“There’s nothing wrong with it,” I said pointedly, and telepathically told Bartholomew not to listen to the silly man.
He gazed at the hood. “Engine’s a little shaky on tickover. We could tune that up for ya.”
The hell it is. “Thank you, but not today. I’m looking for Neil.”
“Neil?” He didn’t look evasive. He looked blank.
“Biker leathers. Long hair.” Okay, that doesn’t really narrow it down. “Um. I think he’s from California? Went to MIT?”
The guy’s eyebrows suddenly lifted. “Oh! Doc?”
Doc?! “Quite possibly,” I said. “Is he in there?”
I was stopped at the gate to the biker’s compound. And it really was a compound, complete with chain link fence topped with razor wire. I could see a garage, a junkyard and the “clubhouse” I’d seen in the photo, which seemed to be a bar in all but name. All bars look seedy in the bright sunlight but this one, with its cracked neon sign and bars on the windows, really took the prize.
“You a cop?” asked the guy.
“Do I look like a cop?” I was in a purple flowery top I’d bought from a local designer on Etsy, a tiny leather jacket made of calf’s leather and Diesel jeans that fit like a second skin. I’d been going for I’m-trying-to-dress-appropriately-but-I-know-I’m-not-a-biker-so-it’s-sort-of-ironic. The spike heels were probably too much, but I’d been in the mood to make an impression. When the guy’s eyes tracked down my body and then back up, I wished I’d just worn my normal street clothes.
“No,” said the guy, in a slightly pitying way, and swung the gate open for me. “He’s in the clubhouse.”
I parked between a couple of Harleys, ignoring the looks I got from the bikers lounging around in the sunshine. I walked up to the heavy, windowless door of the clubhouse.
What are you doing, Clarissa?
I pulled open the door and strode into the gloom.
***
It was dark inside the clubhouse, thanks to the tiny, barred windows, and it took my eyes a while to adjust. I saw a long bar, a pool table and some bikers sprawled on chairs—drunk, asleep or possibly dead. But no Neil.
Then huge, warm hands closed around my upper arms from behind and I jumped about a foot in the air and turned. I would have screamed but, somehow, I knew it was him. Don’t ask me how—his scent, maybe. The way his fingers squeezed the muscles of my arms in just the right way.
He pulled me close—very close. So close my breasts were brushing his chest and my groin was snuggled up against his.
“Aren’t you going to say, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’” I asked, a little breathlessly.
He eyed me steadily. God, he’s always so maddeningly calm! “Nope. Figure you’re here lookin’ for me. Question is: what are you gonna do now you’ve found me?”
A wave of heat ran down through my body, baking my brain, heating the air in my lungs. God, the feeling I got when I was with him was immediate. It was like being an animal, affected by pheromones. I only had to be near him and I descended into this helpless, panting state where anything was possible.
Focus.
I put my hands on his shoulders and pushed myself away. “I came to talk,” I told him. “I have questions.”
He gave me a long look. “I don’t like questions.”
“Really? You come across as so open and easy to read.”
A flicker went across his face—anger, but with a hint of a smirk. Like I’d surprised him.
“We’ll play pool,” he told me. He pulled a cue from a rack on the wall and threw it to me. “If you make your shot, you get to ask a question. If you miss, you gotta answer one.”
“And we have to tell the truth?” I asked. I was trying to sound nonchalant, but the idea of spending time in the clubhouse, with the other bikers watching and listening as we discussed our relationship, was making my head spin.
“You gotta problem with the truth?” He must have seen the hesitation on my face. “There’s another option. Go home and wait for me to call.”
One of the other bikers snickered and I felt the anger rise inside me.
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s play.”
The table was a piece of crap. Every inch of the baize had been soaked with beer multiple times—some bits were still damp from the night before. There was a large stain in one corner that looked suspiciously like blood. None of the legs were the same length, so the whole thing was on a tilt and wobbled every time you touched it. Even the balls were chipped—probably from being hurled across the room—so they didn’t roll right. Making shots was going to be difficult. Much, much more difficult for me, who hadn’t played on this table a thousand times, as he presumably had.
And, of course, he knew that. But what was his plan? What was he wanting to get out of this?
I really wished I knew what he was thinking.
Chapter 5
Neil
Big Earl keeps the windows barred, even though they’re too small to climb through. Maybe he’s worried about a rival gang sending trained monkeys to invade us. The net effect is that the clubhouse is kind of a dark cave even in the daytime. That’s fine. A dark cave suits a lot of us.
It meant that when she stumbled in from outside, she was temporarily blind. She went straight past me and stood there waiting for her eyes to adjust. Watching her, I felt something pull at my heart. Damn, she was beautiful, and it was a beauty that went way beyond things as simple as face and body. It was her grace—the way she seemed to walk without touching the ground. I could see why Darrell was fascinated by Natasha. I could almost feel myself getting inspired.
Except that was different. He was Darrell, with several million bucks, a plan and a future, and I was….
I was something different.
