Page 47 of Tyson
"Sir, yes sir," I said with a mock salute that made him groan.
"Brat."
"Your brat," I corrected, grinning.
"Yeah," he agreed softly. "Mine."
Chapter 8
Tyson
Myfingerstracedthemetallic purple finish for the third time, checking for scratches that weren't there. The helmet gleamed in the afternoon light, perfect and ridiculous and exactly the shade of rebellion she wore in her hair. Four shops. Four fucking shops I'd hit before finding this one, and the price tag had made even me wince. More than my monthly bar tab, more than I'd spent on bike gear in years.
Worth it.
The mental image of Lena wearing it, pressed against my back, arms wrapped around me—yeah. Worth every penny.
I checked my watch. Two minutes until I was supposed to knock on her door, and here I was, polishing a helmet like some teenager before prom. Pathetic.
One tiny tattooist with purple hair and a smart mouth had me checking my reflection in my bike's mirror like a nervous kid.
The black button-down was a compromise. Nicer than my usual worn t-shirts, but not so formal she'd laugh at me fortrying too hard. No club cut today—this was a date, not club business. Just Tyson and Lena, pretending the world outside didn't exist for a few hours. My cleanest jeans, boots polished to something approaching respectable.
Christ, when had I started caring about looking "date-worthy"?
When she'd signed that contract with a little purple heart next to her name. When she'd trusted me with her safe words, her needs, her fears. When she'd looked at me like I was something more than a broken soldier playing at being a biker.
The door burst open.
"You're early!" Lena bounced out, and my brain short-circuited completely.
A sundress. Lena in a fucking sundress, black fabric scattered with tiny skulls and flowers, the hem dancing around her thighs with each movement. Combat boots laced up her calves, because of course she'd found a way to make feminine rebellion into an art form. Her purple hair caught the light, loose and wild around her shoulders.
I'd seen her in torn jeans and band tees. In pajamas covered in unicorns. In nothing but my shirt while she'd tried to seduce me before our negotiations.
But this. This was something else entirely. The dress hugged her curves before flaring out, revealing legs I wanted wrapped around my waist. The combat boots only emphasized how delicate her ankles were, how small she was compared to my bulk. Dangerous and soft, rebellion and sweetness, everything she was distilled into one perfect image.
"You clean up nice, Soldier Boy," she grinned, spinning in a little circle that made the dress flare and my mouth go dry. "Is that a new shirt? Very dapper. Very un-tactical."
Words. I should use words. Form sentences like a functioning adult instead of staring at her like she'd punched me in the solar plexus.
"You . . ." I cleared my throat, tried again. "You look beautiful."
Pink colored her cheeks, and she bit her lip in that way that made me want to press her against the wall and—
The helmet. Focus on the helmet.
"Oh my God!" She spotted it hanging from my handlebar, darting forward with grabby hands. "Is that—Tyson, it's perfect!"
She cradled it like something precious, fingers tracing the metallic purple shimmer with reverent care.
"You actually found one that matches." Wonder in her voice, like I'd performed some impossible feat instead of just being too stubborn to quit searching.
"Course I did," I said gruffly, taking it from her hands. "Can't have you riding without proper gear."
"But this must have cost—"
"Doesn't matter." I cut her off, stepping closer. "Turn around."
