Page 22 of Property of the Hellfire Riders

I groan, rubbing the back of my neck.

And these assholes want to talk about getting laid like horny teenaged boys.

The shower steam fills the room like smoke. I stand there, letting the heat seep into my muscles, still tense from hours bent over the forge. The work is hard, grueling even, but there's a satisfaction in my art that's hard to beat. The creation of something sharp and beautiful from a raw, unforgiving metal—knives that balance perfectly in the hand, jewelry that catches the eye with its intricate designs.

I step under the shower, turning the faucet until the water is just shy of scalding. It hits my skin, washing away the grime and sweat of a long day's labor.

As the water courses over me, I close my eyes and let the heat work its magic. The tension in my shoulders begins to unwind, the ache in my back eases, and for a moment, I might find peace.

But only for a moment as my peace shatters like glass under a boot heel.

Tank's voice is as unmistakable as an alarm clock in the dead of night, cutting through my solitude with the subtlety of a chainsaw.

He made his way back to the apartment early.

I bristle and he’s most likely brought that girl with him.Great.

“You want something to drink?” he asks.

I listen for a moment, but the shower is too loud to discern what the other voices are saying, and I have no doubt he’s asking me.

I shut off the water. The steam clings to my skin as I step out, grabbing the towel and rubbing it over my head and down my body.

I wrap it around my waist, the fabric clinging slightly to my still-damp skin. Barefoot, I pad out of the bathroom, finding Tank leaning against the hallway wall, a beer in one hand and a look on his face that says he's got more than just alcohol on his mind.

He’s got the worst poker face in the gang.

“Well, look who's home,” he says with a goofy ass grin.

As I step into the living room, I catch Vance lingering in the entryway, stumbling slightly as he kicks off his boots.

Then I see her, an unfamiliar face among the familiar.

She's perched at the edge of the couch, a tentative smile playing on her lips as she scans the room, her eyes a little too sharp, a little too curious.

Now, I understand why they can’t stop talking about her.

“This is Izzy,” Vance says, running his hand through his sandy blonde hair. His silver eyes flash as they catch mine.

"Is that so?" I say, extending a hand to Izzy, who takes it. She’s delicate, small hands, but there’s meat on her bones and I like that.

"I see my two associates dragged you up here,” I say with a grim smile. “I’m surprised you were willing to come back here.”

”They’re nice.”

That makes me laugh.

“Hear that boys? You’re nice!”

She’s in her early twenty’s, with dirty blonde hair that she wears loose, falling in waves that frame her face. She's got a figure that could stop traffic, curvy in a way that draws glances, which she seems blissfully ignorant of—or maybe she just pretends to be.

Her arms fold quickly over her chest.

No, she’s nervous. She can barely look me in the eyes.

But it's those eyes that are captivating. She leans back away from me, and I remember my lack of clothes.

Whatever. It’s my house. My gang.

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