Page 72 of That Girl is Trouble

I dig through my bag, not looking at her, pausing as my fingers brush against the cold metal of the gun still sitting at the bottom. Shit. Did I seriously leave a loaded gun sitting on an unlocked shelf all night? Oops.

“I didn’t ask for anything, Rayna,” I tell her. “He just… offered.”

“Nothing is free when it comes to Vic Rossi, honey. And I know the going rate for one of his favours.”

I meet her eyes as I pull off my skirt and then tug on a pair of light jeans, the material scraping against my sore ass and making me cringe. “I’m not giving him that. Jesus, Rayna.”

She runs her hand over the length of her frizzy braid, assessing me. “Kat, that man rolls in here a couple times a year and raises all kinds of hell with my girls. Him and his associates. Don’t be stupid. You know what men like that want. You think it’s gonna go any other way, then you’re lying to yourself.”

Shaking my head, I pull on a cropped white T-shirt and tie my button-down plaid around my waist. I zip up my bag, feeling the added weight now that I know what still sits inside, and I grab my leather jacket. “I’m good. I can handle it.”

With a sigh, she treads to the door. “Honey,” she says, turning to me over her shoulder. “You don’t handle men like Vic Rossi. You survive them. At least you hope you do.”

* * *

It’s past midnight when I get to the Sinner clubhouse, but even from the parking lot, I can tell it’s a party. Loud voices and laughter rend the air, and the muted sound of some eighties rock song pumps through the rattling, blacked-out windows that surround the building.

Donovan’s Auto Repair is visible from where I stand. The front office is dark, the shop sign flipped to Closed. The parking lot is packed with cars, a few pickup trucks, and Preacher’s old beige Toyota, but thanks to the light dusting of snow, the usual line of gleaming motorcycles is missing.

I miss the bikes—riding on the back, taking control and ripping down the road as fast as I wanted on the rare occasion Jess let me in driver’s seat. Being back here reminds me of what that felt like. Exciting, thrilling, heart-pumping. It was freedom. A break from the silent cage my mind slipped into when I was alone for too long.

As I approach, the wind cuts over my exposed neck. I pull the zipper of my leather jacket to my throat and wrap my arms around my body for warmth.

A group of men hovers close to the clubhouse entrance, some in leather Sinner cuts, others sporting thick winter jackets and tuques, their conversations turning to vapour in the icy air. A large white snake-wrapped Sinner skull adorns the peeling black paint of the door, and my stomach tightens, an odd sort of nostalgic feeling flooding through me like a violent wave. Homesickness.

I’ve missed this place. I’ve missed the way it feels to step through the door. I’ve missed the noise.

The smell of cigarette smoke and weed drifts into my nostrils as I make my way to the place I used to call home. I get a few looks, a few nods, a deep chuckle, and then a low whistle as I let my attention fall on the men loitering by the door. I respond with an icy stare as I walk by and push into the clubhouse.

I was right. It’s a party here tonight.

The place is packed with bodies—Sinners, hang arounds, women in lace and leather with high-heels and bleach-blond hair. Much like Rayna’s office, walking into this place feels like stepping into the past. Except the Sinner clubhouse doesn’t feel drab and outdated. The wood panelling here is decorated with memories from the last fifty years—mugshots, framed posters of half-naked women, framed posters of fully naked women, old road signs stolen from their posts around South Bay and all the other places the Sinners have caused trouble. A Labatt 50 sign flickers behind the bar where the mouthy, red-headed bartender Moxy is pouring a line of tequila shots for a group of rowdy men.

Shouldering my way through the crowd, I make it to the bar just as the last shot is being poured, and I quickly swipe it from the man standing in front of it and toss it back, relishing the burn of the liquor scorching my throat.

Preacher turns, a look of surprise on his face when his eyes fall on me. “Kitty,” he says, a smirk climbing up his cheek. His biceps bulge as he crosses his arms over his chest, the dark tattoos lining his skin shifting as he moves. “Not here to cause trouble, are you?”

“Course not,” I reply, shouting slightly in an effort to talk over the struggling speakers of the jukebox blaring from the other side of the room.

He presses his tongue against his cheek and regards me. “Axe almost ripped my head off when he got back here last night. Was in a hell of a mood. Know what that was about? Other than the obvious parts, I mean.” The obvious parts being that I was rubbing my ass all over Preacher’s lap like a little—

An arm wraps around my stomach, and I’m pulled into a hard chest. Unlike earlier tonight, when someone else’s hand was wrapping around me, I don’t immediately try to break the hold. I’m pulled off my feet and whipped around in a circle before being clumsily dropped back to the floor. I steady against the bar and the man holding me, but I already know who’s got me in his grip.

“Hey, Kitty Kat,” Tex booms, slinging his arm around my shoulder and pulling me into a chest-crushing bear hug.

The air is punched from my lungs, inciting a laugh from me that’s practically involuntary. “Let go, asshole,” I rasp.

He gives me another hard squeeze before finally releasing me. “’Bout time you showed up ’round here again,” he says as he smooths his hand over his dark blond hair. It’s a little wilder than I remember, as if he’s been raking his fingers through it all night. Or as if someone else has been. Which tracks. It’s rare to catch Tex without a woman under his arm. “And with all your clothes on. Can’t decide if I’m relieved or disappointed.”

“Don’t let Axe hear you say that,” Preacher grumbles, pointing to a light bruise forming on his chin. “You might have to pay with your face.”

Tex laughs deeply. “Yeah, our fearless leader’s been a bit twisted up the last few weeks. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Kitty Kat?”

Grinning, he once again slides his arm around my neck, this time turning on that Tex-brand charm all the women love. And I get it. Tex is ridiculously good-looking. Add in the bike, the leather jacket, and the megawatt smile he throws around, and, well, I guess I can understand what all the fuss is about.

But my brand of biker is dark haired and a little on the meaner side, and while that doesn’t make me impervious to blue-eyed men with tattoos, I’m definitely not about to get all gooey when I’m still being haunted by the memories of how hard Axe made my legs shake last night.

“No idea,” I deadpan.

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