Текст книги "Rebel"
Автор книги: Callie Hart
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 15 страниц)
REBEL
When she climbs back in the car, she gets in the front.
That's how I know I've made some sort of progress with her. Is it her finally agreeing to help? No. But maybe, just maybe, she's not as adamant anymore. Maybe she's thinking about it. Which is a better situation than we were in before.
She sleeps. For five hours, she lays so motionless, stretched out as best as she can in her seat, and I drive, glancing at her occasionally out of the corner of my eye, wondering if she's still fucking breathing. I can't tell, and she doesn't shift an inch.
We arrive in Dallas just as the day's darkening, the lights of the city like lightning bugs blinking on and off on the horizon. My eyes are killing me. My body is used to this, though, traveling long distances. The Hummer actually provides more comfort than I'm used to. Sitting on a motorcycle, through wind and rain and everything other fucking thing Mother Nature throws at us, can be unpleasant to say the least.
You get used to it. You get used to all of it. The pain in your back. The wet leather that just doesn’t dry out. The guns. The sneaking around in the dark. The shootings and the stabbings and the dying. The funerals.
"Mmmm. Where are we?" Sophia stretches out like a cat, just about managing to straighten her legs before the soles of her shoes hit the engine block in the foot well. She blinks at me—she looks like a child as she rubs at her eyes, ridding herself of her sleep. She looks...she looks so freaking sweet in that very, very brief moment that it almost makes my teeth hurt. Catches me by surprise.
"Dallas," I tell her. "Halfway, or close enough. We'll stop for the night."
"I can drive. I just slept for...wow. I slept for a really long time." She stares at the clock on the dash like she doesn’t believe it's telling her the truth.
"Yeah, I don't think so." I give her the old you think you're gonna pull that shit with me? look. "We're stopping. I need to get actual rest, and I won't be able to sleep properly if I have to keep my eye on you the whole time."
She doesn’t react to my rejection of her offer—it was clearly expected. Instead, she asks something out of the blue. "Why did you kill off your accent?"
"I didn’t kill it off. My father did. He didn’t believe a regional dialect was gonna help me through life. Had it trained out of me when I was a kid."
"That’s...practical?"
"An obsession of his. He tried to make my mother 'speak properly' too, but it never stuck."
"So she still speaks with a Southern accent?"
"Nope. She's dead." I wait for the awkward silence, but it never comes. Sophia makes a soft humming sound.
"Oh."
"You not gonna tell me you're sorry for my loss?"
"Do you want me to?"
"Not particularly."
"Then I won't tell you I'm sorry."
I grip my hands around the steering wheel, cracking my neck. I shouldn’t have mentioned my mother. My whole body feels tight as fuck now. I like that she didn’t dive right in with the placations, though. I fucking hate when people say shit like that. It's such a fucking lie. At least Sophia was true to herself. She's in a shitty position and I'm the reason why. I could have let her go back home by now a thousand times but I haven't. I've kept her locked up and refused her requests to leave. She could probably give a shit if my whole family died right in front of us right now.
"Where are we staying?" she asks.
"At a friend's place."
"Another MC clubhouse?" I can hear the worry in her voice. She must have heard about the shit that goes down in places like the Widow Makers’ clubhouse. The drinking. The drug taking. The fucking and fighting. She doesn’t want to get caught up in any of that.
"No, somewhere else. A motel."
"And...we'll be sharing a room?" She says it carefully, slowly, testing the words on her tongue.
"Yes, we'll be sharing a room. You got a problem with that?"
"You really expect me to say no here? Of course I have a problem with that."
"Well it's tough fucking luck, sugar. Unless you want us both to sleep in the car instead, this is happening. Don't worry—I fully intend on keeping my hands to myself."
I'm getting to know her reactions. I know she's looking at me, pulling that face she pulls when she's pissed. I don’t bother turning to check; I just keep on driving into the night. Our sleeping arrangements are non-negotiable. She can’t change that by acting like a princess.
"Okay. Fine," she says.
"Okay, fine?"
"Yeah. We get a room with two beds, you stay in yours and I stay in mine and all is right with the world."
If only she knew how many women had begged me to climb up into their beds with them. Begged. Sophia’s lack of interest in me only makes me want her even more, which is fucked.
