Page 77 of Throttle

His hair, up close, appears tousled by the wind, making me want to run my fingers through it and its softness.

“Get on.” He holds out a helmet for me, and my eyes widen.

I've never ridden on the back of his motorcycle, and I try my best to mask my response. It's like a mix of a giddy high school girl and an angry ex-girlfriend. It was a big deal to ride on a club member's Harley.

“I’m going inside, Throttle.” I go to leave, but he reaches out, holding onto my wrist. The spark hits me instantly, and the vibration between us is electrifying.

“You don’t live here anymore. Now get on, my rose.”

My eyebrows narrow, trying to understand. “What are you talking about?”

“I had a conversation with your landlord. Your lease is done. This isn’t your home anymore. It never was.”

I stare at him. It's not desire, but unexplainable anger that is making my body heat. “You’re lying. Tell me you’re joking.”

“Does it look like I’m joking?” His face is still, and eyes are cold.

“My landlord would never agree to that.” I cross my arms over my chest.

“I can be very persuasive.”

Oh my god. He evicted me.

“Your things have been moved. Clothes. Furniture, not that awful couch, but even Nemo. You are never coming back here.”

My overwhelming shock and rage prevent me from smiling, even though he mentioned my fish by name. I try to speak, but there is no sound.

Son of a bitch.

“You removed my things?” I anxiously grind my teeth, expecting this to be a stupid joke.

“Yup.” His lips form a straight line, and his eyes hold mine.

“You have lost your damn mind. Where the hell am I supposed to go?!” Now I’m shouting, but I don’t even care. Tears are about to spill out as my anger builds up inside me.

“You’re coming home with me.” He grips his handlebars.

Home. With. Him.

“I am not leaving with you, Throttle. You best undo whatever you’ve done. Right now.” I point a finger his way. That stupid handsome smirk on his stupid handsome face.

Move in with him. Above the clubhouse? I’m violated.

The parking lot spins.

It’s as if he reads my mind. “We’re not going back to the club. We’re going to my house.”

Huh?!

“I’m sorry. Come again. You have a house?” I question with confusion, and he acknowledges with a nod. “Oh, my God. I’m going to be sick.” I hold my stomach because the nausea has risen from the pits of hell.

What else don't I know about him? I suspected he had secrets, but he never told me he owns a house outside the club. It was a punch in the gut.

“You can be sick after we get home because there’s two guys eyeing us from the other side of the street.”

I follow his line of sight. There are, in fact, men peering over in our direction, and I tense when one of them moves toward us.

Crap.

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