Page 18 of Axle
“What happens if your tech cracks that drive, and the answers make me look bad?”
I shrugged. “Then we deal. Not gonna throw you to the wolves because they have a badge or a budget.”
She bit her lip, making my cock throb. Then she released it, to my great relief. “And if it puts your club in danger?”
She left it there, but I heard what she didn’t say. Danger you didn’t ask for, that could've been avoided if you’d let me run.
I didn’t sugarcoat the truth. “We live in danger. We were born in the grit and carved out of the kind of violence polite society pretends doesn’t exist. We also live in lines. And whensomeone crosses them, we don’t just hit back—we dismantle them. Piece by piece, until nothing is left standing. You didn’t bring this to our door, angel. It flew onto our track and almost died under my wheels. At that point, this stopped being your problem and started being ours.”
She tipped her chin back, skeptical and stubborn, but there was a wobble in it now. A softening she didn’t want to show me. “You’re very sure for a guy who doesn’t know my last name.”
“That’s because I’m not negotiating with your last name.” I let my hand slide down the headboard, my palm brushing the loose waves of her hair before I could stop myself. “I’m negotiating withyou. And you’re staying.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then we’re back to the tying-you-to-the-bed option.” I let it roll out flat, no heat, no joke. The heat was already there anyway, flickering through her eyes.
“You should probably know my last name if that’s really an option,” she teased before her eyes turned serious. “It’s Bahr.”
“Thank you for trusting me with that, angel.” I clenched my fist to stop myself from stroking her hair again, worried it’d spook her. “Rest. Hydrate. Eat the food I put in your hands. When you’re steady on your feet, we’ll walk to Jax together, and you can watch him work. Until then, let me do my job.”
“And what exactly is your job?”
I didn’t blink. “You.”
That earned me a look that would’ve knocked a lesser man on his ass. There was shock and wariness, but it was the beginning of something hotter that had me unsteady on my feet. She opened her mouth and closed it just as fast, as if any argument she had would admit she liked the sound of it too much.
“Fine,” she agreed at last, voice feathered with exasperation that she didn’t sell well. “I will rest. I will hydrate. But I willnotpromise to eat anything with raisins in it.”
My mouth twitched. “Deal. Raisins are an abomination.”
Her lips curved up. “Finally, common ground.”
Exhaling through my nose, I pushed away from the bed and stepped back before the urge to lean down and find out if her lips tasted like strawberries or sin got the better of me. “Good. I’ll grab coffee and something without raisins.”
I crossed to the dresser, picked up the burner I’d left there, and set it within easy reach on the nightstand. “My number’s in there. You need me, you press call or text. You get bored and want a book, you call or text. You so much as think about leaving, you call or text.”
She rolled her eyes and flopped back onto the pillows as I left.
The day stretched and blurred. I tried to get shit done, but my mind remained upstairs. Even when my sister video-called with my adorable nephew, I was distracted by the woman in my bed.
I checked on her frequently. Sometimes pretending I was just passing by, other times I didn’t bother. But every time I opened the door and saw her breathing easy in my bed, that feral snarl inside me settled for a while.
She rolled her eyes at the way I hovered and pretended she wasn’t cataloging each time I came in and left like she was timing my laps.
With every visit…every damn thought of her, desire built inside me. When she looked at me through those long, thick lashes, or smiled with those pretty lips or…just fucking breathed, I moved closer and closer to the edge of my breaking point.
By midnight, my nerves were raw in a way that only happened when I couldn’t burn it off with speed. My bed was full, but my hands were empty. Every time I thought about lying down in some other bed, my brain staged a small riot. So I did what I always did when sleep was out of reach, riding wasn’t an option and responsibility kept my throttle pinned at the redline—I went to the garage.
Not The Pit. The pro mechanic shop was a couple of miles up the road, locked down for the night. The compound's own garage was quieter, and since it was attached to the clubhouse, I was close enough that if my phone buzzed with her name, I’d make it back upstairs before the second ring.
The roll-up was pulled halfway, letting in a slice of fresh air. Though the August night was hot as balls and humid, it woulda been a fuck of a lot worse with the door closed. The crickets created a symphony, and laughter drifted to my ears from the area where we had a firepit, and a TV murmured low in the common room. The clubhouse never slept, not really. Brothers were always coming and going, and several men were always on sentry duty.
I swiveled on my rolling stool and grabbed a torque wrench, then turned back to my bike and pretended the swingarm bolt needed my attention more than my sanity did. The cool steel in my palm steadied the buzz under my skin, as did the scent of chain lube and rubber.
“Work that thing any harder,” a voice drawled from the kitchen door, “and it’s gonna need a cigarette.”
I didn’t look up. “Don’t flirt with my hardware, Drift. It’s rude.”