We make it to the Motel 6 around seven. Not just any Motel 6; this is a specific motel run by a specific person. The place looks like any other cheap dive establishment might look, but it's not. It's a kind of safe house for people like me. Alex Draper, a regular guy well into his late fifties, owed pretty much every bookie in America money. I helped him clear a few of those debts with my fists, and I helped him clear the rest of them with a few careful words whispered into the right ears. Ever since then, Alex has been in my pocket. A Widower ever needs a place to keep his head down for a couple of days, he gets sent out to Texas on an enforced vacation.
There's an ancient-looking ’78 Honda CX500 leaning on a stand by the entranceway to the lobby. When I see it, my heart gives a kick in my chest. Its royal blue tank has been touched up, I see. In fact, the whole bike looks like it's had minor improvements made here and there. The old girl's been getting some love. I pull up beside it and park the truck, staring out of the window at a motorcycle I'd recognize anywhere, regardless of how many parts got replaced or fixed up.
"What's the matter?" Sophia asks. "You know the person who owns that bike?"
"I do. I knew the guy it belonged to before him better, though. That's my grandfather's old motorcycle."
"Your grandfather? Your father, the governor for Alabama, was raised by a guy who rode motorcycles? A guy like you?"
Her tone is very suggestive. I hate the way she says that: a guy like you. She's right—I'm a criminal and an all-round fuck-up these days—but, still, the more time I spend with this girl, the more I don't want her to think of me that way. "He was my grandfather on my mother's side. And no, he wasn't like me. He was just a guy who loved motorcycles. Building them. Racing them. He taught me to ride as soon I was old enough."
"Does he still live in Alabama, too?"
"Nope. Also dead." I climb out of the Hummer, slamming the door behind me. The ghosts of the past seem intent on screwing with me today. I don’t have fucking time for it. Or the energy, for that matter. I lock the truck behind me before Sophia can follow me. I head inside the motel, and Alex is sitting behind the counter, eating beans on toast from a chipped plate in front of him. Jeopardy! is playing on a small, decrepit-looking TV that's mounted to the wall. Alex Trebek flashes his pearly whites at the contestants, and Alex Draper catches sight of me and nearly chokes on his dinner.
"Rebel. Wasn't expectin' ya, son." He hammers his fist against his chest, face turning a strained shade of red.
"Yeah, flying visit. Was hoping you might be able to spot me a double room for the night."
Alex gives me that look he always used to give me when I was a kid and he was gambling away my grandfather's money—for a brief time they ran a business together, competing in races all over the country, and my pops trusted him with his winnings. He knew Alex was losing his money, but he didn’t really care. Alex was his best friend—hence how he ended up with the Honda CX500 when my grandfather croaked—and it was never about the money for him anyway. All he cared about were the bikes.
"Uh, well, yeah, son. I got the same room you normally use. I keep it free for ya. Just in case." We skip the whole credit card deposit, paperwork bullshit regular guest have to go through, and Alex tosses me the keys. When I head back outside, he follows me to the doorway, squinting out into the darkness. "That a girl you got with you?" he asks. Nosey fucker never did know when to not ask questions. I refrain from telling him to mind his own damn business, though. Against all odds, I have a soft spot for the old bastard, just like my grandfather did.
"Last time I checked," I inform him.
He nods, rubbing his calloused fingers over his two-day-old scruff. "That's good, son. Harry would be pleased. About time you found someone nice to settle down with." He squints a little harder, trying to get a better look at Sophia. "She's a beaut, too. Dark-haired. That's good. I never could picture you with a blonde."
"She's just keeping me company. She's not with me."
Alex's twisted old mouth pulls up to one side, displaying his crooked, slightly blackened front teeth. "Then you're a mad man, son. She's made for you, I reckon. Better get on that before anyone else does."
I fight off the urge to laugh. If only he knew.
******
The room's warm, which is welcome. Sophia heads straight to the bathroom and the sound of running water whispers behind the wooden door. I sit on the edge of the bed closest to the door and get ready to make some phone calls. Cade is first on my list.
"S'up, man. You breaking for the night?"
"Yeah. I'll be arriving at Louis' place around three tomorrow. Can you call Leah and let her know we're on our way in?" Leah McPherson works for my father, the one single favor the bastard's ever done for me. She needed to get the hell out of New Mexico, permanently, and I needed to find someone who would take her on, fast. At the time, my dad was the only person I could think of to ask. He goes through housemaids quickly, too abrasive and plain fucking rude for anyone to stomach him for too long, but a sharp-tongued Southern bastard was nothing after what Leah had already been through. I figured she would cope, and she did. Has been coping for the past two years. Ever since, she's been a convenient go-between, passing on messages from my father to me and vice versa. Makes communicating with the old man a hell of a lot more pleasant.
