Page 9 of Crash’s Secret

He’s big, sunburned, and day-drunk at noon on a weekday. His arm is already on the counter, crowding into my space.

“I’m not alone.”

His hand lands on my thigh. “Don’t see anybody.”

It stays there less than two seconds.

I don’t see Crash come back. One moment, there’s a sweaty hand on my leg, and the next, Crash has him by the collar and slams him into the counter, plates jumping.

Crash hits him once, short and brutal. The guy folds onto the floor.

The restaurant goes quiet. Nobody stands up. Nobody reaches for a phone. The cook leans into the pass-through window, takes in the patch on Crash’s back, and goes back to his grill.

Crash crouches over him. “Nobody fucking touches her.”

This is a side of Crash I’ve never seen, and he’s not using the voice that tells stories at the bar.

The drunk holds both hands up, blood running from his nose. “Okay. Okay, man. My apologies. I didn’t know she belonged to you.”

“She doesn’t belong⁠—”

It comes out fast. His fist is still cocked, but he doesn’t finish the sentence.

Crash stands up instead. Pulls cash from his wallet, drops it on the counter without counting it, and gives the drunk one more look—long enough that the man scoots himself backward into the legs of an empty table.

Then he looks at me, and there’s no charm in it anywhere. None of the grin.

“We’re going back to Bones and Bucks,” he says. “Where guys know they don’t fucking touch you.”

I should argue. I’m twenty-two and independent. I don’t need to be marched out of a taco place like a child.

I follow him out, anyway.

On the bike, I don’t hesitate. I wrap my arms around his waist before he can say a word, flatten my palms against his stomach, and his breath moves under my hands.

He doesn’t say anything the whole ride back.

Neither do I. I just hold on tighter than the ride requires, and he lets me.

CHAPTER 4

CRASH

The clubhouse seems so quiet, now that all the guys from National have left.

I’m lying on my bed with my boots still on, staring at the ceiling fan turning slow enough to count the blades.

Down the hall, behind the third door, Cassidy Harlan is sleeping under the same roof as me.

I keep replaying the restaurant.

Not the waitress. Marissa has been wanting to fuck me for two years, and I’ve taken her up on it twice. It was good. We have fun.

Then today she leaned over that counter, making it very obvious she wanted my cock, and I felt nothing. Less than nothing. An itch of irritation, because she ignored Cassidy.

Then Cassidy figured out the whole history in about four seconds. And I felt guilty.

Guilty. And I did nothing wrong.