Page 38 of Lucky's Trouble

I reclaim her hand, loving how mine swallows hers completely, and lead her out the back door and down the path to my cabin. I punch in the code and flip on the interior lights before motioning for her to enter. It’s nothing much, just a small kitchenette with barstool seating at a breakfast bar, a bathroom, a living room big enough for a couch and recliner, and a loft where I sleep, but I love it.

“Make yourself at home.” I walk through the space, closing the blinds.

“It’s bigger than it looks on the outside,” she says, taking everything in.

The walls are pine paneling, but the trim, doors, and beam that runs the length of the room are stained black. I don’t have much on the walls, though last Christmas, Mustang’s Mom, Sugar, gave us all a framed picture of the club members that I hung between the kitchen and living area.

I don’t have a lot in the way of knickknacks, either. Everything in my space serves a purpose, like the hooks by the door for jackets and the bowl on the breakfast bar I put my wallet and keys in. Even my four-foot-tall Twizzler bendy man figurine opens up on the top and is stocked with my favorite candy.

“Does Myla even know I’m here?” Tinleigh gingerly takes a seat on my sofa.

“Thought you’d want to tell her.” I grab a fresh pack of licorice and sit in the recliner, giving her some space.

She rolls her eyes. “Liar. You just know she’d insist on me staying near her.”

She’s right, but I don’t tell her that. Instead, I change subjects. “Want to tell me what happened last night?”

“What do you want to know?”

I huff. “All of it, or I wouldn’t have asked.”

“I told you someone was going to tell Neal I left with you, and someone did. He didn’t like that.”

“And?” I motion for her to continue.

“I don’t even know you. Why would I tell you anything? Especially when you’re holding me hostage here.” Good to know Neal didn’t knock the sass out of her.

“One, I’m not holding you hostage. You asked for help, and I gave it to you. And two, you don’t have to tell me shit, but since I’m helping you, I feel like you owe me something.”

She stands, throwing her arms out wide. “What do you want to know, Lucky?” She says my name like a slur, as if it offends her sensibilities.

“Whatever you’ll tell me, darlin’.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t make me feel like some helpless victim who needed a big, strong man to save her!” she shouts.

“Aren’t you?” I can’t help but goad her. She’s cute when she’s all worked up, but that’s not why I’m doing it. She won’t open up on her own, but I think if I piss her off enough, she’ll break. That’s my theory, anyway. For all I know, I’m pushing her too far, and seconds from now, she’ll walk out my door.

“Don’t think you’re doing me any favors. I could’ve gotten out on my own, but asking you was easier.”

“Was it?”

She ignores my question. “You think I don’t know why you did it? Or why you brought me here instead of the Honey Pot?”

“Oh, really? Why’d I do it then?”

“My whole life, men have looked at me the same way you do, and all that’s taught me is that I can use you for my benefit.”

I don’t react because even though I have been looking at her some sort of way, we both know it goes deeper than how she’s portraying it. I’m dense as fuck when it comes to women, so if I recognize there’s something between us, it’s got to be real.

“Oh yeah?” I feign disinterest.

She scoffs, kicking her shoes off and popping the button of her jeans. Suddenly, she has all the attention my unmedicated ADHD brain can muster and then some.

“Maybe you need a visual.” She yanks her shirt off before pushing her pants to the ground, leaving her in a plain white cotton bra and panty set. Instead of getting turned on, I see fucking red. Neal fucked her up more than I thought, and suddenly, I realize why she was so desperate to get out of there that she called me.

“That motherfucker is dead.” I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees and cupping my mouth and nose with my hands.

“Allow me to walk you through my injuries.” She pulls her hair up into a loose bun and secures it with a tie. “After ripping some of my hair out, he slammed my face into the freezer door. That’s how I got this.” She points to the goose egg on her forehead and the lump on the bridge of her nose. “Then, he choked me while I was pushed up against the counter and slammed my head into the upper cabinet.” She traces along the finger marks I only saw a glimpse of with her high neck tee and her hair down, then turns to show me an angry purple and pink bruise spanning the length of her lower back. “You can’t see the knot on the back of my head, but I’ll let you feel it if you want.”

---