Crash (Evil Dead MC 2)

He chuckled. “Believe you told me that already. Settle down, darlin’, I’ll take the couch.”

“Well for five grand, I should hope so.”

He moved to the refrigerator and pulled out two bottles of beer. He twisted the top off one and held it out to her. “Truce?”

She took it, watching as he twisted the top off his own and tipped it up for a drink. Her eyes fell to his throat, watching the muscles move as he swallowed. Clearing her throat, she looked away. “And where do those stairs lead?” she asked, noting a set of about six metal steps on the far side of the loft that led up to a metal door.

“Up to the side roof,” he replied. “It’s got a real nice view of the bay and downtown. Especially at night when you can see the lights of the cars crossing Bay Bridge and the planes landing at the airport.”

Setting her purse down on the island, she took a sip of beer and looked toward the clutter scattered around the walls near the elevator and pool table. There was something big standing to the far corner, opposite the pool table. It was covered with a drop cloth. Next to it there was a punching bag hanging from one of the I-beams and imbedded into the wall was a bar used for chin-ups. Her eyes traveled around the rest of the walls. All kinds of eclectic stuff decorated the place. Old metal signs, old tools, handlebars, a bison’s head, snowshoes, there was even an old motorcycle suspended from the ceiling. “You have a lot of junk,” she commented looking up at it all.

“Sorry if all you see is junk. I think of it as Americana.”

Her eyes fell to him. Obviously, he’d taken it the wrong way. “I didn’t mean-”

“I know what you meant. I know the accommodations aren’t up to your standards, Princess, but you’re just gonna have to suck it up.”

Choosing to ignore his combative comments, which were contrary to the so-called truce he’d just called for, she walked around, looking at things, sipping her beer. On the brick wall, over near the pool table was a large framed black and white photograph of a line of six guys sitting on motorcycles with what looked like the Teton Mountains behind them.

“I’m sure I haven’t been half the places you’ve been,” she heard him say.

Her eyes still on the photograph, she replied, “Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about you.” Her eyes turned to meet his, and she thought she saw something flare in them. She moved along, noting a large framed black and white of Marilyn Monroe. With a smile pulling at her mouth, she looked back at him. Typical man, but at least his choice of pin-up was excellent. And a lot classier than a poster of a bimbo on the back of a bike, which is what she would expect to find.

He shrugged. “I have a thing for blondes. Shoot me.”

Her eyes returned to the portrait. It was a lovely shot. She looked soft, natural, innocent...

“She looks fragile, doesn’t she?” he observed.

She turned to look at him, a strange warm feeling running through her. It had been exactly what she’d been thinking. Strange that he’d pick up on that. That that’s what he’d taken from the image. Most men would just see the sexy woman. She looked back at the photograph. His comment had hit a little too close to home. It was exactly how she felt inside.

She took a sip of her beer and moved on. There was some low, black shelving with a lot of knickknacks on them. She noticed some military stuff. A helmet, a set of dog tags, a framed picture of two guys with their arms around each other. Picking it up, she studied it. One was obviously Crash, the other looked a lot like him. Her eyes moved up to the brick wall and the huge American flag stretched across it.

She felt Crash move behind her, looking over her shoulder at the photo. “My brother. He was killed in Afghanistan last fall.”

Her eyes dropped back to the photo, and then she turned to look over her shoulder at him. “I’m so sorry.”

He lifted his chin to the huge, casket-sized flag. “Every time I looked at that tight little folded-up triangle it pissed me off. So, one day I took it out and hung it up. Now it doesn’t piss me off so much. Now I get it.”

“Get what?”

“Why he went. Why he served. How can you look at that flag and not understand?”

She turned and stared up at it. She had to admit it was a grand flag, and it made her feel a sense of pride in her country. Setting the photo back down, she turned and spotted something. “You have a jukebox!” she exclaimed excitedly. She looked back at him, a huge smile on her face.

He shook his head, chuckling. “Seriously, b

abe? You with access to a fortune, could have any toy you wanted, yet here you are, thrilled over a used jukebox I scavenged.”

She shrugged. “I’ve just always loved them.”

He nodded towards it. “Play something. It’s loaded with CDs.”

She moved toward it and began pressing buttons, flipping through the selections. She felt him move away and turned to see him shrugging out of his leather cut and tossing it over the back of one of the barstools as he moved toward the kitchen. Turning back to the jukebox, she made a selection. The sounds of The Heavy’s “What Makes a Good Man” filled the space, and she glanced back over her shoulder to see Crash’s reaction to her choice. He was standing at the refrigerator, the door open. He glanced up, and their eyes met over the top of the door, his, crinkled at the corner with a grin.

“That was my brother’s favorite song.” Returning his attention to the fridge, he asked, “You hungry?”

“A little,” she replied, making a few more song selections and then moving toward the kitchen area. She sat on a barstool and watched as he took a frozen pizza out of the freezer. He opened it, slapped in on a pan and slid it in the oven.