Sour Cherry(14)

“You’ve been an Outrigger for two years. You’re their goddamn VP for Christ’s sake.” The confusion on his face carried into his voice, almost making his statement more of a question.

I nearly laughed. “Wow. You haven’t done your homework, have you?” I shoved my hands into my cut’s side pockets and met his gaze. “You really think a patriarchal motorcycle gang would reveal its innermost secrets to a twenty-six-year-old woman? The only reason I got the position of VP is for honorary reasons. If Ryder ever stepped down, he’d never hand the gavel over to me.”

“Then why name you VP at all?”

“Because guilt is a fickle bitch.” The words left my mouth more forcefully than I’d meant them to. I hated the fact that the only reason I’d been considered worthy for VP was because of my father. I hadn’t even known the man before he’d died. I was ten and in reality, how much did a ten-year-old girl really know about her father? I searched the warehouse as a distraction from Cooper’s prying eyes, but felt inclined to explain. “My old man was VP when he died. Ryder, my dad, and a couple other members were out riding on the 215 one night. My dad was the only one who didn’t make it back.”

“Hence the honorary,” Cooper whispered, then turned his back on me. He stared out into the lightening warehouse and I imagined his thoughts turned to figuring out a Plan B.

I thought back over the last two years, reliving critical decisions I hadn’t been a part of for the club, constantly having to prove myself to my “brothers”. That night of the exchange crossed my mind, too. The memory was more than three days old, but remained crystal clear in my mind. I went over every detail again: the shot-out streetlamps, rusted vehicles, and barking dogs. The junkyard on Trop was high on the rotation for exchanges with fellow clubs, but that night seemed…off. I couldn’t explain it at the time and I couldn’t explain it now. I’d stood there for more than a half hour waiting for the other party. The Nevada branch of Hell’s Angels ran more than twenty minutes late. Not a habit they were known for. The entire time I stood there, I thought something was wrong and when 9:40 p.m. came around, my suspicions deepened.

I snapped back to reality when I realized Cooper had been speaking to me. “What?”

“I asked how your arm is.” He motioned to the cut on my bicep and I quickly covered it with my hand.

Embarrassment surged through me. It was because of my stupidity and fear that I’d gotten myself shot. “It’s fine. Just a knick.”

“Let me look at it.”

I didn’t move as his fingers caressed my oversensitive skin. Heat flooded into my neck and face and I tried to hide the blush letting him know exactly what his touch did to me.

“You’re right. Just a scratch. Should heal fine.” Those fingers tightened around my arm. Cooper’s voice dropped an octave and went husky. “You’re lucky your Sergeant at Arms is a bad shot.”

I tried to keep my breathing even as his hand and his eyes lingered on me. I cleared my throat in an attempt to sound nonchalant, like his warmth didn’t bother me. “So now that I’m useless to you, what are you going to do?” I looked down to find his thumb tracing the outline of my favorite tattoo on my wrist, the vulture atop the eight ball.

“Not useless.” He didn’t elaborate and the heat coursing through my veins intensified.

Other parts of my body reacted, too. My legs shook from the exertion of trying to hold me up. Where his thumb circled my wrist, my pulse raced. I worked to take deep breaths instead of the shallow ones aching to control me. And the sensitive spot between my legs throbbed in time to my heartbeat.

Without warning, his lips captured mine.

Why couldn’t I have woken just a few seconds before he’d arrived to slip a mint into my mouth or at least a piece of gum?

Cooper pulled me in closer, his chest melding with mine, and my thoughts of morning breath died. Still wearing the shorts he’d purchased for me, I felt every fiber of his jeans scratch my legs, my senses heightened from his presence. Through the jeans, warmth seeped into me and relaxed my muscles one by one. His lips fed on mine with frustrating slowness. Soft, yet demanding. A small hint of the passion we’d shared two nights ago echoed as my fingers tightened on his upper arms. I felt his pleasure through his jeans and pressed my hips into his.

A torturous moan escaped his lips and I smiled against his mouth. I’d made him call out my name before and wondered if I could do it again with a simple kiss. In the next moment, however, he pulled away in one lithe movement then straightened my club cut.