Chapter 5-Bit
We’re in the kitchen now. Me, Kristie, and Angie. It’s a big, open layout, so really, it’s the dining room and kitchen in one.
I wanted to help with cleanup since there were a lot more people than Angie’s used to, and really, it’s the least we can do.
Kristie helped too, but now she’s staring out the window, cell phone in hand, a frown marring her always pretty face.
The tension rolling off her is enough to make the air hum.
“Hey,” I say carefully, leaning against the wall. “Everything okay?”
She blinks up at me like she forgot I was there, then sighs. “Yeah. It’s just Rooster. Club stuff. You know how it is.”
I don’t, not really.
But I nod anyway because she looks like she’s one minute away from throwing her phone straight through the window.
Outside, I catch sight of movement through the screen door—Rooster, Falcon, and a couple of the other bikers moving around Sawyer’s big-ass truck.
Their bikes are all lined up, and they’re strapping down equipment, checking tires, slamming shit.
The kind of purposeful motion that says something’s about to go down.
“What’s all that about?” I ask.
Kristie’s still staring.
“They’re heading out. Running a truck full of bull jizz to Indiana or some crap like that.”
“Bull jizz?”
She waves a hand. “Apparently that’s a thing.”
I blink. “That’s a thing? A thing thing?”
“Yep.” She gives a humorless laugh. “Our lives are weird, huh?”
Weird doesn’t even begin to cover it.
She goes back to pacing, muttering something about men and their timing, and I just stand there, staring out the window, feeling that strange twist in my chest again.
Sawyer’s leaving.
And if what I overheard from Rooster earlier is true, it’s not going to be some easy Sunday drive.
There’s been talk of sabotage, rival ranchers, and bad roads crawling with worse people.
Sawyer’s walking straight into trouble.
And I hate how much that thought scares me.
It’s crazy. I’ve known him for what—a day? Almost two?
One kiss and I’m acting like some love-drunk teenager watching her high school crush ship off to basic training.
But it’s not just the kiss.
It’s the way he looks at me.
Like I’m not a burden.
Like maybe I belong here.
And that? That’s dangerous as hell.
Still, I can’t let him leave without saying something.
I hurry out the door, gravel crunching under my boots, my heart doing its own private drum solo in my chest.
The sun’s dipping low, painting everything gold and dusty, and there he is—Sawyer—standing beside that massive truck, clipboard in hand, checking something off like he’s trying not to think too hard.
I stop a few feet away, nerves tangling in my throat.
“Hey,” I manage.
He doesn’t look up right away, but I see the way his shoulders tense, like he felt me coming before I said a word.
When he finally turns, that half-smirk is already tugging at his mouth.
“You looking for someone, Lil Bit?” he asks, voice low and rough like gravel over whiskey.
“Yeah,” I say, stepping closer until we’re toe to toe. “I’m looking for you.”
His breath hitches, barely audible—but I catch it.
And then, before I can talk myself out of it, before common sense can ruin everything, I grab the front of his shirt and kiss him.
It’s not soft. It’s not sweet.
It’s all heat and nerves and the wild ache of wanting someone I have no right to want.
His mouth moves against mine like he’s been waiting for it—like I’m the answer to a question he never asked out loud.
For a moment, the whole world goes still. Just the two of us and the sound of my heart hammering in my ears.
When I finally pull back, I’m breathless.
“Come back safe, okay?”
His eyes search mine, something dark and dangerous flickering there before he nods once. “I always do.”