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Stacia’s gaze keeps bouncing from Margot to me, as if she finally noticed I’m not alone. “Oh.” She wrinkles her little button nose into a sneer. “Who are you?”
I wrap my arm around Margot. “None of your business.”
Margot hasn’t said a word, but she glances up and frowns. Time to go. I don’t need these little twits interfering in my life or being rude to Margot.
I steer her away from the girls. “Have fun, ladies.”
“See you at the club, Jiggy!” they shout, as loud and obnoxiously as possible.
“Friends?” Margot asks in a tight voice.
“No.” Shit, is that embarrassment snaking over my chest? It’s been so long, it’s hard to identify the uncomfortable feeling. I don’t owe Margot an explanation.
Or do I?
“I’m sure they’ll just think I’m your sister or something,” she mutters.
“I doubt that.”
Margot starts walking faster, heading straight for her car. I’m on her like a sweater, using my arm around her shoulders to slow her steps.
“Margot, stop.”
Girl’s stronger than she looks, she keeps powerwalking as if I’m not hanging on her like a bag of concrete. “Can we go?”
At the car, I force her to face me. “Stop. They’re just girls who work at the club the MC owns. That’s it. I didn’t want to give them your name because then they’d run back and gossip about us to everyone.” I cock my head. “I assume you don’t want it to get back to your dad about our arrangement?”
The pink on her cheeks deepens. “Oh. I guess not.” She presses her hand to her mouth and giggles. “That might be awkward.”
“Right.”
“So that means you didn’t tell anyone in your club?”
“No. I told you I wouldn’t.”
“Only because of the arrangement between your club and my dad, though, right?” She lowers her gaze. “Not because you’re embarrassed to be with me?”
I really need to find whoever gave this woman such a low opinion of herself and beat them senseless. “Not at all. I’m not in the habit of telling my brothers anything about who I spend time with.”
Shit, that sounded a fuck of a lot worse than I meant.
But Margot doesn’t seem too bothered. She nods. “I’m still ready to go, though.”
“Are we allowed to?” I whisper, casting an overly dramatic wide-eyed glance at the barricades blocking off the end of the street. “I feel like a hostage,” I joke to lighten things up.
She sighs. “Everyone usually rolls out together at the end, but we can leave whenever we want.”
As if on cue, the blue Ford next to us rumbles to life. The old man throws a wave at Margot and slowly pulls out of his spot.
“Let’s follow him,” Margot suggests.
“All right.”
We hustle into her car. I start the engine and slide the Thunderbird behind the truck, keeping some distance between us.
It seems to take forever to roll down the quarter mile of city street, but we finally pass the barricade. The truck turns right at the first intersection, and I finally stomp on the gas and speed away.
Margot
