Chapter 17 #2
A warning label?
Would I embarrass him?
Or was this his chance to bring a piece of the freakshow to his veteran buddies?
Worries I thought I’d buried with my past spun in my head as I crossed the floor, grateful already that I’d chosen low heels. I didn’t need to be questioning my balance on top of everything else.
Upon noticing me, Mercer looked perplexed with question marks in his eyes and a subtle pinch between his brows.
I faltered a step.
“What’s uh…” Whatever he was about to say died with the clearing of his throat. “We’d better get going if we want to be back by open.”
As grateful as I was not to have to explain myself one more time, I couldn’t shake the weight of his stare. It lingered on my head then dropped to my bare legs, searching for the things that were missing.
I let him lead the way out of the club, then skirted past as he held the door. “I took the night off,” I informed him. “Scheduled you off too.”
Mercer’s voice chased me. “Why’d you do that?”
“Seemed like the managerial thing to do.” I flicked a smile his way, though it failed to settle on my face. “Besides, I haven’t had a day off in five years. I’m overdue.”
His brows rose, but he didn’t press as we strode toward the motorcycle parked in the otherwise empty lot.
Coming alongside the bike, Mercer donned his helmet with a sheepish look about the fact that I would once again be going without. I really didn’t mind. It made me feel like an outlaw, and I’d been craving the whip of wind in my ears since the last time I rode with him.
Excitement mingled with my anxiety as Mercer swung his leg over the bike’s seat and then offered his hand to me.
I made a grab for my wig, already envisioning it flapping like a bad toupee the moment the Victory got up to speed. Not to mention my dress was practically painted on, and getting my legs around Mercer’s hips would expose my ass to the line of traffic.
People would stare, but they always did. All I could do was make myself into a show worth watching.
Mercer still had his hand out, so I took it then mounted the motorcycle. I settled behind him with my chest to his back and my cheek against his shoulder. Then I grabbed his waist, perhaps a bit too tightly, and inhaled the smell of clean sweat and cologne clinging to the fabric of his shirt.
I tucked in close as the engine turned over and the vibration rattled through me.
“Ready?” Mercer asked.
I nodded, and my hands knotted where they clasped over his belt.
My wig tape was about to be put to the ultimate test.
The ride out of Vegas blurred by in a rush of headlights and hot air, and before long, Mercer was easing the Victory into a parking lot that looked exactly like the pictures I’d found online.
The VFW Post stood squat, brown, and dumpy. A bed of sand and brittle dead plants ringed the building, and by the door, someone had taped up a hand-drawn poster board proclaiming BINGO NIGHT! in thick black marker.
Mercer killed the engine and pocketed his keys.
Thankfully, no one was loitering outside to watch me dismount and land wobbly on the gravel of the lot.
I yanked my dress down over where my tail coiled around my thigh and was still finding my footing when Mercer climbed off the bike.
He removed his helmet and hung it from the handlebars, then turned toward me.
“Nice digs,” I managed.
My eyes skipped over the rows of cars. Mostly older models, a few tagged with veteran plates. Everything about the place was lackluster, yet my chest was a drumline, every beat ramping up my anxiety.
Mercer stood across from me, wearing an odd look.
My hand flew to my hairline, patting the wig. “What?”
He shook his head, then caught my hand and pulled it into the space between us. “You look nice. You know that, right?”
I let out a scoff that was more bluster than confidence. “Of course I know it.”
“I mean all the time.” His gaze dusted over me. “Not just tonight.”
A shadow crossed his face—doubt, sadness, something else?—before he shook his head again and turned away.
He was still holding my hand.
Men who took me out didn’t hold hands. They held my hip or grabbed a fistful of ass. Sometimes they gripped the nape of my neck when they wanted to steer me or pin me down, but they never touched my hands.
As we moved toward the VFW Post’s entrance, I almost tripped over a parking cut because I couldn’t stop staring at that point of contact.
Studying it. Memorizing the feeling of Mercer’s broad palm, calloused skin, and long fingers fitting with mine.
I gave our combined grip a squeeze, prompting him to look down at me.
The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. He must have been nervous too, because it didn’t stick.
“Thanks for coming with me,” he said at last.
I almost made a joke of it—oh sure, anything for Bingo—but the sincerity in his eyes stripped the humor out of me. So I just nodded and squeezed his hand again before I could lose my nerve.
He pushed the door open, and voices and the clatter of chairs spilled out like a tide. With Mercer’s hand still clasped in mine, I let it carry me in.