Page 8 of Nicoletta
“If I remember correctly, you had a good-sized bruise on your jaw the night I met you, and everyone said you were the big winner.”
“That’s the nature of the game, babe, but I get it. Throwing fists is not for everybody.”
She shifts on the sheets. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving.” My stomach growls at that exact moment, sealing the deal. “You like eggs?”
She pushes up to a sitting position. “Who doesn’t like eggs?”
“Blood, our VP, hates eggs.”
She shakes her head. “That’s just wrong.”
“Sit tight. I’m gonna come back with the best breakfast ever.”
I swing my legs over the bed, nab my jeans off the floor, pull on my t-shirt, shrug on my cut and head for the door.
I spin around and point to Nicoletta. “You are in for a treat.”
NICOLETTA
I plump the pillows behind me, but I can’t relax. Since waking up next to Bolt in our sex-induced cocoon, all I can think about is the knife I stashed in his drawer not five feet away. That first night, desperation drove me, but getting to know him and suspecting my father might have something to do with Brad’sdeath confuses everything. The guilt is real, and I’ve gone round and round trying to find a solution.
Since the first night, Bolt has surprised me in so many ways. His skills in bed go way beyond just getting pleasure for himself. And I never expected him to reveal his past, but last night he opened up to me in a way Brad never did.
Bolt is a man who defends women and gets locked up for it, and a man who defies a very intimidating man—his president, Smoke—and follows his own feelings. He’s a warrior in the cage, who’s devoted to his club brothers, proud of his accomplishments and owns his faults.
My work at the women’s shelter showed me there is never just one story, but even with all that, I never would’ve expected to find a sensitive soul hiding deep in an outlaw biker. Or a man who, after a night of mind-blowing sex, was willing to go out and get breakfast. Yes, win-win.
When I can’t stand the suspense any longer, I roll off the bed and grab one of Bolt’s t-shirts draped over a chair. I press the soft material to my face, and, yes, it smells deliciously like him.
I peek out into the hallway just to make sure, then scope out the dresser noticing the bottom drawer is closed. I ease it open, push aside the twist of clothes, and reach all the way to the back, and as suspected, the knife folded in the paper towel is still where I put it. I shove it further back into the drawer and pile more random t-shirts on top of it. Safe for now, but I have to get rid of it. The last thing I want is Bolt caught with it, or thinking I would set him up for a crime he certainly didn’t commit. Especially now that I know he has a record.
Satisfied, but still without a plan, I pad into the kitchen. I open up the fridge already knowing what I’ll see. The same sour milk and something covered in mold. Whatever Bolt brought back had to be way better than this choice.
I’m just about to turn on the TV, when the lock releases andBolt enters, laden with takeout bags and a cardboard tray of coffee. I follow the enticing scent and him into the kitchen, and when I try to peek in one of the bags, he bats my hands away.
“Sit.” He points to chair on the other side of the island separating the living room from the kitchen.
I do as I’m told, then frown at him. “Just so you know, I’m not known for my patience.”
“Yeah, I got that when we were in bed.”
“Are you complaining?” I tease.
“Fuck, no, I love a woman who knows what they want and ain’t afraid to show it.”
He puts a steaming cup of coffee in front of me. I sip it and moan, “This is delicious.”
“I thought you’d like it. I got it from the cafe on the corner.”
I take a big drink. “What’s in it?”
“It’s a traditional spiced Mexican coffee. It’s made in clay pots with cinnamon, cane sugar, and a dark roast coffee.”
“It’s amazing.” I look at his cup. “What do you have?”
“Just black coffee. I don’t go for all that fancy shit.”