Leah is also very good at passing on information that my father probably doesn’t want me to know.
"I'll call her right away," Cade says. And then, “Shay came in here asking who she was buying all those clothes for this morning. She was pissed, man."
"Yeah, well, Shay can be pissed all she wants."
"It's bad juju to have a woman slamming around the clubhouse."
"What do you want me to do about it? Marry the fucking girl?"
Cade snorts. I can hear him shuffling papers or something—must be in my office. He takes care of the paperwork for the Ink Bar and the general running of the compound while I'm gone. "The day you marry anyone is the day hell freezes over. But maybe you could just talk to her. Have a quiet word in her ear or something. Fuck, man, just tell her it wasn't meant to be or something. I don't know."
If he were anyone else, I'd tell him to go fuck himself good and hard. "I'll think about it."
"Great. Now, the Mexicans want more—" Cade cuts off. I think it's just because he was about to say guns, and you can't say the Mexicans want more guns on the fucking telephone. Especially with the attention our little community out in the desert attracts. But Cade makes a guttural growling sound that tells me this is something else. Something bad.
"What? Tell me."
"You in front of a TV, man?" he says. "You'd better turn it on."
Oh, boy. When Cade sounds worried like that, it can only mean trouble. I hit the power button on the TV in the room, waiting for the old piece of shit to blink into life. The same Jeopardy! show Alex was watching materializes slowly, pixel by pixel, onto the screen. "Which channel?" I ask.
"Any. Just look for a news station. You won’t have any problems finding this."
Fuck. If something's happened that's made it to all news stations across America, it must be big. I stab at the programming buttons on the bottom of the TV, searching, until I come across a stricken-looking woman in a pale green suit, staring straight out of the screen at me. She clears her throat, taking a deep breath, as though pulling herself together. "Again, eighteen people have died and seven further people are injured in what is perhaps the most violent gang shooting in Los Angeles for years. Eyewitnesses reported that at three pm this afternoon, a group of men dressed in leather jackets and black jeans entered Trader Joe's on Sunset Boulevard and began indiscriminately shooting at shoppers. It's unclear how many gunmen there were at this time, as security cameras within the store were shot out as soon as the men entered.
"Our sources have confirmed that the reason for the attack is most likely drug related. It is believed an undercover police officer working for the DEA was meant to meet with a handler at the grocery store. Police are yet to confirm if this is the case, or whether a DEA agent was in fact shot and killed, but the tightening of security around the crime scene and the LAPD's notable silence on the matter would lead us to believe this is correct.
"Once the shooting was at an end, the men involved in this senseless, violent attack sped off on motorcycles. Footage here shows three of the men celebrating as they prepare to flee the scene."
The image turns fuzzy as camera footage replaces the news studio, showing a clear image of the supermarket from outside. From the angle of the footage, this camera was covering a small food court outside the entrance, but you can clearly see three men emerging from the left, heads bowed, long hair ratty and hanging in their faces. One of them spins around, must hear something, and then there it is: The Widow Makers’ emblem. Our patch. Right in the middle of the motherfucker’s back. I can’t hear what’s being said between them, but they’re not fucking celebrating. Their wild arm movements, the way they’re shoving at each other as they hurry off screen—they’re arguing.
“Police are yet to release an appeal for information. Should a member of the public recognize any of these men, we at News 541 want to help. If anyone has any information about these individuals, call in on…” The newsreader rattles of a telephone hotline, the screen frozen on a shot of the three men, bodies all pointed in different angles as they survey the area, faces nothing more than charcoal smudges. The only thing I can make out clearly is that goddamn patch.
“Oh my god.”
I jump, hitting the mute button on the television. Sophia’s standing right behind me, her body wrapped in a towel, breasts crushed together by the way she’s fiercely holding the material tight around herself. Her bare shoulders are speckled with water drops, her hair almost black now that it’s wet. Once more, it hits me like a kick in the gut: the woman is fucking beautiful. And she’s staring at me like I’m some kind of monster. “What—what have you done? That’s your club, isn’t it? The Widow Makers? Why would you have all those people killed?”
