Page 74 of Misguided

TWENTY-SIX

Mel

The outcome was inevitable. He’s taunted me all week with his goddamn towel barely covering everything after his showers, sleeping in nothing but his skin-tight boxers, and leaving me breathless and wanting with his stolen kisses.

You can’t wake a dormant volcano and then expect it not to erupt.

I place a hand behind me on the seat and lean back as he cruises the street, looking for this damn liquor store some guy said he saw Hooch at. My little brother would probably have more chance of blending in if he was more mainstream, but when you’re over six foot of broad muscle, with distinctive tattoos and piercings, people tend not to forget.

He can ditch the bike, shirk the cut, and even put a freaking suit on, but he’ll always stand out from a mile away.

My left arm snakes high on Dog’s chest as I snuggle close again. I tuck my hand beneath his cut and toy with his hardened nipple through the fabric of his shirt. He sets a warning hand on my knee, squeezing tight.

I love that I get this reaction out of him. Ask me a few years ago when we first struck up conversation at a club meet if I thought we’d end up here, and I would have laughed in your face. Me? Settle for the young, immature prospect that seemed hell bent on the bachelor life? No way.

But people change. Time passes and we grow up. Maybe not mature quite as much, but our experiences definitely shape us, sanding back the raw edges to reveal the true grain beneath.

Fate dictates who we are. Our reactions to the obstacles placed in our path forms the basis for what we become.

You can either roll with the punches or fight the inevitable until the world wins out.

I choose to adapt.

The vibration through the seat grows as Dog slows to a stop outside a liquor store with beautiful vintage style script painted on its windows. He walks us back and kicks out the stand as I stretch my arms out over my head. I place a hand to his shoulder to steady myself when the bike tips onto its rest.

“Comin’ in, or waiting here?”

I set my foot on the peg, and then push to climb off the seat. “What do you think?”

Dog eyes me with a smile as he shakes out a smoke. The curl of his lips never fades, even as he puts the cigarette between them and lifts a flame to it.

“What are you smirking about?”

He wiggles the fingers of his right hand at me. “Still smells like you.”

“That’s fucking gross,” I snap. But hell, there’s no denying the throb that reminds me what that hand was doing to smell like me.

He chuckles and widens his legs to stretch out while he sucks back the smoke.

A pickup is parked to our left, a slightly rusted sedan to our right. I run my eye down the street, taking in the details I was too wrapped up in my thoughts to notice before. Most of the shop fronts bear worn and faded signs, yet the streets are clean, and people go about their lives without hesitation. The road is quaint, paved with bricks, and the buildings all show that this town was established a very long time ago.

What strikes me most, though, is how friendly it all seems. So calm. It’s a good place to be; I can see why Hooch stopped here.

“Right, babe.” Dog stamps his cigarette out and dismounts, pocketing the key. “Let’s see what we can find out.”

I swallow back the hope that this is the break we need. After all, we’ve followed a seemingly endless trail of breadcrumbs to date with no real sign of it ending.

The door-chime sounds as we enter, an older gentleman looking up from the bottles he restocks in the chiller.

“Can I help you, there?”

Dog’s movements soften, his body language taking on a whole other look from the swaggering biker I’m used to. It’s an interesting transition. Captivating.

I’d almost go as far as to say it’s as though I’m watching Koen, dressed as Dog, play the part. The line between the two blurred to the point it almost doesn’t exist anymore.

“Afternoon, sir. I was hopin’ to ask you about a friend of ours that was seen in here a few nights back?”

The old guy sets the bottle in his hands on the shelf and lets the chiller door swing shut. “We don’t get many through here, so I’m pretty sure I know who you mean.” He dusts his hands off on his slacks. “Tall guy, lots of ink. Had a beard, and those” —he winds his hand near his ear— “big circle earring things.”