Page 12 of The Biker's Secret Claim
“I’ve got an image to uphold.”
“You’re in the mountains. The town’s image is flannel. You’ll fit right in. Plus,” she glances down at the puddle I’m making on her floor, “you’re ruining my flooring.”
I’ve always been a sucker for reason, and I am in fact, making a puddle on the floor. “Okay,” I manage, following the hallway toward the backroom where an office door hangs open. I step inside, studying the small space for any sign of more information. I’m not sure why. There’s nothing serious between Nicole and I. There can’t be. I’ve already decided that.
Unable to suppress my need to know, I scan the area, looking for anything that gives me more detail about her. A small desk sits in the corner of the room staring at a hanging calendar with monthly kittens. She has a few days highlighted in red with little x’s marked next to the date. On her desk is a stack of paperwork that looks like invoices, a romance book, and a few travel guides.
Fuck, this all sucks. You can see the longing for a life she wants, but you can tell she isn’t pushing for it.
Because I’m a nosy fuck who needs to know more, I open the first two drawers. There’s nothing in the first, but the second is a jackpot.
A fucking dildo. It’s not small either. Ten inches.
I’d say good for her, but the thing is still wrapped in the packaging. I wonder if this is more of an effort to experience something outside of this boring fuck she’s been with for years. I can only figure that’s why you’d leave it tucked away in a cabinet at work. My cock grows stiff at the thought of her using it, though I think we’re both fantasizing about that part considering it’s never been opened.
I peel off the wet clothes and pull on the loose flannel bottoms and the black T-shirt. The whole thing is a little small, but it’ll do for now. I’m sort of thankful for the change in clothes. Turns out I was pretty fucking wet.
“I was starting to think you’d left out the backdoor,” she says, leaning over the front counter with her long dark hair draped over her shoulder. It’s crazy that a woman like her isn’t being treated like a fucking queen. More so, that she isn’t being pursued and given everything she needs. If she was with me, I’d hold on to her tight enough that she felt me there, and we’d have wild sex everywhere and anywhere, all the fucking time.
“Sorry,” I groan. “I was going through your shit.”
Her face turns dark red, and she gasps. “What?”
“Don’t worry, I’m not judging you.” I hold my palms up.
“So this is what hitmen do? They go through your things? I’m not your next hit, am I?”
I laugh under my breath. “No. You’re not my next hit. I don’t even know you. Besides, I’m not currently working. We’re lying low.”
She shuts her notebook and leans against the back counter, crossing her arms over one another. “So, it’s true? You and your biker friends are hitmen?”
“Not anymore. Now we own a cute little bike shop up in the mountains.”
She laughs under her breath. “You say it like you’re not happy about your cute little bike shop in the mountains.”
“I’m not.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t answer questions, baby girl. I ask them.”
Her brows narrow. “I’m not your baby girl.”
“By the looks of the things in your desk, you want to be someone’s baby girl.”
“Oh my God! What are you even saying?”
“I’m saying you’ve got a lot going on back there,” I laugh. “I shouldn’t have gone through your shit, but I’m a little fucked up that way.”
Her eyes roll to the side. “I’m gathering that. What’s the deal?”
“Can I blame it on the military? People do that, right?”
She bites back a smile. “Were you actually in the military?”
“Yeah, all the guys up at the clubhouse were.” I shake my head. “We kept order where there was none. Law enforcement, anti-terrorism, security. You name it, we did it. Most of the time, we handled threats before people even knew they were there.” My fingers twitch, phantom muscle memory from years spent gripping a rifle. I exhale, dragging a hand down my face,debating how much truth I want to give her. “When the uniform comes off, the world doesn’t stop needing men like me. People pay for help, and problems still need to be eliminated.”
I meet her eyes, watching for judgment. Instead, I see curiosity. Maybe she understands more than I thought she would.
