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I raised an eyebrow. Liss held my gaze and didn’t flinch, her chin lifted, like she was daring me to correct her. It was a sharp contrast to the terrified, drenched, cold little creature she’d been ten minutes ago.
“Don’t call me that,” I said.
She shrugged.
“If the shoe fits.”
“Do you need to go back in the shower?”
Liss fucking leaned closer. Instead of pulling away to protect herself like she did before in that tub, she pushed into my space. This little slip of a thing was ballsy as hell.
“Just call it like it is, old man. You’re looking for a private wet t-shirt contest. If you dump me in the shower again, I’ll start charging you for the peep show.”
Baby Doll snorted a laugh from behind the counter. Kingpin chuckled into his whiskey.
“Can I get in on this peep show?” Spike piped up.
“No,” I barked.
“Grandpa doesn’t like to share,” Liss replied. A grin flashed at the corner of her lips as she finally took a sip of her beer. This light-hearted teasing seemed to be putting her at ease.
“Grandpa doesn’t have to know,” Spike offered.
I shot a stern look in his direction. The teasing might be fun, but no one was getting near this woman if I had anything to say about it.
“I’ll break your kneecaps if you call me that again, boy.”
At thirty-eight years old, Spike was hardly a boy anymore, but that wasn’t the point. As the Road Captain, I outranked his Secretary status, and I wasn’t shy about reminding him of that. I sat higher up the food chain than he did, and it wasn’t because of my age.
Spike leaned back in his chair with a low whistle.
“So, it’s a freaky kink thing reserved strictly for the kitty to play with,” he said. “Understood.”
“Spike,” I growled.
He flirted dangerously close to disrespect, not only for me, but for Liss, too. Disrespecting a superior member was against club rules. Disrespecting a guest—much less a woman—would get his ass whooped.
“Take it easy, gentlemen,” Kingpin said, wreathed in a cloud of cigar smoke. “Spike, back off. You’re playing with fire and you know it. Big G, relax. Introduce us to your girl so she doesn’t think we’re heathens on the brink of a brawl.”
I glanced at Liss, uncertain how she would take to being called mine. But she didn’t seem fazed by it, returning my glance with a steady look of her own, waiting and expectant.
Crash reappeared with a plate of food and set it in front of Liss—a turkey sandwich with a pickle on the side, a small bag of chips, leftover fried chicken from lunch, and a handful of brownies, still steaming after he’d warmed them up.
“Wow,” Liss said, surveying the food. “A feast fit for a king. Or a prisoner on death row with her last meal. A protein bar would have done the trick.”
The hint of wariness in her eyes suggested she was only half joking.
“You’re not in trouble,” I replied.
“I tried to steal your bike.”
My gaze involuntarily flicked down to her hip. Just for a moment. I couldn’t see the bruise now that she was dressed, but I still knew it was there. Liss must have noticed my brief distraction and my lack of an immediate response. She shifted on her stool, tugging self-consciously at the hem of her sweater as if she could hide from me.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, her voice low and pained. “I don’t need your goddamn pity.”
When Liss pushed her plate away and began to slide off her stool, I caught her wrist. She froze. Every muscle in her body tensed. I hated that her first instinct was fear, expecting to be hurt. I hated how she was so fucking hungry that she felt as fragile as a bird in my grip.
I softened my hold so Liss could twist away if she really wanted to. But she didn’t move. Her skin was soft and cool beneath my fingertips, and it took every ounce of self-control not to caress the inside of her forearm like I wanted to. She didn’t need me being a creep.
