Sicko

“You know,” the younger one says, I think his name is Gypsy. He grins around his floppy brown hair. His eyes are gentle, his features too pretty. “Don’t get me wrong, seeing Sicko get all worked up over a girl for once is pretty fucking entertaining, but, I gotta say—” He whistles, shaking his head.

“Don’t say it,” one of the other men mutters. He’s darker in skin color, with a shaved head and hazel eyes.

Gypsy carries on. “You’re one hot piece of fucking ass, and if he ain’t hitting it, I’m gonna.”

“You’re a dumb motherfucker.” That same man shakes his head, squeezing his eyes.

After talking with Nellie and Sloane, Royce is back in front of me, shoving his helmet over my head. “On the bike, don’t let your legs touch the pipes, and put your arms around me.” I do as I’m told after he’s on. Starting it up, the vibration of the angry engine rumbles against my intimate area and I quickly squeeze my legs closed, which only means they tighten around Royce.

He turns over his shoulder, enough for me to see a smirk on the corner of his mouth and one dimple pop.

Revving the engine, I wrap my arms around his torso as he guides us out of the driveway.

It’s about a thirty-minute drive out before he’s pulling into the clubhouse, the gates sliding open and people spilling out of the front doors. It’s a Friday night, and it’s rather early, so the number of people who are partying is not surprising at all, although it shatters my hopes to sink into warm sheets and let sleep take hold.

The bikes cut out and everyone climbs off. I follow, my legs turning to jelly as soon as they’re back on the ground.

I take off the helmet. “Can I just go to bed?”

Royce ignores me, turning his back to head into the main house. There’s a fight happening in the corner where an octagon ring is set up, with drunk men laughing and cheering, and loud rock music spilling out of the house and to the front. I feel like a thousand eyes are on me, and I don’t want any of them.

I know this is his area, and I don’t want to be annoying to him by following him everywhere. I also don’t want him to feel like he has to look after me, so once he has disappeared into the house, I look around carefully at all the people here. A mixture of old and young, some middle age. More men than woman, some big and some skinny, some muscled, some average.

“You’re wondering why he left you here unarmed,” a voice murmurs from behind me and my eyes drift close to catch my breath. That is a really nice voice. Soft and smooth like velvet. It wraps around your body like silk.

Turning around to face the owner, I’m surprised when I see Wicked leaning against his clean white Harley, his arms crossed and legs the same. “Somewhat.”

Wicked doesn’t flinch, his eyes staying on mine. It’s unnerving how he can do that. Say a lot by saying nothing at all. “Royce doesn’t let anyone ride bitch on his bike. You came in like that.” Wicked stretches his legs wide into a spread and my mouth waters. “No one will so much as breathe near you now. He knows he doesn’t have to worry.”

“And you?” I find myself saying, and then I want to punch myself for saying it out loud. “Will you?” I’ve always been one that would prefer to dance with danger than walk with the mundane.

Wicked cocks his head an inch, taking me in. “Guess that will be up to Royce.” He pushes off his bike and walks past me. Before he makes it any farther away, I call out to him.

“Wicked?” I say, studying his broad shoulders and patch. “You called him Royce, not Sicko?”

His shoulders tense before he relaxes and carries on to the house. I still don’t know what I’m doing standing here, but that conversation with Wicked was strange. Every other person here calls Royce Sicko. Except Wicked. Weird. Or maybe not. I make my way toward the side of the house, finding a little path that leads to the back.

“Hey!” someone says from the dark corner of a small garden shed, skipping toward me while shoving what was probably a joint into her back pocket. “Are you Sicko’s sister?” she’s cute. With shoulder-length brown hair and a skinny little frame. She’s wearing tight blue skinny jeans and a Harley Davidson loose tee.

“Ah, yes?”

She screams, her skinny arms flying around my neck and pulling me into her chest. “I’m Everly, but people call me Silver, after my mom. I’m Fury’s daughter!”

I don’t know who Fury is, but I nod, hugging her back awkwardly. “Cool!”