Page 73 of Lucky's Trouble

He sighs, rolling us over and caging me in with an arm at either side of my head. “So many questions tonight.”

His deflection is answer enough, and I feel guilty for dragging him into this. Hopefully, it’s over and done with, and Neal will stay the hell away from me.

“There’s a lot I don’t know about you and the club.”

“You will, but you don’t need to know it all tonight, do you?”

“Guess not.”

“Good. Now kiss me goodnight.” His lips lower to mine, moving tenderly. I hold him close, loving the pressure of his body on mine, like my very own weighted blanket, calming my nervous system and keeping my anxiety at bay. I wish I could keep him like this forever; then, I’d never be afraid again.

With one last peck, he rolls over, bringing me into his side. “Any more of that, and there won’t be any sleeping tonight.”

“Goodnight, Lucky.”

“Night, Hellcat.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

LUCKY

“The Chevy in bay three is done.” I toss Tigger a set of keys. “Make sure you add extra labor to that work order. I don’t pry mangled birds out of engines for free.”

“Will do.” Tigger salutes and turns in his stool to face the computer.

I walk out of the office and into the garage, spotting Cy hunched over an engine. The man loves cars as much as he loves the club, and even though he doesn’t need to get his hands dirty now that he’s the prez, he refuses to stop.

“That was my last one, so I’m out of here,” I call out over the noise of music blaring, engines revving, and the guys yelling back and forth.

Cy stands upright, wiping his hands off with a dirty rag. “Got time to talk for a second?”

I’m itching to get back to Tinleigh, but I can’t say that, so I nod and follow him back to his office.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Shut the door behind you,” he says in his gravelly voice, sitting behind his desk. I shut it, wondering what the hell is going on. I can count on one hand the times Cy’s called me to his office, and usually, it’s because I pranked one of the other guys who work here and got caught.

We used to have this guy working here who refused to wear a belt, so we all had to look at his hairy ass crack all day, every day. The whole shop took to randomly sticking stuff in his crack—harmless things like a wrench or a chip, things that were easy to remove.

One day, I was feeling extra spicy, and I stuck the tip of a pneumatic grease gun down his crack and filled it with grease. The dude thought it was hilarious, but he had to leave for the day to clean himself up, and it put us behind schedule, which pissed Cy off. That was the last time I was in here. I haven’t done shit around the shop lately, so why now?

“Whatever it was, it wasn’t me,” I say.

He shakes his head. “You’re lucky Craig didn’t sue after you used the acetylene torch to heat up all those quarters you scattered around the shop. The man has no fingerprint on his thumb anymore.”

Shit. I forgot about that one.

“Craig’s fine. He laughed about it.”

“That’s not why I brought you in here, though. Rigger called about an hour ago. The overnight shift at the Honey Pot has noticed a blacked-out SUV circling the ranch every night for a week now. The cameras couldn’t pick up the license plate number since we don’t have any on the road. All they could tell was that it was the same vehicle each time.”

“What’s your theory?”

“Could it be Neal?” he asks.

I scrub a hand down my face. “Can’t rule it out, I guess.”

“I’m putting you in charge of finding out.”

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