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And I can tell I’m not what he was expecting either, because his grip loosens and I make a run for it, pushing past him. If I'm quick enough, maybe?—
Nope. I don’t even make it out of my room before someone grabs me from behind and spins me around, slamming my back into the wall so hard I lose my breath with an embarrassing whoosh and a squeak. I try to wiggle loose, but his grip is like iron. I'm not going anywhere if he doesn't want me to.
2
MILA
“Let go!” I glare up at the man holding me, trying to look confident in spite of being clearly outnumbered and outmatched.
“Like hell I will. Who the fuck are you?” It’s the owner of the raspy voice. He’s built like an athlete, with short blond hair, a close beard and hard blue-green eyes that burrow into me. He’s wearing a leather MC vest and it says ‘Scrapper’ across his right chest.
Just like the man with the long, dark hair, this Scrapper guy seems surprised by what he caught, but he doesn’t give me the same opportunity to run. His eyes rake up and down my body so intensely that I swear I can actually feel them trail over my skin. Full lips curl up into a crooked smirk, like he likes what he sees. My heart thunders, but it's not all terror. It probably should be. He's armed, just like his buddy, and black tattooed cuffs wrap around his muscled biceps on both sides. I wet my lips nervously as I hold my head high and meet his gaze.
The last guy, who is the biggest of the three, crosses powerful arms over his chest, forcing the fabric of his T-shirt to work hard for its money. Unfortunately, he’s not wearing a handy vest to tell me who he is. His hair is clipped close to his skull, but he's got a dense, brown beard to make up for it, and a chest so broad, I could sleep on it comfortably. That said, from the look in those stormy blue orbs, if I was on his chest, I'm not sure we'd be sleeping a whole lot. “Cute for a squatter,” he rumbles.
“I’m not a squatter! I’m Mila. This is my apartment.” I wiggle my hands, pulling against Scrapper’s hold, but he doesn’t budge.
The guy who first found me cocks his head and narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Nice fucking try. This is our building and nobody lives here. Not anymore. Which you probably know because you were hiding in the fucking closet. So what are you doing rooting around on Screaming Eagles property, Mila?”
I only half hear him because I can’t stop staring at the man with the beard. There’s something about him that— “I know you!” The beard was throwing me off, but there was something about his voice that sparked a memory.
He jerks back and cocks his head at me. “Did we fuck?”
All three look at me with slightly more interest.
“What? No! Oh my God. Your name is… Mark?”
He snorts. “Mack.” He snaps his fingers. “Wait! You're the girl who lived here. The one that got caught in the fire. What the hell are you doing back?”
My memories from that night are scattered and very physical. It’s mostly a blur of heat, pressure, pain and yelling, but I remember being terrified and getting passed from person to person until finally ending up cradled in strong arms that held me tight. He carried me out like I was light as a feather, and the most precious thing in the world. I remember the deep rumble of his voice telling me I was going to be okay over and over until I believed him.
“See? I wasn’t lying. I really did live here. I…” I want to stick as close to the truth as I can. “I needed to come back. I had to see it. What's left of it, anyway.”
Scrapper’s grip relaxes a little. He doesn’t seem worried—like I could do anything to them even if I wanted—just wary. “It's been a couple months. Why now?”
“I’ll talk, but could you, um, let me go?”
They don’t seem likely to hurt me, so if I’m going to get manhandled, I can definitely think of better ways to do it. Ways I bet guys like them would be more than happy to help me with. Not that I would know first hand. I was never brave enough to do more than get a beer at their bar with Meghan on my twenty-first birthday, but I certainly saw plenty in the year I lived in this apartment.
He looks at his hands like he’s surprised to find himself still holding me captive and his fingers relax, dropping away slowly. “Fine, but answer the question. Your landlord was supposed to notify everyone in the damaged units that they had until the first of the month to let us know if there was any shit they still needed. We own this building now and it’s not safe to wander around.”
“I know, but I couldn’t get here fast enough.” I gesture down at my leg, not having to pretend to be uncomfortable talking about it. “I spent most of the summer at home going back and forth to the hospital for my burns. I just got back to town yesterday. It doesn’t matter, I’m not here for my stuff. I just wanted to see. Get a little closure, I guess.”
“How bad is it?” asks the guy with the gold flecked eyes. His vest says ‘Reaper’, and it fits him. He runs a hand through his hair, flipping the silky black strands to the side and revealing closely shaved skin underneath. It draws attention to rough, scarred skin stretching up from under his shirt and onto his neck. The scars look uncomfortably close to the pictures I’ve seen of what to expect my leg will look like once it’s fully healed.
“It’s fine,” I answer quickly enough that he raises an eyebrow, but I don’t owe them my medical history. “Look, I’m sorry if I wasn’t supposed to come in here. My key still worked and I just wanted to look around. I wasn’t trying to cause trouble. I’ll leave.”
Reaper rolls his eyes. “Told you we should’ve changed the fucking locks.”
“No harm no foul, right? I’m Scrapper,” says the guy who held me, wearing a playful grin. “And that’s Reaper.”
“Is that what it says on your birth certificates?” I blurt before biting my lip. Crap, was that rude? I don't know biker etiquette.
But they just laugh.
“Don’t know, never seen it,” chuckles Mack. “Mack’s the only name that’s mattered in a long time.”
“You need a hand moving anything out, so long as you’re here? The smoke damage is bad but maybe there’s some shit worth saving,” Scrapper offers.
