I set down the wrench and wipe my hands on a rag. The compound is quiet now. A few party stragglers are sprawled out on couches, chatting quietly, but most have drifted to their rooms or crashed wherever they landed.
I take the stairs to the second floor and stand outside my door for a long moment, hand on the knob, trying to decide if maybe I should grab a blanket and sleep on the floor in the shop. I’ve slept in worse places.
After a brief hesitation, I turn the knob slowly, easing the door open just enough to slip through. The room is dark except for the faint glow of parking lot security lights through the window. London's asleep on top of the covers, still fully dressed, one arm tucked under her cheek.
She didn't get under the blankets. Didn't take off her shoes. That’s telling. She's ready to run at any moment.
I close the door quietly, cross to the armchair in the corner, and sink into it. Stretching my legs out, I watch her sleep.
Cause you’re not a creepy stalker. Not at all.
Chapter 5
London
He looks different when he's asleep.
I stand three feet from the armchair, my duffel still on the floor where I dropped it last night, and study Zeus. His head is tipped back against the chair, mouth open a fraction, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. One arm hangs off the side, and there’s black grease in the crevices of his fingernails. The other rests across his stomach, rising and falling with each deep breath.
The hard lines of his face have relaxed. Not a lot—this man's jaw could cut glass—but enough that I can see past the aggression, past the cold stare and the clenched fists and the don’t-mess-with-me energy that rolls off him when he’s awake.
He's handsome. Annoyingly, distractingly handsome. His hair is thick and mussed. His body is ridiculous—broad shoulders straining against his t-shirt, arms corded with muscle, and tattoos disappearing under fabric.
Stop it, London. This man is probably friends with your father.
Not only is he at least a decade older than me, but he's a biker in an outlaw club who looks like he swallows danger andspits out bullets. And I'm here to meet my dad, not crush on a ridiculously hot biker who hasn't smiled once since I arrived.
He gave me his bed, though, and slept in a chair, which is telling.
There are dark circles under his eyes. I don't think he slept much last night. With the grease on his hands, maybe he was working on his motorcycle. Or maybe he was with one of those cut sluts.
Why do I hate that thought so much?
I step closer without meaning to. His jaw is dusted with dark scruff. There's a small scar on his eyebrow I didn't notice last night. And his mouth?—
His eye cracks open and it stares right at me. Before I can stop myself, I scream.
My hand flies over my mouth, but the sound is already out—a sharp, staccato yelp that ricochets off the walls.
Zeus jerks upright, his whole body going taut, and his hand reaches for his hip—a weapon, probably. Then his eyes lock on me and he registers the situation. No threat here. Just a girl standing over him, staring at him like a complete weirdo.
"Jesus." He runs a hand over his face. "The fuck was that?"
"You scared me." My voice is muffled behind my palm.
His brow furrows. "By sleeping?"
"By waking up,” I hiss, mortified heat crawling up my neck. "I didn't expect you to—I was just?—"
"Standing over me staring?"
I want to dissolve. Floor, please open up right this minute.
"I wasn't staring," I lie.
His mouth twitches. Not a smile—not quite—but an almost-kind-of smile.
He stretches in the chair, rolling his neck until it cracks. Muscles flex and shift under his shirt. I force my eyes to the window.