Page 54 of Her Possessive Bikers

He laughs as he starts walking in the direction of his bike. "And yet here you are," he calls over his shoulder.

"Yeah," I shout back, throwing my arm out the open window of the chevelle "Here I am."

31

KYLER

Ihead to my room, and toss my kutte on a nearby chair. It's hot as hell out today. But I don't mind. The hotter the day, the shorter Indy's short's seem to get. The clubhouse feels different with her here - livelier somehow, despite all the shit going down. Her presence reminds me of Brick, of better times.

My fingers trace a fresh scar on my side where she stitched me up. The memory of her gentle touch makes my skin tingle.

"Fuck," I mutter, running my fingers through my tangled hair.

My mind drifts to the Dos Banditos. Three of their guys bleeding out in that alley sent a pretty clear message. They've backed off since then, but for how long? The quiet makes me more nervous than the fighting.

I grab a fresh white t-shirt and head back down to the garage. Jacoby has suckered me into some shit today. I don't have anything better to do.

While I'm dicking off, rearranging my tools, I catch a glimpse of Indy through the window as she coordinates with the construction crew. Her dark hair catches the sunlight asshe gestures at blueprints, explaining exactly how she wants her father's house restored.

My fingers itch to run through those silky strands again. That night we spent together plays on repeat in my mind, but between club business and the reconstruction, we've barely had time to talk.

"Earth to Kyler." Jacoby calls from the doorway. "You gonna help me with this transmission today or just stare at Indy?"

I grunt and grab a wrench. "Just thinking."

"About what?" He wipes grease on his already-stained shirt.

"Drop it." But I notice how his eyes follow her too, the way they linger. Even Tres watches her when he thinks no one's looking, prowling around her like some silver-maned lion.

The garage door creaks and Indy walks in, combat boots clicking on concrete. "Hey boys. Mind if I grab some tools? Door frames aren't going to hang themselves."

"Take whatever you need, darlin'." Jacoby flashes that cocky grin of his.

She rolls her eyes but smiles, heading for the toolbox. When she bends over to search through it, I have to force myself to look away. She leaves just as quickly as she came.

"Tomorrow," I whisper to myself, tightening my man bun. "I'll ask her tomorrow."

Tomorrow morning would be perfect - cool enough for a long ride before the Texas heat kicks in. I know this sweet spot overlooking the river where the sunrise paints everything gold. Brick showed it to me years ago, said it was where he used to take Indy's mom.

Jacoby's still yakking about the transmission, but I'm barely listening. In my head, I'm already mapping the route, planning each turn. Maybe we could stop at that old diner he loved, the one with the apple pie he always raved about.

My stomach knots thinking about asking her. What if she says no? What if she's already got plans with Tres or Jacoby? But fuck it - I've spent too much time being the quiet one, the safe choice. Brick always told me to grab life by the handlebars.

I watch as Indy stretches to reach a high shelf, her shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of skin. My mouth goes dry. Yeah, tomorrow morning - before I lose my nerve.

"Pass me that socket wrench?" Jacoby's voice breaks through my planning.

I toss it his way, already rehearsing what I'll say to her. Keep it casual, but clear. No room for misunderstanding. A real date, not just another clubhouse hangout.

The sun barely peeks through my window when I jump out of bed, not bothering to fix my hair into its usual bun. My heart pounds with anticipation as I head to Indy's room, rehearsing what I'll say about the sunrise ride.

I knock on her door. Nothing.

"Indy?" My knuckles rap harder against the wood. "It's Kyler."

The silence stretches too long. Wrong. Something feels wrong.

"Indy, if you're changing, just say so." My palm flattens against the door. Still nothing.

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