I glance down at wide-eyed Emily. Every time I peer into those dark brown eyes a part of me is lost. I better stop looking or I’ll start losing pieces I’ll miss.
“Sorry.” Ah hell, Emily’s voice is all soft and please-kiss-me breathless. “Olivia left and she told me to help you find her glasses.”
A tickling sensation on my chest and that’s when I notice her palms flat against me. She must have been trying to break her impending fall. One of her fingers moves and lightning licks up my veins. Her scent wraps around me and my fingers twitch with the desire to slide them through that thick silky hair.
Damn, I’m attracted to her, and by the way her body subtly shifts in my direction, she’s feeling it, too. I imagine pushing her away. I need to push her away, but my body is not listening to my brain.
Emily blinks like she’s waking up. I loosen my grip as she simultaneously steps back. Her hair brushes along my arm and I go up in flames as a fantasy overtakes my mind—Emily kissing her way down my chest and that hair drifting along my bare skin.
“I’m sorry.” She twists her fingers. “For kissing you and then threatening to use it against you. That wasn’t nice.”
The red in her cheeks confuses the hell out of me. She radiates good girl—the ones I purposefully stay away from—but that kiss had bad written all over it. Fuck it, it doesn’t matter. She’s Eli’s daughter and she’s trouble.
“Don’t worry about it.” I pivot away and head to the bar. Emily and I—we require distance. Lots of distance. As in oceans between us. I pick up a stack of papers to check for Olivia’s glasses though I’ve already canvassed the entire bar.
“You can look over there.” I point to the couches on the other side of the room. The area that’s the farthest from me. “Sometimes Olivia likes to sit in the recliner.”
Emily stands there appearing as dazed and befuddled as I feel. Doesn’t take her long to snap out of it and move toward the corner. Midway, she hesitates and her spine straightens.
I scan the room, hunting for the unseen threat. “You okay?”
“What is on the walls?” Hands to her hips.
“Bras,” I answer, stating the obvious. A wide variety of them. From A cups to triple D’s. Bright pink to black as night. Satin and lace. Conservative to see-through. Clasp in the front and hook in the back. Won’t lie. At the age of thirteen, I found it quite educational.
Emily goes openmouthed with pissed-off round eyes. Shocked outrage. That would be the reason why I won’t date or do good girls. There’s a life I’m going to live and good girls want to break down, rebuild and reform. I’m not interested in being changed and I’m not interested in crushing the spirit of some girl so I can lead my life. I’ve seen both situations happen in the club and it usually ends in nuclear fallout.
“Why are there bras on the wall?”
“Where else would we put them?” I shoot back.
“Why would you even have them?”
“After a girl goes through the trouble of taking it off and giving it to us, it would be tacky to lay them on the floor.” I’m screwing with her now, but my words are true.
Emily wraps her arms around her stomach as she assesses the clubhouse. Neon beer signs alongside posters of naked girls. Our skull with flames is painted floor to ceiling on the wall nearest her. Bordering the outside of the emblem are wooden plaques with pictures of deceased members. For Emily, it’s possibly the most normal part of the building.
Behind me on the shelves, an endless supply of Mardi Gras beads hang from trophies earned from the annual get-together for the entire club, National Run. Mom received one of those first-place trophies a few years ago in the wet T-shirt contest. Dad’s still damned proud.
Around the bar, it smells like spilled beer. Emily wrinkles her nose. Bet her area stinks worse.
“Suck it up and get used to it. From what I understand you’re stuck here for the summer. Try the end table next to the recliner. Olivia will take her glasses off when she gets tired.”
Emily picks up her foot and it makes a sickening sound as she has to peel it from the floor. Prospects are in charge of cleaning the clubhouse and the club’s schedule has been shot to hell since Olivia’s wake, which means not much work has been completed.
“Am I ever going to be left alone or are you and Eli going to take turns stalking me?”
“If you want we can pretend you’re alone. Talking can be overrated and I’m fine with us ignoring each other.”
“Sounds good to me.” Yet she continues, “You guys take this Riot stuff too seriously.”
Emily’s not taking it seriously enough. I go behind the bar and search near the glass display case that holds the merchandise the club sells: T-shirts for members, supporter T-shirts that signify people are friends of the club, bandannas, knives, throwing stars, whatever shit you can think of.
“I found them,” Emily says. “Half glasses that are red?”
“That’d be them.” Rose-colored glasses. It’s a joke Olivia likes to tell.
Emily tugs on the jean skirt as she crosses the room. Even though she’s sexy as hell in it, it’s hilarious to watch her mentally willing the material to cover more of her gorgeous legs. She slips the glasses to me from the other side of the bar. “Did she need them for her appointment?”
“She’ll be fine without them.”
Emily lightly lays her fingers on the bar like she’s afraid to touch it and continues her examination of the clubhouse. There’s a lot to see. Christmas lights are strung across the ceiling. Pictures of naked women engaging in very erotic things. Her head tilts as her eyes land on the trophies. When her face drains of color, I’m assuming she found the one with my mother’s name. Hell, maybe she discovered several of Olivia’s.
“Are you okay with all this?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I answer without hesitation.
“I mean, you know this is not how normal people live, right?”
“Normal’s overrated. You should try living on the wild side sometime.”
Emily rolls her eyes, completely dismissing me.
“Our life isn’t what you think,” I say.
“I’m sure it’s everything I think and more. Are you telling me you’d be okay with your mom’s bra being up there?”
Guess she didn’t find Mom’s particular trophy or she didn’t connect the dots. “Who says it isn’t?”