He had an old Western-style moustache and he grinned to see me again.
“You’d make a great pickpocket,” Unc laughed.
I felt pleased at the compliment.
“Maybe—”
“No,” Abraham interrupted. “No, you are not going to be a pickpocket.”
Vladdy was a tall, muscular Russian man in his 60s who was in charge of Security. I didn’t think I’d want to get on the wrong side of Vladdy.
The last member of the Legends MC was called Fizz, and he was a tall, beanpole-shaped man in his 70s with a long, fluttering white moustache.
“And what are you the specialist of?” I asked.
“Pissing me off,” Abraham growled.
“Munitions and special projects,” Fizz said. “I can build the prettiest little explosives you’ve ever seen.”
“That’s great!” I said enthusiastically, but Abraham was already pointing back into the bedroom.
“Let’s go get your shit. But you need some other clothes first,” Abraham said.
“I don’t have any other clothes!” I protested, but he fished around in his battered dresser and pulled out a T-shirt.
“Just wear this for now.”
I went into his attached bathroom, which I was pleased to see had a big, spa-sized hot tub, and pulled on the T-shirt. It swamped me, but when I borrowed one of his belts I looked less like someone coming back from a sneaky link in a disreputable hotel room.
Then I followed him obediently outside, having to practically trot to keep up with my much shorter legs.
His ass definitely filled out those jeans in a very. . . eye-catching way. There was nothing wrong with looking was there?
But as soon as we got to my car, I realized Abraham could barely squeeze into the passenger seat.
“No, missy, I’m not going anywhere in that and neither are you. We’ll find something else for you to drive.”
I barely had time to wonder what that meant, now following his long strides across the yard, when he wheeled out his motorcycle.
It was absolutely massive, so big I didn’t know how anyone could control it, let alone race it.
“Why do they call you the Bonemangler?” I asked. “Is it because of all the murders you’ve committed?”
“I don’t judge,” I added hastily.
He only gave a snort, grabbing a battered helmet and popping it over my head.
“I try to keep the murders to a bare minimum. Now get on behind me.”
I’d never ridden a motorcycle in my life, and I was wearing only a T-shirt and high heels, but I hopped on behind him, shivering a bit as he pulled my hips forward so they were flush against his back.
His cut smelled delicious with old, ripe leather, and I was forced to hold on tight as Abraham kicked the motorcycle into gear.
It felt so. . . obscene to be driving down the road with my pussy practically smashed on his back. Lewd and naughty.
Abraham drove smoothly, with confidence, all the way out to where my crappy apartment building squatted like a dung beetle on the earth.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, as Abraham leaned against the bike and lit a cigarette.