Page 20 of S is for SEX

She paused. “I’m a journalist.”

“Really?”

“Yep. For the Tribune.”

“The newspaper?”

“Uh huh.”

I struggled to catch up to her. “Oh wow. I would have never guessed,” I said. “That sounds fun. Do you write about cool stuff or boring stuff?”

“I write about crime. Wrote an article about the club and that’s how I met Crip.”

I paused and looked at her. “Really?”

We reached an opening between where some of the motorcycles were parked and the bathrooms. She stopped and turned to face me. “Yep. So, how’d you and Pee Bee meet?”

“You haven’t heard?”

She shook her head. “If you stick around, you’ll see. These guys almost trained not to talk about anything to outsiders. Especially if you’re new to the group. So, how’d you meet?”

“Well, I was in a traffic jam on the 5, and a bunch of bikes were splitting lanes. They were all Filthy Fuckers. I thought they’d all passed me, and I opened my door--”

She coughed out a laugh. “Oh, wait. You’re the one? You’re the one who opened your door and wrecked Pee Bee’s bike?”

I nodded shamefully. “Afraid so.”

She smiled at me genuinely. For the first time. “That’s awesome!”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because. He’s anal retentive, and his bike’s always spotless. I can guarantee you, after this run, he’ll spend three hours cleaning it. To think you’re the one who wrecked it, and that he’s allowing you to even ride on his bike? That means you’re pretty special.”

She may not have meant for it to be so, but what she said was a small boost to my ego.

“Well,” I said. “I feel special.”

We used the bathroom, which was an experience in itself, and then returned to where the men were standing and mingling. The crowd of FFMC’s men had thinned to one-quarter of what was there when we left.

“What’d you think of that?” Brad asked.

“What?”

“Pissing in the Porta-Pot.”

It was the most vile thing I had ever seen, and the smell was beyond disgusting. I shrugged. “It was fine.”

I waved at Peyton as she walked away with Crip.

“Everyone went to the food tent.” Brad said, motioning toward the distant tents. He shot me a modest grin. “You ready to get something to eat?”

The muscles in his biceps flared with each gesture of his hands. The testosterone-filled air already had my blood pumping, and standing alone with him was making matters much worse.

“Sure.” The word came out with a distinct indifference attached to it.

“I know what that means.”

“What?”

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