SOPHIA
Rebel just sits there, a tiny wrinkle in between his brows the form of an expression on his face. His eyes somehow look even colder than they normally do, which is saying something. “This wasn’t us,” he tells me. He stares grimly at the television for a long moment, the muscles in his jaw and throat working, and then gives a small shake of his head. “This was a fucking punishment.” He lifts his phone to his ear—I didn’t even realize he had it in his hand—and then starts speaking into it. “You still there, man?”
I sink slowly to sit on the edge of the bed next to him, not sure if I should pretend not to be listening. If I should be sitting so close to him. If I should put some clothes on. I don’t know what I should be doing. All I know is the news has this story on repeat and for all the world it looks like Rebel and his boys have been out murdering people for fun in Hollywood.
“Yeah. I know,” Rebel says. I can almost hear his teeth grinding. “She obviously didn’t take our refusal as well as I’d hoped. Now she’s gone after her DEA agent and had him killed. And she’s pinning it on us publicly, just to fucking spite us.”
There’s talk on the other end of the phone, but all I hear is my heart beating in my ears. The television’s quiet now, but they keep cycling through the same three or four images: a woman running out of the supermarket, dropping a plastic bag on the ground as she staggers away from the madness ensuing inside. A cashier holding up his hands, walking backward. Three men, pushing each other outside, arguing. And then a close-up of one of their leather jackets, complete with grinning skull and double drawn pistols, Widow Makers at the top, New Mexico underneath.
“She’ll be expecting that,” Rebel says, getting to his feet. “We can’t afford to retaliate right now. We need to account for every single member of the club for the past—no, I know none of us did this. Fuck’s sake, Cade. But the cops, they’re gonna be all over this. They’re gonna wanna know where everyone was.” He starts to pace, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. I was struck by a wave of horror when I first saw what he was watching as I came out of the shower, but now, watching him, I know his club is innocent. I just have no clue what the hell’s going on.
Rebel makes eye contact with me as he paces, and I don’t know what to do. I should maybe look away, give him a little privacy or something, but I’m too confused to do that. So I just look back at him, my heart in my throat, waiting for him to say something that I actually might understand. He stops in front of me, facing me, eyes still boring into my skin, and I feel a little lightheaded. “Burn everything we have on the Desolladors. Bury the guns. Burn the weed. Make our house safe,” he says into the phone. “The cops are on their way.”
The cops are on their way to the compound. I’m suddenly torn between laughing and crying. The cops, showing up at the compound? If I’d been a little more stubborn, they would have found me there, locked away in a room inside their clubhouse, still plotting a way to escape. I could have been home free.
Rebel slides his cell phone into his pocket and crouches down in front of me, the flashing images behind him on the television casting a blue light around his head, throwing his features into relief. He exhales and places his hands on my bare knees. “Soph?”
This feels like the first time, the first time I’ve ever been looked at properly in my entire life. Those pale, icy eyes of his almost burn my skin as he studies me.
“Yeah?”
“I need a stiff drink,” he says. “I can only have one if you swear you’re not gonna try and do something fucking stupid.”
He’s asking for my word that I won’t try to escape if he has a drink? He doesn’t need to do that. He could handcuff me to the bed or something and get as drunk as he liked without having to worry about me, but…he’s asking me if he can trust me instead. Absolutely crazy. I nod, trying to keep myself from appearing a little too over-enthusiastic. If he doubts me, he will cuff me. And after being restrained so frequently of late, I really don’t feel like trying to sleep with my wrists pinned up over my head. “It’s fine. I’ll behave,” I tell him.
“Thank you.” He stands, heading for the discolored, yellowing Bakelite phone that sits on the bedside table in between our two beds. He picks it up and stabs one button—must be 0 for reception. “Hey, Alex. Need some whiskey. What you got?” He frowns, but then says, “That’ll do. Bring it over?”
He puts the phone down. He doesn’t move for a moment, his back to me, his shoulders barely hitching up and down with his breath. Then he tips forward, taking hold of the phone cable, and rips it out of the wall.
Turns out he doesn’t trust me enough to leave it plugged in. Definitely smart on his part, but crappy luck for me. He picks up the entire phone and carries it to the door just as someone starts to knock on it. I don’t even see who it is. No words are spoken. Rebel shoves the phone through the gap in the door and then takes hold of a bottle of liquor, pulling his arm back through the gap, and then the door is closed again. Whoever was on the other side must be used to this kind of behavior; he leaves without a single comment.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” I ask.
