Rowe (Henchmen MC Next Generation 4)

“No, I’m fine,” I gritted out when he tried to reach for me to help. I saw the disapproval in his eyes, but I was thankful that we were old enough of friends that he didn’t push, didn’t argue with me over it. “What are we doing then?” I asked as I dropped my numb ass down into the seat, trying to fight off the surge of insecurity I felt when Malc wheeled me backward so he could slam the door.

It was right then that I was able to see where he’d parked.

At an apartment building.

But not just any apartment building.

This was Billie’s apartment building.

“The fuck? No,” I choked out, but even as I said it, Malc was starting to book it across the parking lot, making it impossible for me to attempt to place the hand brakes or even get to my feet and take a literal stand against this.

“Yes. I’m sorry, but yes,” Malcolm said, jerking the chair a bit to get it up onto the curb. “I get it if you are going through some shit. And I know pain can fuck with your head. But if the meds aren’t helping, I figure maybe my cousin has something that might. If you try it and it doesn’t help, fine. But I can’t just sit back and watch you lose your will to live your life, Rowe. At least not without knowing I tried everything I could.”

Luckily for Malc, and unluckily for me, Billie lived on the first floor, so there was no pausing to wait for the elevator so I could get up, get away.

One moment we were outside, the next we were in front of Billie’s door.

“If this fucking door is unlocked again,” Malc grumbled as he reached for it.

If it was unlocked again, he would give Billie a brotherly, frustrated, yet firm lecture about safety. As much as Malcolm liked to act tough about the girls, they were his soft spot. He never got angry with them, loud with them.

Sure enough, though, the door handle twisted in his palm, making him let out a growling sound even as he pushed the door open.

And there was Billie’s apartment.

It was different from the last time I’d seen it, back when she’d just moved in, so the place was a blank canvas.

And fuck if the woman didn’t take her brush to it.

Have you ever seen someone’s personal space and went Yeah, this looks just like you?

Well, that was exactly what Billie’s place was like now that she’d had some time to put down her roots.

The colors jumped out at you all at once, seeming not to go together until you had a second for your eyes to adjust, and then you could see how cohesively all the chaos seemed to go together. Gone were the sterile walls and the ugly carpet. Hell, even the kitchen cabinets had gotten a makeover.

And this was Billie we were talking about, so there were crystals everywhere. Tumbled ones, rough ones, ones as small as a fingertip or as large as a man’s fist. There were dried flowers and herbs hanging upside down on the walls, a giant collection of artwork, seashell “beads” on the windows like curtains, too many houseplants to name, candles, sculptures, and a few tarot cards scattered on the coffee table. Hell, there was even a vintage glass-front cabinet on a wall near the kitchen packed with glass jars of all sizes, sporting various dried herbs, flowers, and oils.

Then, well, we had to talk about the elephant in the room.

Meaning the giant fucking pussy statue wedged in a corner near the bathroom. It had a fucking pierced hood, for fuckssakes.

It shouldn’t have surprised me, of course. What with her earring collection that seemed to exist solely of cock, pussy, or breast charms. And because she was the niece of a sex store owner and the daughter of a woman who, as the legends went, collected alien and monster cock replicas for fun.

But the whole place, it just screamed Billie.

Then, like I conjured her, the woman herself was walking out of her bedroom in this filmy white sundress that, when she moved past the light, proved practically see-through, showing off the curve of her hips, the shapeliness of her thighs.

Billie was like a kick to the gut every single time I saw her.

What could you say about the woman other than that she was nearly absolute perfection?

There was the body, of course. Fit, but feminine, with hips, ass, tits, and thicker thighs.

But the face?

Fuck, that face.

Soft and feminine with strong brows and thick lashes around these stormy gray-blue eyes. The high cheekbones, the thin nose with the dainty-ass little septum piercing. And then the lips. The full, pouty fucking lips that were prone to smiling more than anyone else I’d ever seen.