Page 14 of Crow

She springs the kit open and digs around, setting bandages, rubbing alcohol, tape, and those weird anti-stitch stitches things that look a little bit like they’re out of a nightmare. Patti is proud of how up to date the safety protocols are around here. She’s never had anyone cut their finger off in the kitchen, but she knows it could happen, and she wants to be ready.

Even though her hands are busy, her lips twitch. “I’d say she got the better of the argument. I don’t want anything coming down on her.”

My already nauseous stomach does another tumble that sends bile surging up my throat. I never thought about my own safety. Bringing down a biker club’s wrath sounds like the most terrifying prospect.

Crow’s eyes swing to my face, and he takes a step forward, his bloodied hand outstretched. I don’t move, and he stops before he steps right into me. Something sparks in the dark depths of his eyes. His brow furrows. I feel whatever that emotion is, straight down to my marrow. Instead of being chilled—like any rational, sane person should be—it sends a wave of little explosions detonating inside of me.

“I already said there’d not be any trouble, it was my fault.” He looks menacing enough and sounds even worse, but he never takes his eyes off me, like he would do damage to an extent I can’t even comprehend if someone so much as had a single negative thought about me from across the country.

This is too much.

It’s too much that even though Patti gloves up and guides Crow’s hand and the towel down from his face so she can start cleaning him up, he keeps his gaze locked on me.

It’s a bad time to ask, but I do it anyway. “Did you mean it? About the riding lessons? Please don’t feel obligated, especially now that you know I’m a slash or pass kind of a woman.”

The joke takes a second to hit us both. He lifts a brow in surprise. “I meant it. You get that motorcycle, and I’ll show you how to ride it.”

Patti growls low in her throat, letting us both know what she thinks about that. At the same time, she knows she’s not my mother and she’s not going to embarrass me with a lecture. She does, however, choose that moment to spritz rubbing alcohol all over the wound she just cleaned.

Crow proves that there’s something about him that’sotherby not even inhaling or blinking at that burning spray. I’ve had small cuts cleaned out with rubbing alcohol before and I know firsthand that it stings like a mother. Maybe I’m just a sissy when it comes to pain, but whether that’s true or not, Crow is next level. It’s like he doesn’t even feel it, but the way his skin twitches tells me that the pain receptors in his brain are working just fine.

“My dad wanted me to quit this job,” I blurt.

Patti’s hand jerks on the spray bottle, nearly catching Crow in the eye. His reflexes prove inhumanely good as he jerks back.

“I refused,” I clarify, giving Patti an apologetic look. “I think it’s the first time I’ve ever really defied him.”

“Felt good, didn’t it?” Crow asks with far too much glee.

He’s used to living this way. On the edge of the law. I have no doubt that what his club does isn’t legal, at least for the most part. A man doesn’t get born into a club. Hechoosesto join it, which means that Crowlikesit. Maybe he needs that kind of rough living in order to breathe.

I can testify to exactly how stifling it feels to be bound up in chains of expectations you’re never going to meet, hounded constantly to adhere to a rigid moral code that you’re also always going to fall short of.

“Does it feel good for you?” I ask, my voice trembling.

Patti’s done cleaning and sterilizing and now she has to apply those strip things that should close the wound. Each time she hires someone, she gives them the same safety spiel and we all get updates at staff meetings. She explained the process of these things to us just last week when she got them, but by the way she frowns at the package, it’s clear that they’re more complicated than she anticipated.

“I’m going to have to watch a damn video on this.” Sure as shit, she cues up her phone and gets one playing.

“Maybe,” he admits, holding perfectly still, watching Patti with open amusement that’s nowhere near cruel or cold. “But we’re not talking about me.”

His eyes slowly swing back to me. I nearly drown in the warmth that feels like it’s flooding the kitchen, rising above my head, cutting off my air.

Patti doesn’t look ruffled. She’s focused on the video.

“Yes, it felt good.” I try to push that out, but the words are little more than air.

Realizing just how true that is makes me feel like a bad girl. Like a sinner. I should hate it. I don’t. That should make it even worse, but all I feel is a thrill that doesn’t have any of the sick, guilty twinge that should accompany it.

Ever since I got this job and started working here, it’s been a blessed escape.

“Why’d your dad ask you to quit?” Crow asks.

Patti wraps up the video and sets the phone aside. “I need you to hold still for this. It’s hard enough as it is.”

“You could always use tape. Or glue,” he states dryly.

“I’d be more than happy to glue your mouth shut right now. Why is it that you can’t get the quiet ones to ever say anything and then when you truly need them to shut up, they won’t?”

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