Page 18 of Rags's Awakening
“Kimber said the loser only goes into women’s apartments when they’re asleep or something like that. A real chicken shit for sure.”
“Yeah, but I still want to make sure Clara’s okay.”
“She hasn’t caught on that you’re trailing her?”
“Dude, we’re Insurgents, we know how to tail someone without them knowing.”
A grin spread over Throttle’s face. “Damn straight. We know our shit.” He pulled himself out of the hole he was digging. “If Clara still has those blonde streaks in her hair, she’s probably good. According to Kimber, all the women have been dark-haired,” he said, wiping sweat from his neck.
Rags froze for half a beat.Dark-haired.Casey’s face flashed through his mind before he could stop it, that sharp tongue, the spark in her eyes, the soft curves he couldn’t forget. All of it got under his skin. His gut twisted, and he cussed under his breath. He had no damn business thinking about her, let alone worrying about her. He shoved the shovel in hard, dirt flying.
“You good?” Throttle asked.
Rags didn’t look up. “Yeah,” he said, voice flat. “Just diggin’.”
“The hole’s done, dude. If you keep shoveling, you’re gonna hit water.” He laughed.
Without saying anything, Rags tossed the shovel aside then brushed the dirt from his jeans.
“You look like a man with a chick on his mind. Your eyes had a faraway look like something dark blew through.”
Rags glanced over at Throttle. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about. The only thing on my mind is getting this fuckin’ job done.”
“Damn, dude, I didn’t mean to hit a nerve.”
“You didn’t.”
Chuckling, Throttle held up his hands. “Okay, brother, whatever you say.”
Rags bit down the urge to slam his fist into Throttle’s face, but instead, he propelled the wheelbarrow forward, his work boots stomping on the ground. The truth was, he wasn’t mad at his buddy. He was mad at himself for lettingherface slip into his head, for caring whether she was safe, for letting something soft stir where he’d spent years building walls.
The afternoon slipped by until the sun dipped lower, bleeding orange and red across the sky.
“You wanna grab a beer?” Throttle asked, shutting the back of the work truck.
“Not tonight. I’m meeting Clara at Ruthie’s, remember? Another time.”
“Yeah, that’s right, you mentioned that earlier. Pedro and Willy are gonna take care of the gutters and leaves at our clients’ houses tomorrow, so I’ll see you at church.”
“Yeah. Puck told me some shit’s been going on with the Devil’s Reign that Banger and Hawk are going to address. The festival is a week away, and it’d suck big time if those assholes ruin it for the kids and the cause.”
Throttle shook his head. “Those fuckers don’t belong there. This is our deal and we”—he jabbed a finger at his chest—“make the rules.”
Rags gave a sharp nod, and his muscles tensed beneath his dirt-stained T-shirt. “Damn straight.” He lifted a fist, the motion tight and deliberate. “Our deal, our rules.”
Throttle met his glare, the air between them thick with the same anger, the same silent promise—if the rival club tried anything, they’d be ready.
Rags exhaled sharply then shared a grin with Throttle.
“I have to haul ass back to the clubhouse to shower and change before meeting Clara. You and Kimber have any plans?”
“We’ll probably grab a bite to eat at Big Rocky’s.”
“Barbecue sounds good, but not at Ruthie’s.” Rags laughed. “If you see Diesel, tell him he still owes me three hundred bucks from last week’s pool game.”
“Will do. I bet he was pissed when you won. The dude doesn’t like losing.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Rags said, swinging a leg over his bike.
