Page 91 of The Darkness Within

“Figured since he has such a tight leash on you now, he’d be right behind you.” He smirks, and my hands itch to wipe it off his face.

“Come here, fucker. I’ll show you what a tight leash feels like.” I’m supposed to be joking—my smile says I’m joking—but am I?

Of course, Brewer chooses the worst possible moment to stop by and poke his head into the classroom.

“There you are,” he exclaims brightly. “How’d your workout go?”

Fuck me. All the Bitches start making kissy face sounds, like a bunch of two-year-olds. Are they serious? Is this a support group for battle-scarred veterans or a fucking daycare?

Closing the distance between us in the hopes that not every juvenile delinquent in this classroom can hear our conversation, I answer in a low voice, “It went great. I feel really good. I’ll catch up with you after the meeting. Can I take you to lunch?”

Brewer’s sexy little smile melts me. “Sure can. Come find me.” He gives me a quick peck on the lips, not nearly long enough, and my stomach swirls with butterflies. It happens every time he touches me, kisses me, or looks at me like I’m something special.

My cheeks are flaming red when I turn back to the class. No one says a word, but Brandt slaps a twenty-dollar bill in West’s palm.

West smirks. “Pay up, Reaper.”

“Dammit,” Brandt snipes.

“That’s what you get for doubting me.”

They fucking bet on me? Jesus Christ.

Thankfully, I’m not the only side show in this classroom. Stiles stomps in, his heavy motorcycle boots echoing loudly with each step, with McCormick hot on his heels.

“That’s the last fucking time! Never again!”

“What? What’d I do?” McCormick asks, sounding confused.

“You know what you did. Same bullshit, different day.” Stiles takes a seat, pulling a ball of black yarn from his canvas tote bag. It’s the same one we all have, with the Bitches with Stitches logo that says, ‘healing hearts one stitch at a time’.

McCormick sits next to him, as if they’re not arguing and everything is peachy. “You’re out of your mind. I think you inhaled my exhaust.”

“You’d have to be going faster than me for that to happen. Fat fucking chance.” He shakes his head. “I can’t believe you did that.”

McCormick throws up his hands. “What?!”

“Fucking got off your bike at the red light. You pulled a pack of baby wipes out of your saddlebags and started polishing your fucking bike. At the red light!”

“And? There’s a lot of pollen out right now. She was dirty.”

“I can’t,” Stiles insists, palming his face. “Never again. You’re a fucking embarrassment to the ALR. Maybe you should look into getting a membership with the TWT instead.”

“What’s the TWT?” McCormick asks.

“Tykes with trikes.”

That’s too fucking funny, even to me. I join the other Bitches in laughing.

Jax wheezes. “Oh my God, can you imagine McCormick riding a tricycle with a bunch of toddlers? Dude, you did that shit with me last summer on that road trip to Maggie Valley. It was embarrassing as fuck.”

“Right?” Stiles says, gaining support. “I’m revoking your American Legion of Riders membership card. You’re out.”

“You’re out,” McCormick insists, “out of your fucking mind.”

I pull a ball of blue yarn out of my bag and try to sort out the hot mess I’ve made on my needles. It’s supposed to be a scarf for Brewer, the same color as my eyes, but with all the dropped stitches and gaping holes, it looks more like… Blue Swiss cheese? I don’t fucking know. I’m trying my best. Clearly, my talents lie in other areas.

According to Brewer, I’m talented at—

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