Page 33 of Sexting the Bikers

I shrug, keeping it easy. “No idea.”

It’s not a lie. But it’s not the whole truth either.

She lingers in the doorway, and for a second I think she might bolt. But then I tilt my head toward the table and pat the chair beside me.

“Why don’t you come in?” I say, softer this time. “Unless you’re sick of testosterone and bad lighting.”

That earns me a hint of a smile. She walks in without a word, hips swaying just enough to remind me she knows how to move when she wants someone to look.

I don’t even try to hide it.

I stand, walk to the fridge, crack it open. “Beer?”

She nods. “Sure.”

I grab two, pop the tops, and hand her one. She takes it with that same queenlike air, like even in borrowed leather and post-apocalypse tension, she’s somehow above the mess.

But I watch her. I always do. And I catch the way her fingers flex tighter around the bottle when they brush mine. She’s not nearly as calm as she wants me to believe.

We sit, not quite across from each other. Just enough space for the tension to stretch between us without snapping.

She takes a sip, then exhales. “Reaper doesn’t like me.”

I snort. “Reaper doesn’t like anyone.”

“Yeah,” she says softly. “But he especially doesn’t like me.”

I can’t argue. Not really. So I take a long sip from my bottle, buy myself a second, then say, “He’ll come around.”

Even I don’t believe it.

And from the look on her face, neither does she.

“Okay,” I say, tapping the neck of the bottle against the edge of the table. “Maybe not. But eventually he’ll have to stop treating you like a walking land mine.”

Her gaze sharpens. “Am I not?”

I smirk, even though the question hits a little deeper than it should. “Sure. But we’re the Ravagers. We like things that explode.”

That earns me a small smile, the first real one since she walked in, and it makes something loosen just a bit in my chest. Only a little, but enough that I can breathe again.

For now.

She leans back, crossing one leg over the other, beer resting lightly in her fingers. “He looked like he wanted to kill you.”

“Yeah,” I say, lips twitching around a bitter edge. “Wasn’t my best night.”

“Because of me?”

I look at her.

She doesn’t say it like someone fishing for guilt or validation. She says it like someone who’s used to people blaming her. Like she expects the answer to be yes.

I shake my head slowly. “Because of everything. You were just the match. But this fire’s been burning a while.”

Her eyes flick toward the door, like she’s listening for footsteps or shouting, or maybe just the echo of her own name being dragged through the dirt.

Then, quieter: “I didn’t ask to be here.”