Page 22 of Her Possessive Bikers

"Not charity. Consider it an investment in future conversations." I say with a sly grin.

"So what's on your agenda today, besides letting strange men pump your gas?" I lean against the Chevelle, admiring how the morning sun catches the chrome.

"Actually, I'm headed to take some of Dad's old clothes to the shelter downtown." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing that little silver nose ring that keeps catching my eye.

"Wait, Brick owned clothes that weren't leather or band shirts?" I clutch my chest in mock surprise. "Next you'll tell me he had a secret collection of polo shirts."

Her laugh rings out across the parking lot. "You'd be surprised. Found at least three sweater vests hidden in the back."

"Bull fucking shit."

"Okay, maybe not sweater vests." She pushes off the car, and my eyes follow the curve of her hip. "But he did own actual clothes. Normal people clothes."

"That shelter's in a rough part of town." I straighten up, suddenly serious. "Mind if I tag along? Keep the riffraff away?"

"The riffraff?" Her eyebrow arches. "Isn't that what people usually call guys like you?"

"Exactly. Takes one to know one. I speak their language." I tap my temple. "Plus, I've got insider knowledge of all the best taco trucks in that neighborhood."

"Well, with an offer like that..." She pulls her keys from her pocket. "Lead the way, Mr. Wilson."

I swing onto my bike, watching in my mirror as she slides into the Chevelle. The engine purrs to life, and damn if the sound doesn't do something to me. Or maybe it's the way she's got one arm hanging out the window, fingers drumming against the door to some beat in her head. That tank top's riding up just enough to show a hint of ink on her hip, and I force myself to look away before I end up wrapped around a telephone pole.

The shelter's front desk lady beams at us as we carry in the boxes. Her gray hair's pulled back in a neat bun, name tag reading "Carolyn" pinned slightly crooked on her cardigan.

"Oh, how wonderful!" She clasps her hands together. "We're always so grateful when couples bring in donations together. You and your husband are such dear?—"

"Oh, we're not—" Indy starts.

"Just friends," I jump in, setting down the last box. My chest tightens at the word 'friends.'

"He's giving me a tour of town, it's been a while since I've been here," Indy explains, tucking her hair behind her ear. That nervous habit of hers gets me every time.

"Well, isn't that sweet of him?" Carolyn winks at me like we're sharing some secret. "These will help so many people."

I watch Indy chat with Carolyn about sorting the clothes, the way her eyes light up talking about helping others. The sunlight streaming through the windows catches her hair just right, and for a moment I let myself imagine coming home to that smile every night. No club business, no rivals, no violence—just her curled up on the couch waiting for me.

But the burner phone in my back pocket vibrates, yanking me back to reality. Tres needs me for something, and whatever it is, it ain't gonna be pretty. That's the life I chose—the only life I know.

"Ready?" Indy touches my arm, and I try not to focus on how her fingers linger there.

"Yeah." I clear my throat. "Let's roll."

The weight of my cut feels heavier than usual, like it's reminding me exactly who—and what—I am. Some things just aren't meant to be, no matter how much you might wish different.

The shelter's glass doors swing shut behind us as we step into the humid Texas air. Indy's perfume catches on the breeze, something sweet and spicy that makes my throat tight.

"So, about those legendary taco trucks you promised?" She spins to face me, walking backward toward her car. "I'm thinking it's time to put your money where your mouth is."

"Damnit man," The burner phone burns a hole in my pocket. "Rain check? Apparently some club stuff just went down."

"Mmm." She tilts her head, studying me. "Convenient excuse."

"Trust me, darlin', there's nothing convenient about it." I run a hand over my buzzed head. "I'd much rather be watching you try to eat street tacos without making a mess."

"Bold of you to assume I'm a messy eater."

"Everyone's a messy eater when it comes to proper street tacos. It's like a law or something."

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