Chapter 4 #2
But enough for me to see what lives behind it. Fear and warmth, and a question she's not asking out loud.
My hand is still on the shelf. The spray bottle is behind her.
I don't reach for it.
"Rookie." She says the name the club uses because she still doesn't know my real one.
Hearing it in her voice is a collision I wasn't prepared for.
My road name in her mouth, low and uncertain, shaped like a question that has weight behind it, weight she's been carrying around for a while.
"Yeah?"
She doesn't answer. Her eyes drop to my mouth and come back up, and the movement is so fast it could be nothing, but it isn't nothing, and we both know it.
The air between us shifts. Thickens. The loaded silence that happens right before something breaks open.
My hand comes down from the shelf and lands on the counter beside her hip. Not on her. Near her.
Close enough for my knuckle to graze the fabric of her jeans. I can feel the warmth radiating off her through the denim. My fingers twitch with the want to close that last inch.
"Tell me to walk away." My voice comes out lower than I intended. Rougher. Scraped raw from somewhere deep in my chest. "And I will."
She doesn't tell me to walk away.
Her hand comes up. Fingers press against my chest, over my heart, not pushing, not pulling. Resting there.
Feeling the heat of it, like she's checking whether it's real before she decides to trust it.
Her palm is warm through my shirt and I can feel my own heartbeat kicking against her hand, giving me away completely.
Her fingers spread, just slightly, like she wants more contact. Like she's trying to read something written underneath my skin.
I lean in and kiss her.
Not gently. Not carefully. Hungrily, the way you eat when you've been fasting and didn't know it.
My mouth finds hers and the first press of her lips is soft, giving, and then I tilt my head and deepen it, and she opens for me and the kiss turns filthy.
My tongue slides against hers, slow and deliberate, tasting, and she meets me there, matching me stroke for stroke.
I bite her bottom lip, just enough pressure to feel the plushness of it under my teeth, and her breath hitches, a sharp little inhale that goes straight through me.
My hand leaves the counter and finds her waist, pulling her forward.
My fingers dig in, gripping the curve of her hip through the denim, feeling the heat of her body sink into my palm.
I pull her flush against me, close enough to feel her stomach press against mine, close enough to feel the way her body fits against the hard line of me.
Her fingers curl into my shirt and hold, twisting the fabric, pulling me closer like she's trying to get inside my skin.
She kisses me back. Not hesitant. Not performing. She kisses me like she's angry about it. Like she's been holding this at arm's length for weeks and letting go of it feels like a fight she's losing on purpose.
Her tongue slides against mine and she makes a sound, low in her throat, something between a growl and a whimper, and I swallow it.
I kiss her deeper. Harder.
My hand slides from her waist to the small of her back, pressing her in, and my other hand comes up to her jaw, tilting her face where I want it.
My thumb traces the edge of her jawline, the soft skin below her ear, feeling her pulse hammering there, fast and unsteady.
Her mouth opens under mine and I'm gone. The bar disappears. The compound disappears.
The access logs and the anomaly and the word kid and years of earning back trust I didn't break.
There's her. Against me, warm, real.
The taste of her lip balm, something sweet and faintly minty, and the faint citrus smell of her, something clean and bright that cuts through the leather and smoke of the club.
The pressure of her fingers in my shirt, knuckles pressing into my chest.
The small sound she makes in her throat when I pull her closer, a sound that vibrates against my mouth and makes me want to swallow her whole.
I drag my lips across her jaw, her chin, back to her mouth, and kiss her again, slower this time, wet and open and thorough, the kind of kiss that says I've been thinking about this and I'm not done.
Her hand slides up my chest, over my shoulder, fingers threading into the hair at the back of my neck.
She grips. Pulls. Angles my head and takes control of the kiss for a moment, her tongue sliding against mine with a slow, deliberate stroke that makes my stomach drop.
I let her. I let her take it.
My hand tightens on her hip and I press her back against the counter, caging her in, and she arches into me, chest against chest, hip against hip, and I can feel every place she's touching me like a brand.
We break apart. Not because we want to. Because air is a requirement and both of us forgot about it.
My mouth is still close enough to feel her breath, ragged and warm, ghosting across my wet lips.
Her forehead drops against my collarbone.
My hand is still on her waist. My thumb moves against her hip without thinking about it, small circles through the denim.
We're breathing hard, and the kitchen sounds have stopped, which means Beats either left through the back or is being very strategic about his headphone use.
"I don't know your name." She says it into my shirt. Half a laugh, half an accusation.
My mouth is against her hair. "It's?—"
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I ignore it.
It buzzes again. Then a third time. Rapid succession, the way it does when Ruger sends three texts because he doesn't believe in composing a single message like a normal human being.
I pull back enough to check the screen. Three texts, all from Ruger.
Get to the compound.
Now.
My jaw tightens.
Saylor reads my face. Steps back, creating distance with a precision that tells me she's done this before. Pulled back from a moment because something interrupted.
"You have to go." Not a question.
I nod. "Club business."
She doesn't ask what. Doesn't push. She picks up the rag from the sink and starts wiping the bar again, like the last ninety seconds didn't happen.
Except her hands are shaking. And she's not looking at me.
"Saylor."
She stops wiping.
"I'll tell you my name next time." I hold her eyes. "I promise."
A moment of silence, then the almost-laugh, closer to real than it's ever been. "You better."
I walk out, cross the parking lot, swing onto the Harley.
The engine fires and the vibration runs through my legs. All I can feel is her hand on my chest and her mouth against mine and the way she kissed me like she was furious about how much she wanted it.
The compound is fifteen minutes away. I make it in ten.
Ruger is in the chapel. Bloodhound beside him, arms crossed. Ounce leaning against the wall, face unreadable.
I stop in the doorway because prospects don't enter without being asked, and wait.
Ruger looks up. His face is grim. "Get in here, kid. Close the door."
I step inside. Close the door.
"Show him." Ruger nods at Bloodhound, who slides a laptop across the table.
On the screen: a forum post. Names, dates, dollar amounts. Club financial records, laid out in public view, posted from an anonymous account two hours ago.
My stomach goes cold.
The intruder didn't stop at looking. They took this.
Ruger's eyes find mine. "You told me you were keeping an eye on the network."
My mouth goes dry. "I flagged the anomaly, Prez. Eight days ago. Unauthorized access from an unknown IP."
I swallow. "You told me to keep watching."
"Well, now the watching is over." He taps the screen. "Whoever this is went from looking to leaking. Our financials are sitting on a public forum with enough detail to draw attention we don't need."
Ounce speaks from the wall without moving. "Can you find them?"
Everyone looks at me.
The kid. The prospect. The one who let the last leak happen.
I look at the screen. The data, the access patterns, the digital fingerprint of someone who thinks they're invisible.
Nobody is invisible. Not online. Not to me.
Not anymore.
I pull a chair out and sit down at the laptop.
"Yeah." I crack my knuckles once. "I can find them."