And I needed to set some limits—keep her away from me. But pushing her away wasn’t easy when I felt so drawn to her. She was addictive, this girl. My plan had been to stay away, at least for this week—use Darrell’s week away to go cold turkey. Now she’d thrown me right back in the habit.
I should have been pissed—
“Aren’t you going to say ‘What the hell are you doing here?’” she asked.
But how could I be pissed when she kept confounding me like that? I’d known girls like her before—beautiful and delicate. I’d even known a few who were wide-eyed and submissive, as well. But never one who was sharp-tongued and snarky, who could give me a run for my money in an argument and then, in the next beat, be almost pulling me down on top of her. She took my breath away.
I tried to sound calm.
“Nope. Figure you’re here lookin’ for me. Question is: what are you gonna do now you’ve found me?”
Keep it sexual. If it’s going to be anything, keep it about sex. Sex is safe.
I saw her redden. I loved making her blush. As she began to breathe harder, I had to fight to keep from doing the same. I was trying to play it cool, as if I was under control. But just the feel of her skin under my fingers, the scent of her in the air, was driving me crazy.
Focus.
She pushed herself away a little. “I have questions.”
Oh great. Questions were exactly what I didn’t need. “I don’t like questions.”
“Really? You come across as so open and easy to read.”
I kind of blinked at that. A hot little rush of anger, but it dragged behind it a shining silver thread. She was the only woman—the only person—who could make me want to yell at her and kiss her at the same time. I smiled.
Okay, fine. If she wanted answers, I’d appear to give her a shot…while making sure she didn’t get the chance to ask even one damn question. Then we could go back to simple, casual, ultra-hot sex…because I knew that was all I could offer her.
“We’ll play pool,” I told her, and threw her a cue. “Alternate shots. If you make your shot, you get to ask a question. If you miss, you gotta answer one.”
“And you have to tell the truth?” she asked. She sou
nded like she was trying to be casual, but I could see her discomfort. She was looking at the other guys as they lounged around, listening in. I almost felt bad, but the sooner she realized she was out of her depth and went back to someone safe, the better.
“You got a problem with the truth?” I asked. She looked so worried, I was hopeful that I might be able to scare her off right then. “There’s another option. Go home and wait for me to call.”
Across the room, Mickey snickered.
“Fine,” she said. “Let’s play.”
The clubhouse pool table is a work of art. It has real character and charm, not like the soulless, plastic-and-fake-wood monstrosities you get in some places. It’s only a pity someone’s old lady had to spill her damn nail polish on it. It also has enough peculiarities that I knew I’d be able to win. This is going to be easy. In fact, I’d have to be careful not to make it too obvious, at least at first.
I broke, and then stepped back to let her take the first shot, and it began.
Chapter 6
Clarissa
Leaning over the table, I was very aware of how tight the denim was stretched over my ass. Good thing I didn’t wear a skirt. I pulled back the cue and shot.
And missed.
“My question,” Neil announced, as if he’d been expecting it. “Is it true that ballet dancers can put their ankles behind their ears?”
The single most predictable thing any man can ask a dancer, the question he’d been waiting to ask since I’d first cut him off in Darrell’s kitchen. With anyone else I would have given them a withering glare, but with Neil I had a sneaking suspicion that he was asking it to get a rise out of me.
I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Also, he was about the one man in the world who could ask it in a way that actually turned me on. Damn him.
“Some of them,” I said. The room went very quiet.
“Including you?”
“That’s another question,” I told him sweetly. “Your shot.”
He stepped up to the table and gave it a long look, although I swore he was doing it for show. He lined up on a ball and sunk it.
“Including you?” he asked again as he straightened up. His eyes pinned me and I heard the biker who’d snickered before do it again.
My face was burning, but a deeper heat was beginning between my thighs. God, even in this horrible place, he was doing it to me.
“Including me,” I told him. And then, for effect. “I just need to be warmed up first.”
At that, he gave such a look of raw hunger that I almost took a step back. Instead, I bent to take my next shot. And missed again. The baize was dry in some places, wet in others, and had more bumps and dips than a backwoods road.
“My question,” Neil said. “Have you and Natasha ever f—”
“No,” I grated, “we haven’t ever ‘fooled around.’” I could feel my face going red, and the other bikers were drifting closer to listen.
“I was going to say ‘fallen for the same guy.” He was smirking, eyes twinkling. I couldn’t tell if I’d just embarrassed myself for no reason, or if that was what he’d been going to ask. Either way, he had me on the back foot, again. How was it that my tongue could lash a Harvard lawyer into submission, but this guy had me utterly lost?
I took a deep breath. “No. Never. She goes for…creatives, I guess.”
“And what do you go for?”
“You need to pot another ball to ask me that.”
He turned to the table and this time he didn’t even make a show of choosing a shot. He fired a ball into the corner pocket so fast it was just a blur. “And what do you go for?” he repeated.
I looked at him steadily. “Guys who know what they want in life. Guys with a career and a plan.”
“So you’re attracted to money.”
I took a step towards him. “I’m attracted to success. In fact, I’m attracted to drive. If you have drive, success will come.”
