Page 20 of Strelitzias in Spring

Clearing my throat, I raise my hands to unstrap the helmet and fumble with the clasp. Somehow, with me still on the back of the bike, Wolf throws his leg over the seat and stands before turning to face me. I’m too concentrated on the clasp to meet his eyes, and I’m surprised when his large, callused hands push mine away and unbuckle the strap with ease.

“Which apartment are you?” he asks as he removes the helmet from my head. I wince at the smell of chocolate that becomes overwhelming; I must have had some in my hair and ruined Wolf’s helmet.

“I’m in apartment twelve-J,” I tell him, trying to determine how best to get off the overly large motorcycle. Before I can voice a need for help, Wolf grips me by the waist and lifts me off the seat, placing me down gently before him. Though he’s easily a foot taller than me, our bodies are so close that we’re sharing air; inhales and exhales breed together until there’s a single cloud of oxygen between us and not much more.

I’m not sure what Wolf sees on my face, but his eyes narrow, and I can feel their caress like a feather on my skin. Whatever he sees must repel him because he takes a step back and opens his mouth, probably to say good night. But before he can, I ask a question I have never asked of another man.

“Do you want to come up?”

“For what?”

“Tea, maybe. I could use a cup, and I don’t want to be alone right now, if you don’t mind.” I bite my lip, gnawing on my flesh as I wait for his response.

Wolf remains quiet for a beat, weighing my words before asking, “Why don’t you call one of your friends? I’m walking you up and will make sure you get in okay, but I don’t think staying is a good idea, princess.” My stomach flutters at the continual use of the endearment before it sinks as I absorb the remainder of his words.

“Right, it’s just other than CeCe and Ava, I don’t really have anyone I can call. I just met Meg—Corset Girl—and she’s not exactly available right now. But it’s fine, forget I asked. You don’t need to walk me up. I’ll be okay.” I pause, taking a deep breath before continuing, “Anyway, thank you for your help tonight. I could have handled it myself, and eventually, I would have left the bathroom to find someone to bring me home, but still, I appreciate it. You’re a good guy, Wolf, even though you look like the Terminator.”

I pat Wolf on the arm like he’s a good little boy who helped the grown-ups and not a grown man saving young women from parties and walk toward the entrance of my building. His groan slices through the air, and I stop.

“Serena, wait.” I turn in time to see Wolf walk over to me. When he’s beside me, he runs a hand over his buzzed head. “It’s not a bad thing to have a small circle; having people I can count on and know that they’re not there for the fame and shit has been a lifesaver. So, I get it. Fucking hell, I get it. So yeah, I’ll come up for a bit.”

I bite back the smile that wants to break out over my face and tilt my head toward the entrance. “Okay, but can we go in now? It’s a little cold, and I’m a little wet.” His mouth tilts, and a smirk breaks out on his face. I replay my words, and mortification sweeps through me.

“Shit, no, that’s not what I meant. I meant I’m soaked.” I groan. “God, that sounds even worse. Just come up. I’m going to stop talking now.”

Wolf’s smirk breaks into a grin, and laughter echoes through the courtyard. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard his laugh, and it’s rich, like dark chocolate wrapped in bacon and sprinkled with sea salt. “Come on, princess, let’s get you inside.”

11

Wolf

I don’t know why I agreed to come into the building, follow her up to her apartment, and ride in a metal deathtrap elevator, but here I am, doing shit I never should have agreed to. Not because I don’t want to, but because it feels too good to be in this awkward, intelligent, beautiful woman’s presence.

I keep reminding myself that I’ve got too much going on in my life and that she’s at the stage where she’s figuring her shit out, while I’m in the season of settling down. It doesn’t stop me from leaning in and smelling the vanilla perfume that lingers under the sticky-sweet chocolate, nor does it stop me from mapping the freckles on the back of her neck where my jacket meets her skin.

I open my mouth to ask how she’s doing after her first bike ride when the elevator doors open, and two guys step inside. They reek of weed and sweat, and I feel Serena press her body against mine, the only place she can go to get further away from their presence and stench.

“Hey, Serena,” one of them says with an appreciative look over Serena’s form. She moves impossibly closer to me.

“Hi.” Her voice is barely a whisper.

“You ever going to come down and hang out with me? We had fun the last time.”

“Mhm, yeah. I, uh,” she stammers, sounding like she has no idea how to string two words together. “Have you met Wolf? He’s a tattoo artist.” I jolt back in surprise at her introduction, not just because why the fuck is she introducing me to some random guy, but also because she introduced me as an artist and not an MMA fighter.

Both guys turn to look at me, and I watch as their eyes widen, the realization of who I am slackening their features. “Holy fuck, you’re Wolf McCleery,” one of the guys says. I don’t bother responding because they know who I am, and it’s not like there are many other six-foot-six gingers covered in muscles and tattoos.

To deny would be useless, and to confirm would be a waste of words.

“Holy shit, I saw your fight against Guero last year. You were fucking epic. Can I have your autograph, man?” I look down at Serena, whose back is plastered to my chest like a coward, and scowl at the attention she’s called to me. The fight against Victor “The Warrior” Guero, a bloodbath that had both Vic and me stitched up and bruised, was the fight that convinced me to retire. I won—barely—but had to cancel all of my tattoo appointments for three weeks while my body recovered from the brutality of the match.

Turning my attention back to the guys who are both annoying and high as fuck, I grumble, “I don’t have a pen or sheet of paper, man. Sorry about that.” The elevator doors open with another group of people waiting to be let on, and I don’t hesitate. Grabbing Serena’s hand, I pull her out of the elevator and into the hall.

“Wolf, this isn’t my floor,” she says behind me, her hand still clasped in mine. I look down at our connection and curse, dropping it like it’s burned me.

I won’t linger on how soft and delicate her hand felt in mine. And I definitely won’t think about how she looks like she’s about to fall over in those heels that make her legs look endless.

“What floor are you on?”

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