Page 69 of Held-

“I don’t think I can handle your bike right now,” I admit, swallowing against the nausea climbing up my throat. “My head feels ready to burst.”

Brayden studies my face, then nods. “I figured as much. Don't worry, I've got us covered.”

He guides me toward a beat-up black truck parked at the edge of the lot.

“Whose is this?” I ask as he opens the passenger door for me.

“Hammer's. He loaned me the keys last night when he saw how wasted you were getting.” Brayden helps me into the seat with surprising gentleness.

The fact that these intimidating bikers were looking out for me, planning for my inevitable hangover, does something warmto my chest, or maybe that's just the tequila still burning through my system.

“That was...surprisingly thoughtful,” I manage as Brayden shuts my door and circles around to the driver's side.

“Club takes care of its own,” he says simply as he slides behind the wheel.

Its own. The phrase settles over me like a blanket. Is that what I am now? One of them? The thought should terrify me, but in my current state, it just feels oddly comforting.

“What about your bike?”

“One of the prospects will bring it down later when he comes after Hammer’s truck.”

Brayden turns the key and the truck rumbles to life. Even that gentle vibration is enough to make my stomach perform an uncomfortable flip. I close my eyes and lean my head against the cool window glass.

“I've never been this hungover in my life,” I mumble. “I don't even remember how many shots I had.”

“Seven,” Brayden says, pulling out of the parking lot. “Plus, whatever Tasha kept slipping you when I wasn't looking.”

“She was trying to get me drunk?”

He chuckles. “Not maliciously. She said something about you needing to loosen the church girl shackles.”

“Well, mission accomplished,” I groan. “I think I've loosened them right into the next county.”

The truck hits a pothole and I moan dramatically, clutching my stomach. “Please tell me I didn't embarrass myself too badly.”

Brayden reaches over and places his warm hand on my thigh. The touch is comforting, grounding.

“You were fine. Actually, you impressed a lot of people.”

I crack one eye open to look at him skeptically. “By dancing on a table?”

“By holding your own. Most of the guys’ old ladies won’t even set foot in parties like that, much less end up in the middle of everything.”

“I’m not sure ‘jump’ is the right word. More ‘dragged’—courtesy of Tasha and Dom. I’m honestly shocked I still have any dignity left,” I admit, glancing down at my clothes. At least I’m still fully dressed, which feels like a small miracle after what I witnessed in that clubhouse.

“I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you, princess. And for the record… it was good seeing you cut loose.”

“It certainly doesn’t feel nice right now,” I fire back.

Brayden's lips quirk into that half-smile that somehow makes my stomach flutter despite the nausea. “Lie down,” he says, patting his thigh. “Bench seat's big enough. Best cure for a hangover is to sleep it off anyway.”

I hesitate for just a second before the pounding in my head convinces me. “If I throw up on you, remember this was your idea,” I warn, unbuckling my seatbelt.

“I've survived worse,” he chuckles as I awkwardly maneuver myself down, resting my head on his muscular thigh.

His hand comes to rest on my hair, fingers gently stroking through the tangled strands. It feels impossibly good.

“This is nice,” I murmur, my eyelids already growing heavy. The steady rumble of the truck’s engine, the warmth of his body, the rhythmic motion of his fingers in my hair.