Page 16 of Haze's Jewel
This place suited me just fine. I liked the small-town atmosphere of Las Salinas, the cool vibe of the tattoo parlor and the hot biker who took me in. In the weeks I’ve known Haze, I’ve developed quite a crush on him, I know he’s been flirting with me on the regular, but I’m pretty sure he’s like that with every woman so I’m not taking it too seriously. I’ll not lie, at night my thoughts have been wandering, and my horny mind has conjured up images of what lies underneath his well-worn jeans. He’s got a damn fine ass, and I can’t help but notice he’s packing. I should be ashamed of perving on the nice guy who took an interest in saving my life, especially since his ex is pissed that he’s letting me stay here. Her behavior that first day was off the charts. The truth is I’m not bothered by my intense attraction for this bad boy with a heart of gold. I’m entitled to my own internal thoughts and feelings. He’ll never even know. So, what’s the harm?
Haze has set me up with drinks and snacks again today and every so often he’s been checking in on me, which is so sweet. He’s been going above and beyond for me. I honestly don’t know how to take his interest. Maybe he’s interested in me too? But I honestly can’t see that, because even with the new makeover, I’m not looking my best. I feel like my body and life are both messed up to the nth degree right now, but at least my thinking is clear. That’s something, I guess.
I go to the bathroom, take care of business, and wash up. I’m finding that even though I’ve gotten back pretty good use of my fingers, everything takes more time with my arm in a cast. Most of the damage was on my upper arm it seems. I absolutely must have a shower tonight, wet wipes only do so much. I’ve been too embarrassed to ask Haze for help—especially given the massive crush I’ve developed—but I have to swallow my pride.
Just when I’m starting to get bored out of my mind, Haze comes back and takes off his boots.
“Tough day at the office,” I tease him with a level of familiarity we don’t really have quite yet. I guess that’s what helps the joke land.
He grins and sits at the other end of the sofa. “I got to drop some cool designs and made some money so I can’t complain.”
“I heard your ex came back in today. I hope you did a good job on her tattoo. She seems pretty demanding. It made me think she would be particular about her ink.”
“I told her it was too soon for the shading,” he mutters.
“She’s keen.”
His head jerks up and his expression turns disgruntled. “And she’s not my ex, just so you know.”
I interrupt him to ask, “So you’ve never taken her on a date or slept with her?”
He clears his throat and takes a moment to gather his thoughts before stating, “Brittany is a club girl, she hangs around our clubhouse. I’ve never taken her on a date, but I’ve drank with her and slept with her. But then again, so have most of the brothers in my club. That’s what being a club girl is. They like to party with us and we accommodate most of their eccentric behavior because it’s a mutually beneficial arrangement. It gets to be a problem when they start overstepping boundaries or trying to lay claim to us.”
Shock rolls through my gut. “Don’t the brothers ever end up in relationships with any of them?” I don’t know why but it seems like they would since they spend so much time together drinking and having sex.
“Naw, it’s not like that. In the MC world, once we find our one, we put her in a property cut and call it a day. My brother got married a few months back, and his old lady is running around wearing a cut with his name on the back. Club girls sometimes take it for granted that they’re going to hook up permanently with their favorite brother, but it rarely happens that way.”
I get the feeling he’s saying that doesn’t happen because those women have slept with just about all their friends and it’s not conducive to relationship building. I don’t know how I feel about that. How many men a woman has had sex with shouldn’t affect her worth as a relationship partner.
“How did your brother meet his wife?” I only ask because I want to get away from talking about club girls.
“He met her at a rave. She was raised in a rival MC and her grandfather was a gigantic piece of shit. Trix is a really nice person. She’s been really good to my brother, so I can overlook him sleeping with the enemy.”
The light, playful tone of his voice and the wry grin on his face tells me he’s joking around.
“Why do I get the feeling you always lead with humor?”
“Because who the fuck wants to be serious all the time,” he replies with a laugh.
Something about the mischievous look on his face is sexy as hell. He must sense something in our exchange that alerts him of my attraction, because his expression shifts to a flirtatious one as he slides down the sofa to move closer to me.
“So, you’ve got a thing for guys with a good sense of humor. Is that what I’m hearing you say?”
I shrug, because he caught me out. “Who doesn’t. Like you said, being light and playful is worlds more fun than being a grumpy stick in the mud.”
“I’m young, handsome, and make far too many of my decisions with my dick.” Leaning forward his eyes sparkle with mirth as he hits me with another zinger. “I absolutely adore redheads, so if you ever want to fool around just let me know.”
I freeze, unable to believe he feels comfortable with such outlandish pickup lines. I quickly glance down at my cast and remember that although my body has mostly healed, I’m definitely not presenting at my best right now. I choose my words carefully. “Either you weren’t joking about making too many decisions with your dick or you have thing for bruised and battered women. I’m not entirely certain which of those options I’d prefer under the circumstances.”
“Look, I’m not a sick fucker who gets off on having sex with women who look battered or any crazy shit like that. You don’t really fall into that category right now anyway.”
He’s being nice because although my bruises and scrapes have healed up, I still have a few visible scars, which I’m hoping will fade over time.
I must look like a woman who needs more reassurance because he adds, “When I look at you, I don’t see the physical scars, only the beauty you carry inside.”
I fight back a smile at his earnest words. “You talked about my red hair, not my inner beauty.” It’s not a complaint so much as an idle observation.
My gentle reminder causes him to glance at my hair. It’s currently thrown up in a messy bun because it was about all I could manage one-handed.