Page 44 of Riff

And because there was an empty area near the door, there was a full-sized sofa pressed against the wall, creating a space to sit that wasn’t the bed if you were spending long periods of time in the bedroom.

It smelled intoxicatingly of Riff all over this space.

“This is your room,” I said, looking over to see if he was going to try to deny it. Because he’d been very careful to say I’d get a bedroom, not that I’d be putting him out of his bedroom.

“And now it’s yours,” he said, shrugging. “I didn’t luck out to get one of the bedrooms with their own private bathrooms in it, but the bathroom is right across the hall. Has a stall shower/tub combo. Feel free to put all your shit in the second drawer. It’s always empty.

“I can’t take your room.”

“It’s no big deal,” he said. And as if to emphasize his point, he walked over to the bed to start spreading my blankets over it. Then, rushing so I couldn’t object further, he changed the topic, “Do you mind if I wash your clothes in the car?” he asked. “We have to get you some more, but for the time being, I can wash them for you if you want.”

“Oh, um, only if you’re washing something,” I said.

“I’ll let you settle in, then,” he said. “Do you want me to bring you food to your room when it’s done, or do you want to try to come down?”

“I, ah, I don’t know yet.”

“No pressure. I’ll check back.”

With that, he was gone, leaving me alone to watch Vernon explore the new space, seeming to enjoy the fact that there were a lot of windows to bask in.

There was a soft knock at the door a few moments later that had my heart shooting up into my throat.

“Ah, yeah?” I called, stomach cramping at the idea of one of the club guys coming in here when I was alone.

There was a strange rustling sound before the door opened.

And there was a woman with a giant basket in her arms.

She was gorgeous with long, silky black hair, a curvy body, lots of tattoos, and a face that could launch a thousand ships.

If I had to place a guess, I had a feeling this was Nyx, the former bartender and present martial arts studio owner. Also, partner to Slash, the president of the club.

“Hey,” she said, giving me a small smile. “Mind if I come in for a sec?” she asked.

“Sure,” I agreed, my stomach unclenching, but anxiety was still thrumming across my nerve endings.

She kicked the door closed behind her.

“I’m Nyx,” she said.

“Vienna,” I told her. “You really didn’t have to do that,” I said, looking at the packed basket in her hands as she brought it over to set it on the bed.

“Oh, this? No. I didn’t do this. This is all Colter.”

“Colter?” I asked, remembering the story of the man from the military whose wife cheated with his best friend while he was deployed.

“Yeah, this is his thing. He makes gift baskets. Which is weird and adorable. He always drops them off like this. I brought you this,” she said, reaching back into her pocket and coming back with something folded in on itself. With one press, it flicked open.

A pocketknife.

But not the flimsy-looking type you saw many people carry on their keychains. This thing had a long, jagged blade that looked like it would take a lot of work to break.

“A girl always has to have a solid knife to keep on her,” she said.

And, suddenly, I felt very… seen. Understood.

I reached for the knife, surprised by the weight of it, but liking how it felt in my hand as I folded it up, then flicked it open.

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