Page 26 of Property of Tacoma

“What the fuck is that?” Bane jerks his chin toward the RV’s open back.

“That,” I say, grinning like an idiot, “is her bike.”

Bane’s eyes narrow as he watches Foxy toss the ratchet straps into the corner of the hauler. “Well, isn’t that fucking precious,” he mutters.

The muscle in my jaw twitches as I fight the urge to tell him to shut the fuck up. I get it—his pride is wounded. Having a woman half his size put him on his ass in front of the club isn’t something he’ll forget anytime soon. But there’s a line, and he’s dancing on it.

Foxy throws a black leather-clad leg over the seat of her bike, and I swear my jeans get tighter. She fires up the engine, and the low growl echoes in the toy hauler before she rides it down the ramp.

“Pocket rocket for a pocket-sized bitch,” Bane sneers loud enough that I know Foxy heard him.

“Knock it off,” I warn, keeping my voice low. “It ain’t no damn pocket rocket.”

It’s fucking hot, is what it is.

The thought of this tiny blonde powerhouse handling that machine, that tight body controlling all that power between her legs—Christ, I need to stop this train of thought before I embarrass myself.

Bane’s eyes narrow as he watches her park her bike next to mine. “Heard she’s Chief’s sister,” he says, his voice low. “Also heard he called and said she was off limits.”

I glare at the annoying bastard. “Which one of them told you?”

He smirks. “Bash.”

My SAA has a big fucking mouth. I shouldn’t be surprised, though. The whole lot of ‘em are like a bunch of fucking hens. Always clucking about shit they shouldn’t be putting their nose in.

Foxy cuts her bike’s engine and glances over at us. I don’t miss the wariness in her expression as she eyes Bane. She’s on guard, and who can blame her?

“You’re going to try and fuck her, aren’t you?” he accuses, seeing the way I’m looking at her.

A grin spreads across my face.

“Gonna be a real goddamn shame to ruin the business deal we just made with the Saints.”

I shrug. Maybe. Maybe not. It’s not like I’m going to tell Jacksonville where I’m sticking my dick. It’s none of their goddamn business.

Bane curses.

“You know what,” I turn to face him. “I don’t remember needing your permission to do jack-shit.”

He shakes his head in disgust, but wisely doesn’t say another word about it. “Why’s she getting the bike out?”

“We’re going to Dave’s,” I explain, watching as Foxy sets her helmet on the back of her bike and walks toward us.

Foxy struts over on those goddamn boots I'm imagining thrown over my shoulders while I plow into her. “I wanted to apologize again,” she says as she approaches, her eyes locked on Bane. “About earlier. I shouldn’t have reacted that way.”

Bane crosses his arms over his chest, his expression unreadable. Then he looks at me, deliberately ignoring her attempt at an olive branch. “I’m coming with you. I don’t trust this bitch.”

Foxy flinches at his harsh words, and something protective rises in me.

“Knock it the fuck off,” I snap at my little brother. “Now.”

“Bitch,” he grumbles as he turns his back on both of us and marches over to his bike.

Her lips turn down as she watches him walk away. I can see the hurt and resignation in her emerald eyes and instantly want to throttle my little brother. He’s being a fucking prick because his pride is wounded. I get it, but I’m not going to let that shit slide much longer. She apologized.

Twice.

“I’m sorry about him,” I say, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder gently. “I wish I could say that he’s just having a bad day, but he’s been a stubborn asshole since birth.” And that’s the damn truth.