He took a step towards me. “You sound like a damn self-help book.”
“Annoyed that I didn’t say ‘big muscley bikers?’”
“Interested that you’re shoppin’ so far from home. Get bored?”
Again with the twinkling eyes. What was I doing, chasing a biker? “Don’t be presumptuous,” I told him. “Maybe there’s less going on than you think.”
He closed the gap between us. We were almost touching. “Maybe there’s more.”
“Hey,” said the biker who’d snickered before. “Is one of you gonna pot a ball or what?”
Neil turned to glare at him but then waved me towards the table with an elaborate flourish. Knowing that I’d miss every shot. Knowing that he’d get to ask me as many questions as he liked and that I’d never get to ask one.
Well, he didn’t know every damn thing.
Chapter 7
Neil
She bent low over the table with her long legs straight and her ass in the air, and lined up on a ball.
And sunk it.
Lucky shot, I told myself. No need to panic.
“Why do they call you ‘Doc’?” she asked. “Did you really go to MIT?”
“That’s two questions,” I said, playing for time.
“It’s one question,” she said. “Title: Why do they call you Doc? Question: Did you really go to MIT? I presume the two are related.”
I gazed at her. “I didn’t go to MIT. I’m at MIT.”
She shook her head, blonde hair tossing in a way that made me want to run my hands through its satiny strands. “At Darrell’s place, you said you graduated.”
“I did graduate. I’m doin’ my post-doc, a few days a week.”
Her jaw dropped. I could see it going through her head. The biker dude has a brain?!
“You’ll be a doctor of something?!” she asked, astonished.
“Doctor of Aeronautical Engineering,” I told her. I almost winced as I said it, because I knew the questions it would bring in the future. The pressure.
“Your shot,” she told me.
I leaned in to take the shot and suddenly she was standing very close to me. Close enough that I could feel the heat of her body through that oh-so-tight denim she wore. Close enough that I could smell her perfume, delicate and sophisticated. If I could have seen scents, this one would have looked like a fine filigree of sterling silver.
I took the shot and the ball glanced off the cushion an inch from the hole.
“My question,” she said. “What’s an MIT genius doing hanging around with bikers? Why aren’t you working in the batcave with your buddy?”
I tried to get some bravado back, sticking my thumbs in my belt. “If I did,” I asked, ”could I have you as my muse?”
“Down, boy. Answer the question.”
I tried to think of a convincing lie and then decided to go with the truth. “I don’t do well, mixin’ with the science crowd. Here,”—I jerked my head at the room—“I know where I stand. Your shot.”
She turned to the table, leaned in and sunk her next shot, all in one movement.
Realization hit, the floor seeming to fall away from under my feet. She’s hustling me!
“Is there anybody else?” she asked. First she’d lulled me into a false sense of security with a few missed shots and now she was playing for keeps—in her shots and her questions.
“No,” I told her truthfully.
I focused all my attention on my next shot. Now that I knew I was being hustled, it was a little easier. She didn’t sidle up beside me, this time. She moved around to the far end of the table and yawned and stretched, her small but perfect breasts lifting under her top.
I took a deep breath and stared at the table, my face like iron. I’ll just not look at her.
Then she wandered over towards the watching bikers. Oh, God, she wouldn’t….
She repeated the yawn-and-stretch maneuver in front of them. They were a lot more appreciative than I had been. It was crazy to feel jealous, of course. She was doing it delibera
tely, taunting me, trying to throw me off. It was an obvious ploy.
Which didn’t stop it working. My shot went wide—I didn’t even hit the right ball. She was watching out of the corner of her eye and I saw her smirk.
Then, by pure chance, the rogue ball hit the one I’d been aiming for. It teetered on the edge…and then dropped into the pocket.
“Why did you come to Darrell’s place, the second time?” My question took me by surprise. Why did I ask that? I could have asked something sexual, like before, to throw her off, or something inane. Why that?
She blinked. “That’s a waste of a question. You already know the answer.”
“Maybe I want to hear it for myself.” And, suddenly, I did.
She walked towards me, pulling her cue up behind her back to lie across her shoulders. “I came back to see you,” she said, watching my reaction carefully.
I took a long, slow breath, trying not to show how much I’d been hoping for that answer.
She leaned over and took her next shot. It went straight into the hole so cleanly and easily, the ball might as well have been pulled there by a string. Where the hell did she learn to play like that?
“How’d you find me?” she asked.
“Darrell. When he tracked down your friend to ask her to be his muse, he got all her details. And I knew you lived together.”
She tilted her head to one side. “That’s pretty stalker-ish.”
“Me, or him?” I asked.
“Both of you.”
I leaned down to take my shot, flustered. “I was pursuin’ you. Aren’t we meant to pursue you?” This time, don’t look at her. Whatever she does, even if she takes her damn clothes off, don’t look at her!
“Careful,” she whispered in my ear as I brought back my cue. “You’re getting all romantic.”
I miscued, almost ripping the baize. The other bikers had fallen silent, but now they burst out laughing.
Losing My Balance Page 5