Page 75 of Hate Mates

I stare at the wall, sleepless and wishing sleep would claim me. But my mind reels with the unshakable sensation that everything is about to change.

Chapter Three

As the morning light creeps through the slit in the curtains, I sit up, the thin blanket pooling around my waist. Blaze is already perched on the edge of the bed, his back to me. He’s checking a gun—one that Iron left in the saddlebags for him. The metal gleams, and the muscles of his shoulders ripple as he works.

When I clear my throat, he glances over his shoulder at me.

“Morning, princess.” His voice is gravelly. “Sleep well?”

I ignore the flutter in my stomach.

“Like a baby.” I swing my legs over the side of the bed.

Blaze holsters his gun at the small of his back. He tosses the baseball cap at me and wiggles the scissors in the air.

“If you think I’m chopping my hair, you’re insane.”

He sets them down on the dresser. “You wanna rob a costume store? ’Fraid there aren’t many this far west of Crown City.”

My thumb brushes over the cap’s frayed edge. We’re in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but gas stations, dive bars, and…

I sling the cap back at him, a plan forming. “No. But there’s a strip club up in the mountains I’ve passed on club rides.”

Blaze raises an eyebrow. “A strip club? You serious?”

My joints pop as I stand. “You got a better idea? It’s early; they’ll be closed. We’ll be in and out.”

He considers this for a moment then grabs his shirt from the back of the chair, pulling it on. “Strip club it is.”

Get it together, Vina,I think, fussing with my boots and trying to unsee the way his abs flexed.

We’re avoiding our cuts and leather jackets, so I grab a sweatshirt that Iron brought, shrugging it on. It still smells uniquely like Blaze. I inhale deeply and mentally shake myself.

Blaze waits by the door, hand on the knob. “Ready?”

I steel myself to climb back into the bitch seat with his rock-hard body resting between my thighs. “Let’s do this.”

Outside, the air is crisp. The motel parking lot is almost empty, save for a few beat-up cars. Blaze’s replacement bike waits at the end of the row—all sleek black and chrome.

Blaze kick starts the engine and plants his feet while I swing my leg over the seat. Sitting, he revs the engine, the sound echoing off the motel walls.

“Hold on tight,” he calls over the noise.

I wrap my arms around his waist, pressing myself against his back. Even through his shirt and mine, I can feel his heat. We ride out of the parking lot, gravel spraying behind us. The wind whips my hair as we fly down the highway.

Blaze leans into the turns, the bike tilting precariously. I grew up riding, but he’s making it impossible to not hold him in a death grip. It’s a rush, the speed, the danger. And maybe, just maybe, the man in front of me.

We ride for miles, putting distance between us and the motel. And Crown City. And our old lives. After the better part of anhour, a neon sign appears on the horizon, glowing pink against the sky.

The Candy Cane.

Classy.

Blaze pulls into the lot. A few cars are in the lot, but the place looks deserted.

My legs are unsteady when I dismount, and I pace a few steps to get them back in shape. Blaze swings off, stretching. His shirt rides up, revealing a strip of tanned skin, and I look away quickly, scanning the building.

It’s rundown, and a faded poster hangs crookedly on the door, advertising “Live Girls!”

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