Page 20 of Slashes in the Snow
“I gotcha, Snow.” I bound down the stairs. “You won’t be late.”
With a huff, Kira follows me out the door. She’s beyond annoyed, and that’s exactly how I like her. Fucking frustrated, just like me.
I climb on my bike, and Kira follows right along with me. This is the worst part, her touching me. All my hair follicles stand at attention. As much as my mind rejects her touch, my body has its own opinion.
I have considered using her car, but like I said before, I’m a glutton for punishment. A masochist, if you will. The torture is invigorating. It’s an adrenaline rush. And I’m a fucking junkie.
Kira places her hands on my stomach, and my muscles clench involuntarily. I just react, no matter how or where she touches me. And I hate it. I. Fucking. Hate. It.
I hate that she possesses that kind of control. She’ll never know it, though. I refuse to let her.
I start the bike with a roar of the engine, and we pull away from the obnoxious mansion I’ve come to despise.
The ride to Kira’s school is short but still agony. I need to just go. Go blow off some steam and be with my guys.
I barely acknowledge Kira as she climbs off the back seat.
“Class ends at nine thirty,” she reminds me for the tenth time today.
“Yup, I got it.” I twist the silver ring around my index finger. Tuesdays and Wednesdays are her late classes, as I’m learning. You know what that means for me? Freedom. “I’ll be right here when you get out,” I assure her unenthusiastically.
“Still no word about the other night? Who it might have been?” She asks before taking off, she’s on a constant pursuit for peace of mind. It’s unfortunate I can’t give her what I don’t have.
I shake my head. “I’m going to see my boys tonight. We’ll talk then.”
By the expression on her face, Kira doesn’t like the idea of me taking off.
“Don’t look at me like that. I said I’ll be back.”
Her eyes tell me everything I need to know. The other night put a wedge between us, and now she’s questioning whether or not she can trust me. I haven’t given her a reason not to, except maybe for my bad attitude. That doesn’t mean I’m going to bail; it just means I don’t have to be thrilled about the situation.
‘’I’ll see you later.” She pouts her plump, pink lips. They are way too luscious and treacherously alluring. I know the exact image I’ll be jerking off to tonight. I inwardly sigh. I’m fucking bewitched, I tell you. By the darkest magic known to man. Lust.
“You know you will,” I promise.
Kira turns on her heel and heads for the steep stairs that will take her to the entrance of the building.
I watch her climb each and every one of them, her short shorts she’s infamous for and the loose tank top shift seductively with every step.
Masochist, I tell you, because as I study her, all I want to do is chase her down and tell her how much I want to swim inside her. How much I want to drown in the water I was drifting in the other night. How much I want to fuck her until neither of us can see or breathe or even think. My heart palpitates like a jackhammer from just the mere thought. She’s the nail being driven into my chest. She’s the one who binds me to this cross. My anger and aversion grow larger as the hold she has on me grows stronger. I’m stuck in a hellish place. Between conscience and contempt, desire and disdain.
I want to abandon her, but I also want to stay.
I pull away from Kira and the school, bubbling with more annoyance than I know how to deal with. The only thing keeping me together is the knowledge that in just a little while, I’ll be surrounded by my brothers, tossing back some much-needed booze, and blowing off a shitload of steam. I’ll forget all about Kira Kendrick for a few blissful hours. Forget about how she touched me. How she said my name. Forget about how much I wanted to kiss her. How I could have kissed her. Forget about how frightened I was that if I did kiss her, I wouldn’t be able to stop.
I twist the throttle and the bike rumbles down the highway. I weave in and out of traffic as the thunderous sound drowns out my aggravating thoughts.
When I pull up to The Lion’s Den, the dirt parking lot is littered with bikes. It’s a buffet of custom Sportsters, Fat Boys, and Low Riders with screaming chrome exhausts and don’t-fuck-with-mefenders.
It’s good to be home. I park my Softail right in the center of it all where a sign reads “Baumer Prez”. Wiping a bit of dirt from the exhaust, I’m hit with a pang of remorse. I should fucking hate this bike as much as I hate him. He built it for me, but I just can’t bring myself to let it go. I love it. I loved it from the moment he gave it to me. A totally custom Softail Breakout, chromed to the max,
with big, tricked-out wheels and a wicked tribal paint job. He said he chose the huge twin cam engine because it reminded him of me. Explosive, powerful, muscular, sleek. Those were the words he used. That’s how he saw me. He built the bike in my image, and I was never prouder to be his son than the day he gave it to me.
I think there was one thing he didn’t realize, though. That engine also gives you a swift kick in the gut when you open it up. It has massive torque, just like me. And he felt my brute force when he announced his sudden retirement. When he all but shoved the keys to the kingdom down my throat and walked away.
I shake off the escalating anger. I’m here to blow off steam, not explode like a steam pipe.
I step inside and am met with an abundance of familiar faces. It looks like the whole club is in here drinking. There are hoots and howls as I walk to the bar. Slaps on the back and handshakes all around. It’s my first warm welcome in nearly two weeks.
