“This pep talk sucks.”
“Yeah, he was voted most likely to depress people.”
“Shut the fuck up.” Wolf stood up and stalked toward the door with Dog’s laughter following him out.
He shoved through the crowd. Ten feet from the door he slammed right into a member of the Death Heads MC, pushing him back into the two brothers behind him as they walked in the bar. For one of those split seconds that lasts a lifetime, Wolf and the Death Head stared with stunned surprise into each other’s eyes. There was no love lost between the two clubs, in fact they were sworn enemies, and that animosity was plain in both their eyes as they glared their bitter hatred back at each other. Then the Death Head members at the man’s back shoved him forward, and he came up swinging, hitting Wolf with a powerful right hook.
Wolf returned the punch causing the Death Head to stumble back. Screams erupted in the bar as patrons scattered back. The next thing Wolf knew, all his Evil Dead brothers had pushed through the crowd and were taking his back, fists flying. It was seven to three and the brawl ended with the three Death Heads lying on the floor.
“Move!” Cole jerked his chin toward the door, and his club cleared out, pushing through the door and out into the street, knowing they only had minutes to get the hell out of there before the cops arrived and hauled every single one of them in.
The men scrambled to their bikes, and a moment later seven bikes roared off down the street.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The old wrought iron bed squeaked as Crystal rolled over to look toward the front window. The rumbling sounds of motorcycles passing below echoed up from the street. It was past midnight, but the sound didn’t bother her. She couldn’t sleep anyway. Not when her mind was consumed with reliving her encounter with Wolf earlier. Every moment playing out over and over in her head like an endless parade of images. The look in his eyes when he first saw her, the way he held her when they danced, the way he kissed her in the hallway, the way he looked at her as she left.
She was startled out of her thoughts by a knocking. Rolling over, she looked through the open bedroom doorway into the main room and toward the backdoor.
Who could that be? Jameson perhaps, come to ask her about whatever Max and Liam had probably told him. Tossing back the covers, she strode toward the door. The top half contained a window covered with a red gingham kitchen-style curtain. She paused, pulling it aside to peer out.
It was dark, but she could make out the tall shape of a man. A man wearing a leather cut. His arms were lifted, his hands bracing on either side of the door frame. His head was dipped, but it lifted when the curtain moved, and his eyes connected with hers through the glass.
Wolf.
She unlocked the door and opened it just three inches. But that didn’t stop him. He pushed it open and stepped inside, forcing her to step back. She watched his eyes as they swept down over her, taking in the flannel shirt wrapped around her. His shirt.
His eyes flicked back up to hers, and she could read the thoughts running through his head. He knew in an instant just what her wearing his shirt to bed meant, everything it revealed about how she felt about him. As she watched, his eyes moved over her body again, sweeping down over her bare legs, exposed by the shirt that only fell to her mid-thigh.
The door clicked softly as he pressed it shut, his eyes still on her legs.
She wrapped her arms around herself, hugging against the chill night air that had swept in with him. “What are you doing here, Wolf?”
His hand lifted, and he brushed the back of his index finger over the soft flannel fabric just above her breast. “You’re wearing my shirt.”
She looked away. She could hardly deny it. “Yes.”
“Why?”
She swallowed, but didn’t answer.
“Your question, my question. I’m betting they both have the same answer.”
She looked back at him then. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and it felt hard to breathe. He took a step toward her, and she took a step back. “Wolf.”
He took another step. “Crystal.”
She stepped back again, and he followed, like he always did, stalking her across the room until she felt the cool plaster of the wall next to her bedroom door pressed to her back.
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
“Wolf.”
He moved in closer, his face inches from hers and repeated his soft words. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
It was then she noticed the bruising on the side of his face. Her hand came up, her fingers gently touching his cheekbone. “Wolf, you’re hurt. What happened?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m fine.” He moved in again.