Page 12 of Spooked
No fucking way do I ever want to go back to that house again.I send a silent plea toward Bullet, hoping he’ll rethink, reemphasise that while it might have been her residence in the past, she’s got no rights to go there now.
To his credit, he does try to dissuade her. “I think you’re making a mistake. You’ve got happy memories of that house, and seeing it in its current state would probably ruin them. Why not remember it how it was?” He purposely circles back to one of the photos showing the huge hole in the floor.
Yes.Mentally, I fist pump the air, unable to remember a time when I actually wanted to kiss a brother. I refrain, of course, but I’m happy he’s read my mind.
Her lips thin. “Nevertheless, I want to go back and see for myself.”
After examining her for a minute, Bullet sees her determination, and assesses it’s not worth trying to change her mind. “Okay then, You’ll go with Hound.”
What the fuck?Kiss him? Right now, I’d rather kill him. “No,” I say fast, sitting forward to make my point with body language, my sudden action causing my crutches to fall to the ground.
Up to that point, it seems she hadn’t noticed my cast-encased leg, as she breathes in sharply. “Of course, you can’t go. I didn’t realise you, your…” she waves her hand toward me as if trying to find a politically correct way of pointing out I’m disabled, and settles for, “predicament.”
Grimacing, Bullet shakes his head in apology. “Sorry, Bro. I forgot. You’re right, you need to stay well away from that place.” He gives a wry grin. “Both Drummer and Wiz would have my ass if you re-injured yourself.”
I tell people what to do. Except for those from my prez and VP, I don’t take orders. And if someone tells me I can’t do something, I’m genetically disposed to prove them wrong. It’s so natural to contradict him, I forget I’m arguing against my better judgment. “I’ve got a broken leg,” I hiss. “I’m not an invalid. I’ve been there once, I can go back again.” I even raise a brow in challenge.
“Hound,” he starts patiently.
“No.” I slash my hand through the air. “I can do this.”
After raising his eyes to the heavens and letting out a sigh, he pronounces, “It appears to be settled then. You’ll take Ms. Sullivan to her family home and show her around to satisfy her curiosity.”
Fucking hell! Why hadn’t I kept my mouth shut? What argument could I now offer as to why he’s sending me to a place where usually wild horses wouldn’t be able to drive me? Nothing at all, unless I want to admit my doubts about the extent of my brain injury, and that the house had caused me to hallucinate. One mention of a possible mental impairment would see me demoted for far longer than it would take my leg to heal, and give probable cause for my club to doubt my sanity.
“Sure,” I say as nonchalantly as possible, while gritting my teeth. I edge to the front of my seat and eye my crutches lying on the floor. Taking pity on me, Bullet leans down, picks themup and passes them to me. His face, turned away from Maeve, shows me a smirk.
Bullet, as one of the older members, has been in the club far longer than I have. While not officially one of the F.O.G.s, he’s fucking with me in the same way that they would. He knows I don’t want to go back to that house, but he left me no option other than to call his bluff. I’m stuck. I either have to admit fear of the supernatural or confess to a brain injury that might risk everything I’ve strived for.
Crutches under me, I get to my feet. As I turn, my eyes fall on the flip calendar that’s on Bullet’s desk. October thirty-first.It fucking would be.I wonder whether I should try to persuade her that leaving the visit until tomorrow would be best, but Bullet would haze the fuck out of me, and I can just imagine her look of disdain. I keep quiet.
I’ve had time to practice this shit, get my supports under me, and try my hardest to make my progress look easy as I lead the way out of the offices of SD Construction, proving to myself and everyone that being on crutches doesn’t mean I’m weak. I head toward the SUV, but she stays back. Noticing, I turn and raise a brow.
“I’ll follow you in my car.”
She’s waving toward a cheap rental that’s likely to split apart on the road we’ll be covering. I snort an incredulous laugh. “No fuckin’ way. The driveway to the house has been neglected for years, and unless you’ve got four-wheel drive and don’t give a fuck about your suspension, there’s no way you’ll be getting to the house.” Or, if by some miracle she gets there, I doubt she’d get back.
She looks at me dubiously. “I don’t like driving with strangers.”
An out at last.Shrugging, I tell her, “Don’t give a fuck. You want to see the house, I can take you. You worried about drivingwith me, then you can just turn around and go back to wherever you came from.” Then I remind her, “It was you who came to SD Construction for help.”
She bites her lip, drawing my attention to it.She’s got the perfect-shaped mouth to take my dick inside it.Where that thought came from, I’ve no idea.
I’m a biker. I’m no virgin. Being inspired by the successful relationships of my brothers in the club, I briefly tried a relationship. Hell of a start to it we had, when I damn near rode into her on my bike. She’d been crossing the road without looking and jumped away just in time, but tripped and landed flat on her face. I’d stopped to check that she was okay, and when I saw her beauty, I thought fate had thrown her into my arms. Turns out looks are one thing, character is another. Bitten and burned, I’d parted company with her and went back to enjoying the sweet butts and hang arounds. There was never any need for me to go without pussy, not with the patch that I wear. There’s also no need for my cock to make its interest known, not with this woman who’s making me return to that fucking destination.
“Okay,” she says, finally, her admission showing her desire to visit the house overrides her caution.Thank fuck she can’t read minds, or see my embarrassment through the baggy apparel I’m wearing. She’d be running in the other direction.“But,” she indicates my leg, “are you okay to drive?”
“Right leg’s fine, darlin’. Just get in.”
If I weren’t handicapped as I am, I’d have opened the passenger door for her, but it would be a hassle to handle my crutches and balance on my leg. Anyway, given the circumstances, I see no need to prove myself a gentleman.
Leaving her to tend to herself, I go to the driver’s side, stow my crutches, and, balancing on my good leg, slide myself in. Once she’s settled, I start the engine and pull away.
For a few moments, we drive in silence. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her fidgeting and am not surprised when she starts up a conversation. The topic is predictable.
“What happened to your leg?”
“Bike accident,” I reply. “It’s gonna heal. May set off alarms if I ever want to fly, though.”
