Page 16 of Mile High With the Bikers (Screaming Eagles MC #10)

RORY

Shrapnel looks at me like I’m a puzzle he isn’t sure he can solve.

And I look right back.

Of the three of them, he’s the one I have the least sense of.

Physically, I felt an attraction to all of them right away, but physical attraction only gets you so far.

Bull is so open, friendly and protective that it was his whole energy that lured me in on the plane, and Diesel showed me so much depth and compassion that I find myself trusting him, but Shrapnel is a mystery.

He’s a bit of a joker, but underneath is barbed wire, warning everyone away.

It makes me want to peel it back and see what he’s protecting.

“Like what you see?” he asks sarcastically. “Or is the heiress sorry she ended up with the consolation prize?”

I school my expression not wanting to give away how well his barbed comments hit. Being disliked for who people think I am is something I’m used to. It hurts, but it’s a familiar pain.

“Fuck.” He scrubs his hand over his stubble and sighs. “Ignore me, my mouth moves before my brain sometimes. C’mon, my bike’s acting up. If you’re good I’ll let you grease my hardware.”

I remember the garage from when they brought me into the courtyard, but it’s even bigger than I thought.

Inside it feels more like an airplane hangar.

Heavy guitar riffs combine with the sounds of power tools and the occasional engine, echoing off the cavernous ceiling.

We wander past walls covered in posters of naked women, motorcycles, or often both.

He catches me staring. I’m almost afraid to meet the actual biker wives, considering the over-the-top sexy women they seem to surround themselves with.

It makes me wonder why they bother with me. Maybe it really was the uniform.

“She the one causing all the trouble?” a guy shouts as we pass.

Shrapnel snorts. “Not her fault her father’s an asshole, Crash.”

Crash wipes his forehead with a rag, leaving a splotch of black on his cheek. “Fucking know that feeling.”

“Yeah, well, we’re going to try not to kill him anyway.”

“Good luck with that.”

I’m still trying to decide if they’re joking or not when we stop in front of Shrapnel’s bike.

It's pretty, all shiny black with sleek yellow details.

I've ridden it, but this is the first time I actually get a good look.

The colors scream bee, but the design is sharp and masculine.

It's up on a lift, making it easier to get at the engine. A couple of panels are already off.

“You really want me to help?”

He shrugs. “Needs to be done, and it was that or suggest going back to my place to fuck.”

My eyes go wide.

“Yeah, I figured this was the safer choice.” He pauses to look at me with a raised eyebrow, a wrench already in his hand. “Don’t suppose you know anything about mechanics?”

“Not unless it’s a computer chip. I could probably solder something if I had to, but it wouldn’t be pretty.” I smile, hoping to lighten the mood.

Shrapnel peels his shirt off, tossing it aside. “Then find something to perch on and don’t get in the way.”

I look around and spot a stack of cinder blocks that someone put a seat cushion on top of and sit down. “Can I ask you a question?”

He grunts in an affirmative sort of way.

“Didn't those hurt?” I ask, pointing to his nipple piercings.

“Yeah.” He flicks one with his finger, and I watch in fascination as his nipple hardens.

“So why’d you do it?”

He keeps his focus on the bike, testing various thingamabobs that I’m sure are very important. “Short answer, I wanted to.”

“Long answer?”

“Sometimes pain reminds me that I’m still here,” he answers softly after staying quiet so long I wasn’t sure he would.

“You were in the military?”

His eyes cut to me. “You got one free, but an answer for an answer. Why were you so happy to run yesterday? You barely even hesitated after the crash.”

“Short answer, my father’s an asshole.” I try to make my voice sound like his which earns me a bark of laughter.

“Long answer?” he asks.

“Dad and I haven’t been seeing eye to eye lately. I already had this whole plan to ditch them at the airport and put some space between us. I thought… it’s stupid, but I thought it would make him listen to me.” It’s not the whole story, but it’s part of the truth. “So, military?”