Rebel’s head snaps up, like he’d forgotten I was even here. “Was that part of our deal? Am I supposed to apprise you of everything that happens in my club now?”
“From the look on your face, this didn’t happen inside your club, asshole. Why do you have to be so fucking rude, anyway? I’m scared. You want to keep me calm. The smartest thing you can do is explain what I just saw on the TV, why you’re tearing into that bottle like it’s your last goddamn lifeline.” He really is tearing at it. He can’t seem to keep still long enough to focus and open the plastic seal properly. I can tell he’s growing more and more tense by the second just from looking at him. I hold out my hand, taking the bottle from him as he passes me. He doesn’t stop me. He’s too busy staring at the floor as he paces back and forth, opening and closing his hands into fists.
I catch my nail under the plastic seal on the bottle, opening it easily, and I twist the screw cap, wincing at the burning smell that immediately hits my nose. Rebel picks up the television remote and throws it as hard as he can against the wall.
“Fuuuck!”
My heart starts slamming underneath my ribcage. I thought it earlier, that despite how he looks, I didn’t think Rebel was really a violent man. Now I can see it, though. I can see how he would be absolutely crazy if the situation required it of him. He blows hard, his breath rushing in and out of his lungs so forcefully I can hear him panting. He storms toward the door and then changes his mind, heading back toward the bathroom. Flexing his hands again, it’s as though he’s itching for something else to throw.
“Rebel?” He doesn’t seem to hear me. “Rebel.”
He stops pacing. Stares at me. “What?” he growls.
“You’re starting to scare me.” I don’t know what I hope to accomplish by telling him that, but it’s as though I’ve just struck him across the face. The man who was throwing things and ripping phones out of walls , on the brink of a nuclear explosion, is suddenly gone. He lets out one final, rage-filled exhalation, and by the time he’s run out of breath, he’s calm. He leans back against the wall, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Fuck. Sorry, Soph.” He takes a moment, fingers digging into his hair, and then he slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the floor. “There’s a woman. A crazy fucking head case of a woman, who is sorely pissed at me, and this is her way of getting back at me.” He jerks his thumb at the TV, shaking his head. “She wanted me to kill this DEA guy. I told her I didn’t want the club involved in anything remotely to do with the DEA, so she’s gone and killed the fucker and made it look like it was us anyway. To teach me a lesson.”
I bridge my knees, still clutching hold of the bottle of…of Lagavulin? It stinks like nothing else. Rebel watches me tuck the towel up underneath me so that I’m not flashing him, a wan smile lifting up one corner of his mouth. He looks like he’s at a loss. “What does it mean, then? Will the cops come arrest you for this?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says.
“And you’ll go to jail?” I thought I’d rejoice a little more at that prospect, but the past few hours…I don’t know. Maybe I’m changing my mind about him. God, I’m not turning into one of those Stockholm bitches. I refuse. Seriously unhealthy stuff right there. But, from what he’s told me, I can see that Rebel’s reasoning behind trying to get me to help him is honorable. He’s just really not gone about it the right way.
“I don’t know. I mean, I’ve been with you the whole time that shooting was taking place. You could always tell the cops we were holed up in here all day.”
“And why would the police believe I was hiding out in a motel room with the head of a motorcycle gang, when I’ve clearly been reported as a missing person back in Seattle by now?”
Rebel leans forward, forearms resting on his knees, his eyes flashing with less worry now and more…something else. Something that makes my skin feel strange, like it’s glowing. “Young women run away and lock themselves in motel rooms with hot bikers all the time, sugar. I’d be happy to show you what activities they might engage in to pass the time. And we’re not a motorcycle gang. We’re a club.”
My cheeks are on fire. I know exactly what he’s referring to, of course. He’s suggesting we have sex, and that is not going to happen. “You swore you wouldn’t rape me,” I say, using the hand I’m holding the whiskey in to point at him accusingly. He takes the bottle from me and raises it to his lips, eyes locked on me the whole time. He drinks, swallows, inhales sharply, and then grins.
“I didn’t say anything about anyone being forced into anything, sugar. I’m talking about consensual participation.”
“And why the hell would I consent to participate with you in anything like that? I have a boyfriend, y’know.”
