Page 26 of Iron Heart
I’m still musing about Dante being right downstairs as I close the door to the bathroom, and as I do realize there’s no lock on the door. Aunt Jeanne never needed one I guess. And until now, neither have I.
He could just walk in on me naked in the shower, if he wanted to. The thought makes me a little nervous.
And, if I’m being honest, a little turned on.
My shower is actually a deep clawfoot bathtub that Jeanne had retrofitted with a shower head years ago. I strip down, pull my hair up in a topknot, and step under the stream. Drawing the shower curtains around me, I close my eyes and let the heat of the water dance over my skin for a few seconds.
I haven’t been touched by anyone in so long.
The low throb between my legs grows deeper.
If Dante came in right now, what would I do?
Realistically, I know I’d scream and tell him to get out.
But what if he was here, in the shower with me? What if the heat I feel against my skin was from his lips? His hands?
What if he knelt down, and took me silently with his mouth? Before I could protest? What if I knew he was stroking himself, as he pleasured me with his tongue until I cried out his name?
I open my eyes, and shakily start to reach for the detachable shower head. But just as I do, a loud thud from downstairs jolts me from my thoughts. Hastily, as though I’ve been caught doing something wrong, I reach for the soap instead.
I hurry through soaping up and rinsing off, and five minutes later, I’m toweling off. I dash back across the hallway to my bedroom, throw on some clothes, and do a quick application of makeup and an updo.
When I get back downstairs, Dante is nowhere to be seen.
“Hello?” I call.
“Down here,” he calls from the basement.
“I’m going to work now!” I announce.
“Okay. Leave your phone number on the counter. I’ll text you when I’m done for the day and lock up the house.”
I consider leaving him a key, but decide against it. “Okay, thanks! Bye.”
He doesn’t answer. Blowing out a breath, I grab my satchel and leave through the front door.
Work that day is largely uneventful. When I get into the office, Heidi, the receptionist, tells me Frank is out this morning.
“He’s doing kid duty, I guess. His son has an orthodontist appointment, and I guess Peggy is sick. Frank said he’d be back after lunch. He told me to tell you he sent you an email.”
“Okay. Thanks, Heidi.”
Frank has given me leads on a couple of stories he wants me to check into, which is how I spend my morning. One of them involves a pet pig who’s housebroken and eats meals sitting up at the dining room table. Somewhat disturbingly, the pig’s name is Porkchop. I leave a message for the owners, half-hoping they won’t get back to me.
Jake is also in the office. Besides being the photographer, he also does some ad design for our advertisers. Jake’s a very nice kid — funny how he seems like a kid even though he’s only two years younger than I am — but he’s got a huge Diet Coke habit, which unfortunately takes the form of him bringing in humongous fountain drinks every morning and slurping at them loudly from a straw. Ten minutes after sitting down at my desk, I grab the noise-canceling headphones I reserve for emergencies and shove them over my head so I can concentrate.
But somehow, even with Jake’s slurping blissfully blocked from my ears, I find after half an hour or so that I’m having trouble focusing on my work. Instead, my thoughts keep traveling back to a certain motorcycle-riding electrician. I wonder if he’s still at my house. If he’s the type to snoop. How likely it is that he’s upstairs in my bedroom right now, looking through my underwear drawer.
I make a mental note to throw away any grungy, holey undies I’ve been holding onto, just in case.
Almost without meaning to, I find myself clicking into my browser and typing the words “what is a motorcycle club enforcer?” What I find out is that Dante’s role in the Lords of Carnage is to “make certain that the club laws and rules are followed by all members.” He also “protects all of the patch holders and the club’s reputation in any type of conflict.”
When I wonder about what type of conflict they would have, the next paragraph enlightens me: “The enforcer assists all members of the club in combat of any sort including any type of weapons or fist fights.”
Oh.
I sit back, my stomach starting to feel a little funny. I wasn’t exactly thinking Dante was a Boy Scout. But it’s a little intimidating to think about him being involved in fist fights — or worse, gun fights. I guess it’s not exactly shocking. He looks like someone who knows how to hold his own. Most sane men would think twice about doing anything to get on his bad side.