Page 3 of Boulder's Weight

I ignore the messages for now.

I've got something else on my mind.

Kelsey who’s wiping down a table across the room.

I watch her for a moment, the careful way she moves, how her eyes constantly scan the door whenever it opens.

She reminds me of some of the old ladies back at this charter, specifically, the ones who came from rough backgrounds before finding the club life.

They’re the kind of women who are always alert, always ready.

I make a decision and stand up, making my way over to her.

"Hey there," I say, keeping my voice casual.

She startles slightly, turning to face me.

Her hand tightens on the rag she's holding. "Can I help you with something?"

"You might be able to. Remember me? Boulder."

Her eyebrow raises slightly. "Boulder? I always forget how ridiculous your names are."

"Road names, sweetheart."

Her expression shifts subtly, a wariness entering her eyes. "Yeah, still, they’re fucking ridiculous. You’ve been gone a while, haven’t you?"

"Yeah, I’m here to visit family. My sister just had a baby. I’m at the Mexican charter now."

"Right. The Mexico charter." She nods, recognition flashing in her eyes.

She doesn't seem impressed, which is different from how most women react when they find out I'm in the club. "Well, welcome back to Billings. Need anything else before I get back to work?"

"Actually, I was wondering about that." I gesture toward her bruised eye before I can stop myself.

The question's out before I consider if it's my place to ask. Then again, I don’t really care. "What happened there?"

Her entire demeanor changes in an instant.

Her back straightens, shoulders squaring as she takes a small step away from me.

The rag in her hand twists as her fingers clench around it.

"It's none of your business," she says, her voice cold enough to give me frostbite.

I should back off.

I know I should, but something about her pulls at me, makes me push when I'd normally walk away. "That's where you're wrong. Who did this to you?"

It isn’t my business, sure, but I don’t like seeing a woman have any marks on her face.

Her eyes narrow, the whiskey brown darkening to something more dangerous. "You think because you’re patched into a club—or well, might be someday—that gives you the right to know everyone's business?"

"No, that's not?—"

"I don't need saving, prospect." She spits the last word like it's poison on her tongue. "Especially not by someone who still has to earn his way."

That stings more than I want to admit.

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