“Hell, Prez, man I wanted to go on the Chicago run with Tweet and the others. Don’t have me running after these damn girls all the time. I’ll go crazy,” Jonesy complains.
“Bullshit, Jonesy. Since when have you ever hated following girls?” Ford responds, making me laugh under my breath—because he’s right. If there’s a pretty girl involved, Jonesy is there.
“Man, these chicks are jailbait. Not to mention, one looks just like your daughter. The other one is a redhead and you know my history with those bitches. Three words Ford. No. Thank. You.”
I smirk as Ford shakes his head. Jonesy’s ex was a red head and man did she have a hell of a temper. Of course, Jonesy got his name because he’s always jonesin’ for the next best thing. Fucker is never satisfied, and his ex’s find that out the hard way.
“I’ll do it, Pres. I have zero interest in traveling to Chicago.”
“You sure? You’re my enforcer after all, the boys might need you.”
“It’s an easy run and through friendly territory. Jonesy here can handle it without me.
“Damn straight I can. I taught you everything you know anyway, asshole.”
“Except how to bulk up in the gym,” I remind him, and he flips me off. Jonesy has muscles, but as enforcer I make sure that I can take anyone out there in a fair fight and know all the tricks to come out in an unfair one. You might have an off day, and you will eventually go against a man who might be a little faster or a little smarter than you. The trick is to know how to handle yourself so that even when that shit happens you come out the winner. In my world, life depends on that particular talent.
“Fine, it’s settled then. Now get out of my sight, the both of you. I got shit to do,” he grumbles, going back to the paperwork on his desk and already ignoring us.
“You’re not fooling me, you know,” Jonesy murmurs quietly after I close the door.
“What do you mean?”
“I saw the way you were eye-fucking that red head. You have your own reason for wanting to tail the girls.”
I grunt my answer, because he’s right, but I’m not about to admit it. Jonesy’s loud, obnoxious laughter follows me down the hall.
4
Jasmine
“Is there a reason you’re watching me?” I ask Mr. Broody from the other day.
He’s been following me off and on since the other day. I’ve spotted him each time. I’m not sure if he was trying to hide the fact that he was or not. When you grow up in a biker club, you spot a tail pretty easily. My father taught me that special skill. He doesn’t trust cops. Then again, he doesn’t trust anyone outside of the Savage club. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even trust me, although he does love me. I could complain about that, but I don’t understand myself most of the time, not sure I can expect them to at this point.
He looks down at me—because he literally towers over me. He’s broad and tall. The kind of man that would make a woman weak in the knees—or wet between the legs. Again, I remind myself that I’ve sworn off men. Especially when his lips twitch and move just enough to say he’s almost smiling. I get the feeling that Mr. Broody doesn’t really smile at all. This might be as good as it gets.
Too bad it’s really damn good.
When he doesn’t answer, I give him the look that I give my brother Hawk. The one where I’m annoyed, but he’s not worth the effort or muscle movement to roll my eyes.
“If you’re not going to talk, then maybe you should move on down the road because your stalking is annoying,” I finally mumble before walking back to the picnic table I was at earlier.
“Where’s the girl you’re always with?” he asks, following me. I close my eyes for a second, because his question hurts.
It’s stupid, of course. I mean, I just got done reminding myself that I had sworn off men. I sure don’t want one that has verbal issues and stalking tendencies. Still, I thought he was following me because he liked what he saw and you can say what you want, that’s damn good for a girl’s ego sometimes. At the very least, I thought he might feel some of the attraction I feel toward him.
Not that I’d ever act on it. Ever.
“That explains it,” I mumble, instead of punching him in the balls when he comes to stand over me. I finish settling in on the seat, and don’t bother looking up to acknowledge him. There’s no point.
“Explains what?” he pursues, proving he might have verbal issues, but he definitely doesn’t have hearing ones.
I put down the pencil I just picked up and look at him. I hate that he’s so pretty. He looks like he could be a movie star, or on the cover of a GQ magazine. It’s annoying. When I’m done swearing off men, I’m going to find an ugly guy. That way I don’t have to live with his freaking ego.
“All the guys chase after Gabby. She ignores them all because she only has eyes for one guy. So, if I were you, Mr. Broody, I’d just move along, because it’s a lost cause there.”
“Why do they chase after her?” he questions, making me rethink the whole he’s nonverbal line of thought.
“Gee, I don’t know. Why are you?” I lean back to look at him. He surprises me by sitting down—not on the bench, but on the top of the table, his feet down on the bench part. I take him in, my mind filing away little pieces of his appearance to check out later—if he keeps annoying me that is.
“I never said I was, Red. You did.” He doesn’t move his gaze away from me and, for some reason, I get the feeling that he’s taking notes, too. He’s dressed in a black t-shirt today with black pants, motorcycle boots and a wide black leather strap around his wrist. There’s an insignia ring on his forefinger and I can’t tell what the engraving is, but my interest is piqued. I find myself staring at his hands, probably too long. They’re masculine and sexy, callused and tanned. They tell me that he is definitely used to manual labor and I like that. I’ve always liked that in a man.
Damn it.
I could point out he asked about Gabby, but I don’t, instead I lean back, rolling my pencil between my fingers as I study him.
“She’s curvy, sweet, funny, and she has the blonde hair and blue eyes that men seem to go gaga over and lose all ability to reason.”
“Not me. I’m not into blondes.”
“Yeah, baby, tell me another one,” I snort.
“I like that,” he says, his voice dropping down to a sweet sound that literally forces me to look into his eyes.
“Like what?” I ask, confused, but intrigued all at the same time.
“You calling me baby.”
“Are you flirting with me?” I ask him, not quite believing it.
“Is that so surprising?”
“I’m not Gabby,” I remind him.
“I’ve had a couple of blondes in my time. Crazy bitches that get all twisted up in emotion. Not really my type.”
“And what is your type…Grunt, right?”
“You remembered. Should I be flattered?” he asks, those lips of his twitching again.
“You can be whatever you want to be. Last I checked it was a free country, Grunt,” I reply with a shrug.