Page 23 of Rev

When he’s gone and the woman with him, I glance at Chance. “Who was that? And who required Rev’s presence?”

“That was Inez. She’s…like a manager.” Chance finishes his coffee and rises to his feet. “Rev’ll be back shortly. Just stay here, like he said.”

He exchanges glances with Kane, and even the brothers at the other table—there’s something unspoken and unsettling.

The room empties, very suddenly. For such enormous human beings, they sure can move quietly.

And just like that, I’m alone. Not for long, though. Rev returns through the doorway right of the gym, fists clenched, eyes tight and narrow. “One sec. We’re going.”

“Going?” I ask.

“Home. Or wherever you’re staying.”

“I—”

He’s in his room already, emerging moments later wearing a maroon tank top—the muscle kind, tight around the armpits and shoulders, clinging to his absurdly massive chest and defined abs, loose at the waist—he’s wearing different shorts also, gray golf shorts that hang on his trim hips but cling to his mammoth thighs. Gray and white camo cross trainers, no-show socks.

He’s freaking gorgeous.

I always thought mohawks were kind of dumb and poser-ish, trying too hard to be cool. But on Rev, it just…works.Verywell. A little too well, as a matter of fact. It makes him look bad-A, like a primal warrior.

He closes his door behind himself, rattling the knob—locked. He glances at me, jerks his head the other way, toward the stairs. “This way.” He heads toward the stairs, once again without looking to see if I’m following, simply assuming I’ll listen.

What choice do I have?

He prowls ahead of me, shoulders tight, bunched and hunched. Hands clenched into fists at his sides, swinging well to either side of his body, not because he’s trying to look big, but because his arms and lats are simply so big that’s the way his arms naturally move.

He’s pissed. The air around him fairly vibrates with it.

I catch up to him at the bottom of the stairs. “I, um…I hope you didn’t get in trouble for helping me.”

“Not your problem.”

“Meaning you did.”

“Said don’t fuckin’ worry about it, girl.”

“My name is Myka, not girl.” I trot up the stairs beside him. “And…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I just…I got in over my head.”

“No shit,” he mutters. “Said don’t worry about it,Myka.”

We reach the top of the stairs, which is closed off by a heavy metal door with a crash bar. He hits the crash bar with his hip and the door swings open, and I’m blinded by a rectangular lance of sunlight and slammed by a battering ram of Vegas heat.

I just about hiss like a movie vampire, shielding my face with my hands. “Too bright, too hot.”

His hand clamps around my wrist and tugs me into a walk; I stumble after him, given no choice, even though I can’t see a darned thing. I trip, blinking, one eye’s shut and the other squinted as my eyes slowly adjust.

We’re in the parking lot—it’s empty, except for a line of black SUVs parked at the farthest end of the lot. They’re all identical, Mercedes-Benz G-Wagens, blacked-out windows, custom black wheels and oversize tires, no chrome anywhere. There are ten of them, and as we approach, I realize these are no run-of-the-mill G-Wagens, these are at the very top of the range; Darren is obsessed with luxury cars, and the higher he climbs the corporate ladder, the more expensive the car he trades up for, and he was always researching the next car, the next level of luxury. These cars would give him a hard-on that’d last for days.

Rev beelines for the nearest one, yanks open the driver’s seat, snagging a pair of wraparound mirrored Oakleys from the dash and sliding them on his face. I climb in next to him, watching as he starts it with the button—the snarl of the engine is purelymean.

“This car is amazing,” I say, by way of conversation.

“No shit.” He plants a hand on my headrest and twists his torso as he reverses. “Not mine. Belongs to…the club.” He says this, but there’s a layer of hidden subtext.

“The nightclub, or the club, like a group of men belonging to a secret society?” I ask.

He faces front, eyes on mine. “Both.” He frowns. “Not a secret society, though. More like…a brotherhood.”