6. That Woman
Chapter 6
'That Woman'
Mensa
If she thought a shower would help with his struggle, she needed a reality check. Even if he could jack off in the shower with her mere feet away, it wouldn’t be enough.
Worst of all, he couldn’t tell her that without giving himself away.
Hell, he’d lied about the adrenaline. Block’s words on the phone had stuck in his head like a bad pop song. He’d repeated Finn’s suggestion that Mensa ‘work’ Whitney out of his system.
As though one quick fuck would do that for him.
As though her every curve didn’t hold a promise of pleasure he couldn’t find with any other woman.
As though riding for the last forty-five minutes with her at his back hadn’t felt perfect.
As though she were as expendable as a sweet-butt.
No.
Block and Finn didn't have a clue.
Mensa couldn’t fuck Whitney out of his system. Hell, one taste and he’d probably lock them both in that room for the next five days.
Shit . That thought made his blood rush south and his jeans felt tight.
After that won’t we just be sleeping? Her question was so forthright, that he wished he hadn’t been so convincing downstairs.
It would never be just sleeping next to her. He’d already cataloged the many ways he could take her. His favorite so far was from behind in a spoon position, but watching her come while dominating her in missionary held a very close second place.
He blew out a sigh and swung his arm toward the bathroom. “You hit the shower first, Blume. You’re right, it’s just sleeping, and I’ll get my shit tight by the time you’re finished.”
Her expression shifted… and fuck him, was that disappointment?
He did not need to know that.
She shook her head. “I’ll shower, right after I report my car stolen. I’m serious, though, don’t sleep on the floor. That’s ridiculous.”
Half-an-hour later, Whitney had reported her car stolen and gone into the bathroom. With her out of the room, he threw the extra pillow on the bed and put the flannel blanket back in the closet.
He shrugged off his cut and put it on a hanger. The remote control caught his eye and he grabbed it. Rather than turn on the television, though, he sent a group text to Har, Brute, and Cynic.
Rod, the VP of Corrupt Chrome MC opened fire at the bar tonight. He shot at me and Whitney. Two-Times returned fire and I got Whitney out. I’d have stuck around, but some other Corrupt Chrome member chased me on my bike.
Moments later Cynic texted back.
Yeah, I’m at the bar dealing with BPD. What about Whitney? Did she report her stolen car?
His phone rang and Har’s name came up on the screen.
“Hey, Prez.”
“Tell me exactly what the hell happened.”
He ran it down for Har.
Humor laced Har’s tone. “And you took her to a roadside hotel instead of your room at the clubhouse?”
“Prez—,” he drawled.
“You really can’t stand her.”
He ignored the sarcasm in Har’s tone. “We’ll be out of here in less than ten hours. It’s not a big deal.”
Har chuckled. “That’s one way of looking at it. Drop by my shop with her in the morning. Gamble will be there and Finn’s been bringing Riley in every morning. We’ll figure shit out then.”
A strange sense of possessiveness came over him. He didn’t want to hand Whitney off to Har, Finn, or Gamble. For some bizarre reason, he wanted to see that Whitney got into her apartment safe.
“You still there?” Har asked.
“Yeah. I don’t want to rope any other brothers into this shit. Bad enough I had Block check her apartment complex.”
“You know better than that, Mensa. We’re a brotherhood. Hell, you can take her home, but as often as you’ve mentioned not trusting her and disliking her…I figured this would make shit easier.”
“I appreciate that, Prez.”
“Something about that doesn’t sound right…almost sounds like you care about her.”
He gave a humorless chuckle. “No, Har. Just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“For both of you, I’d say.”
“I wouldn’t. I don’t know why Rod threatened Dontrell, but that man doesn’t deserve whatever Corrupt Chrome is doin’ to him.”
“You want to wade in on that, too,” Har surmised.
The sound of the shower distracted him for a moment. “If Dontrell doesn’t lose his mind, yeah.”
“We’ll need to have church.”
“Make it in the evening so I can get more info from him.”
The shower cut off a moment before Har hummed in agreement. “You got it. Also gives you time to get some sleep. My guess, you won’t get much sleep tonight in the same room as ‘that woman.’ That’s what you call her, right?”
He rolled his eyes at himself. He never should have made his feelings about Whitney so widely known. “Yeah, and she’ll be back in the room soon, so I’ll text you in the morning.”
He tucked his cell away. The toothbrush laying next to his favorite candy on the credenza caught his eye. He wandered closer to the bathroom. “Did you forget your toothbrush?”
“No, that’s for you,” Whitney called back.
She was thoughtful.
“Thanks,” he called.
“You’re welcome.”
She was making it hard to dislike her.
She opened the door, and padded out with a her hair twisted up in a towel. To his surprise, she wore an over-sized shirt that hung to her mid-thigh. The design on the shirt made it look like she was a cartoon character in a red, polka-dot bikini.
The fuck? He did a double take. “Did you get that at the—”
“Truck stop? Yes. You’d be surprised what you can find at a high-traffic truck stop – if you’re willing to pay their prices.”