He grabs a powered screwdriver and goes to work. It’s clear he’s done this a million times before. “I did a few tours in the Army. It didn’t agree with me.”

“Is that where you got hurt?”

He stiffens and misses catching one of the screws, so it bounces off the concrete floor.

I get up and close the distance, touching a spot on his shoulder where it looks like someone dug a chunk out of his skin and left it to heal. It’s one of many, mostly concentrated on his right side.

“Do you want us to send you back?” His voice is rougher than usual.

Right. An answer for an answer. I pick up the screw and set it in his palm. “Not really, but what I want isn’t more important than making sure nobody else gets hurt if I can stop it.”

“Those scars are from my last deployment. Do you wanna kiss them and make it all better?” He spits the question out with a little venom, but there’s a spark in his eyes that makes me pause.

“Is that question part of the game?”

Shrapnel stops and crosses his arms in front of his chest, flexing his arms in a way that’s very, very appealing. He seems to think about that, then shakes his head and goes back to working on a stubborn bolt. “Screw the game. Did you and Diesel fuck last night?”

I freeze and step back, denial on my tongue, but why? I’m not ashamed of it, and these guys don’t get to judge. “Yeah, we did. Is that a problem?”

“Not for me, but I don’t like being played with, and I don’t appreciate watching it happen to my friends, either.”

“I’m not! That’s not what this is.”

The bolt finally pops loose and he puts it with the screws. They're all neatly aligned. “Your father is a billionaire who’s holding two of my brothers hostage because his daughter wanted a little space and used me and my friends to get it.”

Okay, when he puts it like that… “I’m sorry.

” I crouch down and trace circles on the floor with my finger.

“You don’t have any reason to believe me, but it’s not quite that simple.

My life isn’t as great as you’d think, and I never meant to get you mixed up in everything.

I’d feel the same if our situations were reversed, so I don’t blame you for being angry. ”

Reaching in, he twists out a part of his bike.

I couldn't tell you what it is, but when he gives it a shake, a little rock or piece of metal falls out on the floor. “There you are, you little fucker.” Shrapnel sighs and scratches along the scar on his jaw. “I’m not… I’m a lot better now, okay?

But shit heals faster on the outside than on the inside, you know?

And some of the scars never show. Up here?

” He taps against the side of his head. “I know you aren’t some sexy mastermind who seduced us and sabotaged a plane just so you could get a free ride and frame the club for everything. ”

“Thanks?”

A crooked grin cracks his hard facade and his voice darkens. “Besides, technically you haven’t seduced all of us.”

The tension inside unwinds a little. “You caught me! It’s the only flaw left in my master plan.” I stand up and pretend to twirl my evil moustache. “Muahahaha!”

“I think there might be one other flaw.” He points to a wrench hanging not far from me. “Can you hand me that?”

“Sure.” It’s heavier than I expected. “What’s the other flaw? Not that I’m admitting anything, of course.”

“Of course.” The very tip of his tongue sticks out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrates. “You’re technically our prisoner.”

“Ah, true. Switched out my gilded cage for the walls of a biker compound.”

He points at the part he just put back in. “Hold that in place.”

“Me? But I?—”

“Unless your soft little princess fingers aren’t strong enough.” He smirks at my glare.

It’s a little scary putting my hands inside the guts of a motorcycle, but anything boys can do, I can at least try. “Like this?”

“Perfect.” He aligns the screw and runs it in, followed by three more. “You could fix both flaws with one cunning move, you know.”

“Oh?”

“Sure, if you seduced your jailor, you could—wait!” His hand clamps around my wrist, but not before my fingers are buried in my hair, pushing it back. “Shit.”

“What?”

He pulls my hand down and holds it in his, showing me. Both of our hands are covered in black sticky grease.

“Please tell me it’s not in my hair.”

“It’s not in your hair,” Shrapnel lies. He pokes me on the end of my nose, most likely leaving a mark there too. “Don’t worry, I like my girls a little dirty.”