Page 110 of I Will Revel in Glory (Death by Daybreak MC 3)
“What is this?” I ask as Sin moves over to a mini-fridge that’s situated on the floor against the wall. He squats down beside it and opens the door, digging a bottle of beer out for himself and glancing back in my direction.
“What do you want? Water? Soda? Iced tea?” He pauses and his mouth quirks. Sin grabs a drink before I even get the chance to answer, standing up and kicking the fridge door closed before he turns around and holds it out to me.
It’s orange juice.
My own mouth twitches, and I snatch it from his fingers, admiring the pretty figure he cuts with his blue hair and his earrings and his eight ball tattoo, those red lips inked into his skin making me hope for his sake that they have no connection to any real-world woman.
“You bought me orange juice just to put in this mini-fridge?” I ask, unscrewing the top and then sighing as the heavenly citrus scent fills my lungs. Yep. Guess even I’m not immune to simple, earthly things like pregnancy cravings.
“You have a big day ahead of you,” Sin tells me with a loose shrug of his shoulders, using a bottle opener that’s screwed to the wall to take the cap off his beer. He swigs some of it and then moves behind the bike, running his fingers reverently across the handlebars. His belt is still hanging loose, and that turns me on like nothing else. I want him to leave it like that, undone and waiting for something more.
“Yeah, I know. I’m supposed to be at the clubhouse organizing transportation for all the families that want to go to the airport.” I scratch at my temple with a single finger and close my eyes. Not only is the mafia still a constant threat, of course, but the wildfire danger is increasing exponentially. The town just forty-five minutes south of us got bumped up to a level two evacuation warning. Basically, that means you need to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.
Level one is ‘be ready’. Level two is ‘be set’. Level three is GO.
Anyone who has family out of town is jumping ship.
As they should.
“Not today,” Sin tells me, continuing to tease his fingers along the handlebars, like he’s caressing my cunt instead of a motorcycle. The way he’s staring at me, I see that the move is intentional. “I already talked to Crown; you need a day off.” He pauses for a minute, like he’s reconsidering his words. “Well, not off-off, but a change of pace.”
I’m not about to complain about that. I’m a hard worker, but even I have to admit that I’m human—whether I like it or not. Breaks and self-care don’t have to be justified.
“Whose bike is this?” I ask, taking a drink of the juice and trying not to groan with manic pleasure. It shouldn’t taste so good, should it? But shit if my senses aren’t heightened like crazy. Everything smells stronger, looks crisper, tastes sharper.
“It’s mine,” Sin says, patting the brown leather seat. “Hop on.”
With a shrug, I step forward and swing my leg over the seat, ignoring the sudden roiling in my stomach. Damn it. I lock down my iron will to keep from sprinting for the bushes outside.
“This is nice,” I murmur, caressing the dented chrome. “But it doesn’t look like any bike I’ve ever seen.”
“Because it’s not,” Sin says, setting his beer down on a red and silver storage chest that’s as tall as he is. This entire garage smells like home, like safety, like comfort. Motor oil and grease and leather. I close my eyes for a brief moment. “This is a 1915 Indian 8-Valve board track racer. To start the engine, the bike had to be towed, pushed, or given a bump-start to light it.”
“So it’s as old as you are?” I quip, opening my eyes as Sin offers up a crooked, cocky half-smile. “Or at least as old as my husband. Doesn’t he turn thirty-four sometime soon?”
“In June,” Sin returns with a lifting of his brow. “Don’t you even know your own husband’s birthday?”
“I forgot my own birthday,” I tell him with a shrug, finishing my juice and handing him the empty bottle. He sets it on the storage chest. “So, what are you up to with a vintage bike anyway?”
Sin moves past me, opening a drawer on another storage chest and digging around like he’s looking for something in particular.
“Fixing it up.” He points at me with a wrench in hand. “These things are worth a lot of money. This one was sold to some investment banker douchebag who had no idea what he was doing with it. He crashed it the first day he owned it, and I bought it for cheap. Now I have to fix all the shit that he broke.” Sin tosses the wrench back in the drawer and continues his search, his eyes sliding over to meet mine. “And you’re going to help me.”
