Page 21 of Cocky Secrets

My eyes widen.

I try to cover it.

From the look in his eyes, he saw.

“That weird?” he asks.

I respond, “Why would that be weird?”

“You looked shocked.”

“Just never knew what people were saying.” I shrug, thinking about the stories from their missions I’ve overheard for decades. My whole life, actually. “They’re just a normal motorcycle club.” Lie lie lie.

“Normal clubs cause trouble,” Bear corrects me.

“Not all ‘normal’ motorcycle clubs cause trouble,” I argue, hackles rising.

“Most do.”

“Bikers Against Child Abuse.”

“Good charity. Rare concept.”

I scoff, “Bikers are just like everyone else. Some people are bad, some very, very good. They’re good people, my family.”

“They? Not ‘we’? You’re not in the club? What, aren’t women allowed?”

The fact that Bear didn’t call me a girl stands out to me. My back straightens. “No, there are women in it. Just not me. I’m an artist.”

“I remember. Seems I’m the only one who does.”

My head tilts. “Huh?”

“Someone forgot she was an artist yesterday.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks. “I’m sorry, Bear. I couldn’t make it. Didn’t have a ride.”

“What happened to your bicycle? Is that why you’re getting a motorcycle?”

“Something like that.”

“Like what? You didn’t really answer the question.”

“Don’t feel like expanding on it,” I say with a lift of my chin.

Bear laughs outright. “Oh really?!” He laughs again. “Okay, well, the next time I accept an offer to be painted I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Who says I was going to offer again?”

His bronze eyes twinkle. “I didn’t mean from you. If any artist asks.”

“You get asked often?”

“All the time,” he lies, teasing me with an expression that confirms he’s never been asked by anyone but me.

“Are you still riding?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation going. “You’re selling the Harley. Are you a bike cop?”

“Motorcycle cop,” he corrects me.

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