Her bra hung from her fingers and he blinked – willing himself to forget that she was braless.
He focused on her baby-blues. “Did you get me any pajamas?”
She tilted her head. “No. I wasn’t sure of your size.”
He arched a brow. “It wasn’t in your FBI file on me?”
Her grin held an edge to it. “No, we focus on more useful intel. And we were investigating your uncle, not you.”
She talked a good game, but the quaver in her tone when she said the last two words gave her away.
“All yours,” she said, sweeping her arm toward the bathroom. “You’re welcome to use the shampoo… and the conditioner, if that’s how you roll.”
“The bar of soap works for me.”
Her eyes widened so drastically, he battled against his laughter. “You use bar soap and get waves like those? Are you shitting me?”
His brows drew together. “No. At home, I use shampoo. For tonight, I’m sure I’ll be fine—”
She put her hand to his chest, and he tipped his chin down giving it a scathing look. “Please, don’t be so proud. Use the damned shampoo.”
His eyes traveled from her hand in his chest to her earnest gaze. “Move your hand, and stop being so dramatic, and I’ll use your damned shampoo.”
She dropped her hand and in a bizarre twist, he immediately missed having it there. “Sorry. I know better. I’m having some wine, and I can pour you a glass if you want.”
He needed his head examined because for some reason, he nodded. “Sure, but just one. I need to be on my toes.”
“Because a Corrupt Chrome member can come hunt you down?”
His lips tipped up ever so slightly. “No. Because a former FBI agent insists I share a bed with her tonight. Never in my life did I think I’d be a literal example of strange bedfellows.”
She grinned, coy as hell. “I’m not a fellow, Mensa. Enjoy your shower.”
Half an hour later, Mensa threw his empty plastic cup at the trash can across the room. It hit the target, but the rustling sound of the trash bag wasn’t half as satisfying as hearing the cup thunk would have been.
If Whitney decided to give up law enforcement, she had to consider going into sales. She was just that convincing. His one glass of wine had turned into two-and-a-half. Mainly because she tempted him with Skittles and an asinine assertion that they ‘paired’ well with the dry white wine.
He doubted his love of Skittles was in the file.
There was zero doubt he’d ever pair Skittles with pinot grigio again.
“That’s impressive. Getting an empty plastic cup into the trashcan isn’t easy. They aren’t dense enough, and most people over throw because of that,” Whitney said, her plastic cup held near her mouth. She had her ass planted in the bed, her back against the headboard, and her long legs tucked under the covers.
He shoved himself out of the uncomfortable chair at the desk. “I’m talented, what can I say? I’m gonna brush my teeth now before they rot from sugar overload. You need the bathroom?”
She shook her head and kept the cup in front of her mouth. “Nope. You do your thing.”
He felt her eyes on him as he crossed to the bathroom, tagging the toothbrush along his way. Midnight was fast approaching. Four hours ago, if someone would have told him he’d be holed up in a hotel room with this woman, who rubbed him the wrong way for months… he’d have busted a gut, just before busting that someone’s nose.
After he finished getting ready for bed, he came out to find Whitney with her phone in her hand and if he wasn’t mistaken, she was scrolling through various sounds on her phone.
“What in the hell are you doing, woman?”
She looked up at him with a serious expression. “I am hell on wheels when I don’t get my sleep. I’m pretty low maintenance most of the time, but when it comes to sleep… no. The idea of sleeping in my clothes turns my stomach. Hence, buying a sleep shirt. Sad to say, those people who make memes have it all wrong. Southerners aren’t the only people who can sleep through gunfire, thunder, and tornadoes, but sit up wide awake without their box fan. I’m not Southern, and I cannot go without my fan.”
He made a rolling motion with his hand. “Okay, but what’s that got to do with your phone?”
She lowered her chin a touch. “I’m looking for the right white noise. They have a box fan option, but it sounds so fake it’s laughable.”
Her finger touched the screen, the room filled with a noise that sounded like a fan in a huge warehouse.
“That’s the box fan?”
“Yeah.”
He wandered to the opposite side of the bed. “Put it on the beach or ocean waves and be done with it.”
“Typical,” she muttered and bent to her phone.
With her attention turned, he quickly shed his jeans, and pulled back the covers.
Her sharp inhale got his attention. “Seriously? You’re sleeping in your underwear?”
He slid under the covers. “You didn’t buy me any pajamas, Blume. What do you expect me to do? Sleep in my Levi’s? Fat fuckin’ chance.”
“Do you normally sleep in your underwear?”
He couldn’t resist fucking with her. “When there’s a woman in the bed, I sleep naked, Blume. Efficiency is the name of my game. Believe me, I’m doing you a favor this way.”
She stared at him. “You are a liar.”
He grinned. “So are you, babe. Don’t you need your beauty rest, Miss Hell-on-Wheels?”
The bed jostled violently as she exited the bed, but it was her annoyed huff that made him choke on laughter.