like I’m gonna fuck you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I don’t fuck prudes.”

What an asshole.

“Oh my god. Watch your mouth.”

“Don’t tell me what to fucking do, Princess. And don’t start actin’ like some fucking saint. It doesn’t suit you.” He runs a hand through his thick, dark hair. “Listen, if you wanna take your chances out there, then by all means, be my guest. Like I said, I ain’t keeping you here.” He closes the short distance separating us, stopping only when we’re toe-to-toe. “But the minute you step outside this clubhouse, you’re a dead woman. And we both know it.”

I swallow thickly. Does he think I’m not acutely aware of my precarious situation? If he’s trying to scare me, he’d better try harder. I know what he’s saying is true, but I’ve already come to terms with it—this isn’t the first time I’ve been threatened by a client. Although, it is the first time a client has the capabilities and resources to turn that threat into a promise. That doesn’t mean I like having Throttle chastise me though.

“So you’d be just fine if I walked outta here and something happened to me? If those men from last night managed to find me?” I narrow my eyes at him.

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