Chapter 5
London
He looks different when he's asleep.
I stand three feet from the armchair, my duffel still on the floor where I dropped it last night, and study Zeus.
His head is tipped back against the chair, mouth open a fraction, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle.
One arm hangs off the side, and there’s black grease in the crevices of his fingernails.
The other rests across his stomach, rising and falling with each deep breath.
The hard lines of his face have relaxed. Not a lot—this man's jaw could cut glass—but enough that I can see past the aggression, past the cold stare and the clenched fists and the don’t-mess-with-me energy that rolls off him when he’s awake.
He's handsome. Annoyingly, distractingly handsome. His hair is thick and mussed. His body is ridiculous—broad shoulders straining against his t-shirt, arms corded with muscle, and tattoos disappearing under fabric.
Stop it, London. This man is probably friends with your father.
Not only is he at least a decade older than me, but he's a biker in an outlaw club who looks like he swallows danger and spits out bullets. And I'm here to meet my dad, not crush on a ridiculously hot biker who hasn't smiled once since I arrived.
He gave me his bed, though, and slept in a chair, which is telling.
There are dark circles under his eyes. I don't think he slept much last night. With the grease on his hands, maybe he was working on his motorcycle. Or maybe he was with one of those cut sluts.
Why do I hate that thought so much?
I step closer without meaning to. His jaw is dusted with dark scruff. There's a small scar on his eyebrow I didn't notice last night. And his mouth—
His eye cracks open and it stares right at me. Before I can stop myself, I scream.
My hand flies over my mouth, but the sound is already out—a sharp, staccato yelp that ricochets off the walls.
Zeus jerks upright, his whole body going taut, and his hand reaches for his hip—a weapon, probably. Then his eyes lock on me and he registers the situation. No threat here. Just a girl standing over him, staring at him like a complete weirdo.
"Jesus." He runs a hand over his face. "The fuck was that?"
"You scared me." My voice is muffled behind my palm.
His brow furrows. "By sleeping?"
"By waking up,” I hiss, mortified heat crawling up my neck. "I didn't expect you to—I was just—"
"Standing over me staring?"
I want to dissolve. Floor, please open up right this minute.
"I wasn't staring," I lie.
His mouth twitches. Not a smile—not quite—but an almost-kind-of smile.
He stretches in the chair, rolling his neck until it cracks. Muscles flex and shift under his shirt. I force my eyes to the window.
"What time is it?" he asks.
I grab my cracked phone from my pocket. "A little after nine.”
He grunts, rubs his jaw, and looks at me.
Good god, he makes my knees feel weak. He’s so…masculine.
A silence stretches between us that seems to be electrically charged.
In the morning light, without the noise and chaos of last night, we're just two people in a quiet room.
His gaze is different this morning—less hostile, more searching.
Like he's trying to figure me out the same way I'm trying to figure him out.
I pull at the sleeve of my jacket. "Thank you. For letting me have the bed."
He nods slightly. Then his gaze drifts to the bandage on my cheek and his jaw tightens.
I resist the urge to touch it and draw more attention to it.
Instead, I take a couple steps backward and perch on the edge of the bed, folding my hands in my lap.
My pulse quickens. "Do you think I'll get to meet my father today? "
Zeus winces like I’ve said something painful.
"London." His voice drops and his expression grows more serious. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and meets my eyes. "I need to tell you something."
Ice trickles down my spine. “Um…okay.”
He doesn't look away. Doesn't soften it. Doesn't build up to it with qualifiers. He just says, "Your father's dead."
I blink. And blink again. Dead.
Not away on business. Not unreachable. Not refusing to see me. Dead.
And the worst part? I’m not even sure how to feel about it.
"When?" The question comes out in a monotone with no emotion.
"About six months ago."
Six months.
I've been clutching a scrap of paper with three words on it, dreaming about a man who was already gone.
I wait for devastation to hit. For the wave of grief I'm supposed to feel when you learn your parent has died.
It doesn't come. Not quite. I feel…something. I’m just not really sure what.
"How?" My voice is a whisper.
Zeus's jaw works. He doesn't answer right away. “He was shot. But the circumstances…. That's club business.”
I nod. I can't force him to tell me. And I'm not sure I could absorb more right now.
My eyes burn, but stay dry. I've perfected the art of not crying in front of people. Greg's favorite punishment was making me cry—he'd escalate until the tears came, then mock me for being weak. So I learned to lock it down. Deal with my emotions alone, in the dark.
"I'm sorry." Zeus's voice is rough. "I know that's not what you want to hear."
"No." I stare at my hands. "It's not."
I stand and reach for my duffel.
"What are you doing?" His voice sharpens.
“I’m leaving." I hoist the bag onto my shoulder. "You guys have been nice, but I don't have any reason to be here anymore. My father's dead, so I'm not connected to this club. I think I’ve already overstayed—”
"London."
"—my welcome, so I'll just—"
"London, don’t leave.” He's on his feet in a split-second, and his hand grasps my arm—not rough, but firm enough to stop me. “I mean…” His hand drops from my arm and he runs it through his thick, wavy hair. "Where are you gonna go?"
I don't have an answer, so I just shrug.
“Your dad was a brother in this club. That makes you connected to us." He doesn't step back. He's close enough that I have to crane my neck to see his face.
I’m not sure what he’s saying exactly, and I grip the duffel strap harder. “Does that mean I belong here?"
He doesn’t answer my question directly.
“Look," he says, his voice losing its edge. "You came here to find your father. Then you learn he’s…gone. Maybe stay while you process, grieve, figure out your next move, whatever.” He takes a step back, giving me room, and shoves his hands in his pockets.
"You don't need to leave is all I’m saying.”
My grip on the duffel loosens as I stare at him, considering the offer.
“Or, how ‘bout this—decide later. Tomorrow, even. Today, let me take you somewhere. Get your mind off of things for a while.”
My father is dead, and my plan to escape my stepfather’s reach is dead along with him. I should be panicking. I should be calculating my next survival move, figuring out how to stay ahead of Greg.
Instead, I'm considering spending the day with this dangerous but sexy biker.
"Where do you want to take me?” I ask.
The corner of his mouth lifts. Not a smile. But close. "You'll see."