Page 10 of Her Outlaw Biker
“Not creepy. Observant.” I lean against the counter. “Besides, a name like Clover’s not exactly common. Didn’t take much digging once I stepped outside. Clover Raymond. Nineteen. Mother deceased. Father owns a garage in town. ”
Her lips part, and I catch a glimmer of pain in her eyes, almost making me regret mentioning her mother, but then she catches herself. “So you did run a check.”
I shrug. “Perimeter sweep. Intel’s part of the deal. Especially when the bait is a gorgeous blondie with big, scared eyes.”
“I—I’m not bait,” she says, clearing her throat nervously.
I raise a brow. “You sure about that?”
She opens her mouth. Shuts it. Then closes it again and shrugs. “He didn’t say it like that. Just…told me I had to find you.”
“Who’she?”
She hesitates. I wait. She looks like she might fold, but she doesn’t. Not yet.
“My dad owes money,” she says finally. “A lot. He…he drinks, so the garage is pretty much a shack now…” She swallows. “He gambled a lot. They told me they’d wipe the debt clean if I could convince you to come back.”
“To the MC.”
She nods once.
I let that sit for a moment. “And you thought that sounded like a good idea?”
“No,” she says, voice tight. “I thought it sounded like the only option I had left.”
There it is. The truth. Raw and sharp and bleeding out right in front of me.
I move closer, slow and steady, until I’m just a few feet away. “You don’t know what they really wanted, do you?”
She lifts her chin. “They said it was a job. One last job.”
“They always say that.” I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to. She hears the weight of it just fine. “They set you up, Clover. Sent you in alone, unarmed, thinking you’d charm me into walking back into a war zone I barely crawled out of.”
Her brows draw together. “They wouldn’t—”
“They would. And they did.” I step back, give her space to breathe. “If those bastards wanted me, they’d come themselves. The only reason to send a nineteen-year-old grease monkey whose father owes them a debt is if they didn’t care whether she made it back.”
She stares at me, pale. Like the puzzle pieces are finally sliding into place—and they don’t paint a pretty picture.
“They never said I’d be in danger,” she whispers.
“Sweetheart, you were the danger.”
She recoils. But it’s not from me. It’s from the sick weight of betrayal landing in her gut.
I turn back to the stove, stir the soup. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you on sight,” I say over my shoulder. “How could you come out here unarmed?”
“I didn’t know,” she murmurs again. “I swear, I didn’t know.”
“I believe you.” The words come easy. Because they’re true.
She blinks. “You do?”
I glance back at her. “You’re a bad liar. And worse bait.”
That earns me a weak glare. But it’s something.
I ladle the soup into a bowl, set it in front of her. “Eat.”
