Page 18 of Biker's Collar: Property of Scrap

“I don’t know, Veronica. Where do you want to go? Or did you always want to end up in Vegas?”

He doesn’t care.No way he genuinely cares about that, right?

Scrap smiles at me and it gives me the feeling I used to get on first dates before I had enough bad first dates for my go-to “first date feeling” to be utter dread. First dates I went on while writing love letters to someone I should have never let get into my head or under my skin.

I try to tell Scrap something close to the truth. I shrug and play it off like I’m some overly romanticized falling angel and not just a woman who made a mistake.

“I definitely didn’t want to end up here. I just… got into a bad relationship.”

I try to make it sound old Hollywood, but I think I still sound embarrassed. Which would explain how I feel about ending up here. He doesn’t say anything stupid or corny. Scrap just nods with strange understanding. “I know the feeling of a bad relationship. If you could go anywhere else in the country, where would you go?”

Insecurity throbs in my chest again.He doesn’t care about that.

“You don’t have to ask me all those questions before we fool around.”

“I want to know,” he says. “And I don’t care if we fool around as long as we drink and get to know each other.”

He reaches for an expensive looking bottle of whiskey. I don’t drink much and the thought of losing my head doesn’t exactly make me feel good but…

“Would you feel better sober?”

“A little.”

“Do you mind if I drink?”

This night just keeps working out in my favor. “Not at all.”

I watch him crack open the bottle of whiskey and wildly pour about four ounces down his throat. Four shots at once. This man can drink just as hard as he gambles. I feel like I should be doing something, but before my awkwardness turns into full blown panic, he sets the whiskey bottle down and says, “Come here.”

Considering I’ve never been in this situation before, it’s better if he tells me what to do. I close the distance between us, feeling strangely self conscious of my club floor uniform and how basic it looks. He wants me in my basic ass work clothes. I shouldn’t overthink it.

“I need you to answer my question,” he says when I’m close enough. “Anywhere in the country. Where would you go?”

“I guess Texas.”

He laughs. “Texas? Why the fuck do you want to go to Texas?”

“Everything’s bigger in Texas,” I reply. “Duh.”

“Hm,” he says. “Not everything. They don’t make country boys as big as me out there.”

“I’ll let you know when I make it out there.”

“Is that where you’re gonna run off to?”

“Why would I tell you that?”

“Because,” he says. “I’m letting you go. Stealing you from Hakeem.”

“Yeah. And I don’t know why.”

“Because,” he says, his eyes roaming over me in a way that makes me feel so uncomfortably vulnerable. “I like how you look. I like how you act. I don’t know how the fuck you got here but… you clearly don’t belong in Vegas.”

“But I belong in your bed?”

“That remains to be seen,” he says. “I like to taste a woman before I enter her…”

He maintains eye contact with me as he makes the shockingly sexual statement, reminding me that lurking beneath whatever genteel he shows me, there is an animal inside Scrap. An animal that paid to have me for the night. An animal that I might have to drug and rob if I want to escape with my life.

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