Page 49 of Live Love Steal
“Are you okay?”
Everyone kept asking me that. “I’m fine. Thanks for the clothes.”
“They’re Lily’s, thank her.”
Who was Lily? I opted for a quick nod.
Smoke sat down at the top of the stairs. He was showing me that I was guarded. Which was kind of sweet. Especially since I knew him from the bar earlier. “Were you still here?”
“Naw. Went home.”
Crap. I’d made his day harder. “I’m sorry.”
His grunted, “Don’t be,” wasn’t enough. These men were all having their days interrupted and screwed up because of a whole series of events that could have been avoided if I just would have paid that damn ticket.
“I complicated your day.”
“Yup.” He was one of those kinds of bikers who didn’t talk much.
“I am sorry.”
He glanced at me through the corner of his eye. “You and Sketch?”
Seemed like everyone had an interest in our… was it even a relationship? Almost twelve hours ago, we hadn’t even met. “We met today.”
His attention quickly shifted from the stairs to me. “No shit?” He scanned me with a once-over and back. Then he shut his mouth and slowly fixed his attention on the stairs again.
“Say it.” Whatever he was thinking was really loud. And judgmental.
“I knew Poppy all of one week before we jumped into the sack. They almost stripped me of my patch for that.”
“Who’s Poppy?”
“My ol’ lady.”
Oh. Which made me even more confused because I recalled the clothing request from Sketch. “Who’s Lily?”
“Her sister. She lives with us until she starts college.”
That was helpful. And really sweet. “She doesn’t live at home?”
“Hell no.” He shifted to stare at me again. “Are you planning on sticking around?”
I didn’t know the answer to that question. If he’d have asked me two hours ago, that would have been an absolute “no way.” But a lot had changed since then. And even more confusing was that I didn’t know where Sketch and I stood with each other.
Except he’d agreed to come back to my place. “We’re playing it by ear.”
“We?”
Could I speak for Sketch? And what if we weren’t a we? What if it were only sex? Would he dump me tomorrow? Would he even remember my name in a week?
Would I have put myself out there for a man who just wanted to use me? The emotional calm I’d found after crying my guts out in the shower disappeared. I worried the tattoo on my wrist. He’d called me Iron Girl. I could survive this. I could. Maybe?
The words on my shirt mocked me. I ran a hand down them, fingering their slick plasticity compared to the soft material of the shirt.
Smoke dropped his eyes. Apparently, I’d spoken enough non-verbally to satisfy his curiosity.
But my questions were only beginning.