“I did not know that,” he says, shifting forward a little. Closer. Within reaching distance now. He takes another drink from the bottle, pressing his full lips to the beveled rim of the bottle, still watching me. Still making me feel very strange, indeed. He holds up the bottle to me, offering me a drink. “What’s your boyfriend’s name?”
“Matt.” I take the bottle from Rebel, not sure I want to drink from it. I do though; I need something to take the edge of the unexpected tension from this situation. The alcohol that chases over my tongue and down my throat is liquid napalm, setting small fires one after the other as it roars through my body. I gasp, barely able to catch my breath.
Over the past few days, I’ve been thinking about Matt a lot. What the hell would he make of this situation right now? Would he be wondering why the hell I haven’t put any clothes on yet? A bolt of hot embarrassment washes through me, putting out the whiskey fire. Handing the bottle back, I get to my feet. “I should get dressed.”
“Why bother? We’ll be going to bed soon, anyway, right?” The way he says that—going to be bed soon—is full of innuendo. I hear his meaning clear as day: we’ll be going to bed together soon, anyway.
“What are you doing, Rebel? A second ago you were freaking out about a shooting that your motorcycle club is being framed for, and now all you seem to care about is flirting with me.” I tighten the towel around me, suddenly aware that there’s very little material between my naked body and his hands. “Shouldn’t you be thinking of a way to exonerate yourself and your club?”
Rebel shrugs. He gently takes the whiskey from me with one hand. With the other hand, he slowly traces his fingertips across the bridge of my foot, making me jump. I’d take a step back, but the bed is right behind me, blocking my way. Rebel softly runs up hand up over my foot and loops his fingers around my ankle. His thumb moves in small, careful circles over the swell of bone there, a soft, barely there contact that sends shivers of burning heat sparking upward, firing all over my body. “I think better when I’m distracted,” he says, his voice a low rumble in his chest.
I stagger sideways, almost losing my footing. “I’m not gonna be some cheap distraction for you, asshole. I’m not just some hole you can stick your dick into ’cause I’m here and it’s convenient.”
“And what if I told you I wanted to have sex with you because I like you? Would that make a difference?”
“You don’t like me.”
“Of course I do.”
I turn my back on him, heat welling everywhere all over my body. “Did you bring something else for me to wear, or should I just put my jeans and T-shirt back on again?”
Rebel slowly gets to his feet, his chest brushing against my bare shoulder blades as he steps in between the two beds and unzips the bag he brought with him. I have to hold my breath. He rustles around in the bag and then throws something over my shoulder: another oversized T-shirt. I hold it up, and this time it doesn’t say, It Ain’t Gonna Suck Itself. It says, Widow Makers MC, New Mexico and underneath, Club President. I spin around, holding it up in the air. “I can’t wear this.”
Rebel smirks, pulling his own plain black shirt over his head. He starts speaking somewhere between fully clothed and half-naked, his face hidden by his shirt, but I know he’s laughing. I can hear it in his voice. “And why not?”
“Because…because I don’t want anything to do with your club. I sure as hell don’t want your damn logo plastered all over me while I’m sleeping. I won’t willingly give you the free advertising.”
Rebel looks around, holding up his hands. “Who you advertising to, sugar? Ain’t no one here but you and me. Besides, that’s not how we roll, anyway. You see anyone outside our compound walls wearing that patch, you tell me straight up. That’s against club policy.”
“Cade.”
“What?”
“Cade was wearing a hoody with this on the back of it the day I met him. In that alleyway in Seattle.”
Rebel starts pulling the drawers open on the nightstand, searching for something. “That was different,” he says. “That was an exceptional situation.”
“Why?”
“Because he was acting on my behalf. He was there looking for my uncle. And he knew what he was gonna have to do if he found Ryan dead. He was going to have to declare war. Gotta be wearing official colors to do that.” He lifts out a large notepad in the bottom drawer, apparently having found what he was looking for. He points it at me, lifting one eyebrow. “Now put on the damn shirt.”
“Urgh, fine!” I wrestle the shirt over my head, doing my best not to drop the towel as I do so. It feels like he’s won, somehow, which is pathetic. We haven’t bet anything. He and I are not at war, not really. But wearing his club shirt makes me feel like I’m his property, and that doesn’t feel good. The material comes down to my mid-thigh, plenty long enough to preserve my modesty, but I still feel vulnerable all the same.
