Page 12 of Iron Will

I roll my eyes as I stand up from the stoop and slip my key into the lock of my front door. This conversation happens in one form or another practically every time I talk to my mother. Mom’s attitude toward social work is basically,These things happen to other people, it’s not our issue.

Whereas I know otherwise, from experience. The rich have the same problems as everyone else. They just have enough money to pretend like they don’t.

“Okay, Mom,” I mutter, entering my house and tossing my purse on a chair. “Look, I’m just on my way somewhere, so I’m gonna have to let you go. Okay? Talk soon.”

Mom huffs again, but doesn’t put up much of an argument. After all, the point of this conversation was never to actually talk tome.

“Alright, darling. I assume we’ll see you next month for your father’s birthday?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” I say through gritted teeth.

The phone goes dead. I shake my head and sigh.

At least my mom only calls a couple of times a month.

Moving into my bedroom, I change out of my work clothes and put on a loose T-shirt and a pair of yoga pants. Slipping my feet into a favorite pair of flip-flops, I go into the kitchen and try to figure out something quick to make for dinner. I settle on an omelet with ham and cheddar, which I eat sitting on the couch.

Out of curiosity, I grab my phone from the cushion where I’ve tossed it and open up Instagram. A few seconds later, I’m staring at a picture of Lindsay’s engagement ring, in close-up, adorning a carefully manicured hand.

#engaged #mrsharris #whyyesthatismyring #junewedding

My sister Lindsay.The modern socialite/influencer. The daughter whoisfollowing in her mother’s footsteps.

I’m happy for her. Sort of.

But God, I’m glad I’m not her.

I spendthe next couple of hours binge-watching bad TV shows, feeling exhausted and drained by work and by the conversation with my mother. Usually, watchingBrooklyn-Nine-Nineis silly and funny enough to take my mind off the day, but tonight it’s not working.

As the evening wears on, I find my thoughts drifting away from little Paisley, away from my sister. And toward the gruff biker I met in Paisley’s hospital room.

He’s hot. But scary.

He’s hot, all right. Embarrassingly so. Especially because now that I’m home alone, with nothing but the memory of the way his eyes slid over my body, I find myself wondering again what his touch would feel like.

I bet his hands would be rough.

I bet the calluses would make me tremble as they traveled over my skin.

I bet sex with him would be rough, and raw, and…

Amazing.

As my eyes continue to stare at the screen, my mind is now a million miles away. With the hot biker, peeling off my clothes. Sliding me underneath him. Pushing himself inside me. My skin tingles. Between my legs, heat pools, my panties soaking wet. My nipples grow taut, crying out for his touch.

Before I know it, I’ve turned off the TV and gone into my bedroom. I push off my yoga pants, peel off my top, and slip beneath the covers.

And there, in the dark, my fingers find my hot, waiting sex. Barely a minute later, I’m coming, shuddering through my orgasm and whispering the name of a man I don’t even know.

Rourke.

5

Rourke

The next day, I’m at the hospital before nine, with the excuse of visiting Bear again.

When I get up to the floor where his room is, Paisley’s door is closed. I stand in the hall for a second, listening, but it’s pretty quiet inside. That’s probably a good thing, unless they’ve moved her to a different room.

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