“No worries,” I said blithely. “It’ll be fine.”

“I’ll go grab a shower, then.”

“See you in a bit.”

I thought I played it off pretty well, although I’ll own up to scoping out his ass as he walked away. His shirt hung loose from a back pocket, the muscles in his back rippling.

“Goddamn,” Carrie said, and I jumped.

“You startled me,” I accused, spinning to find her in the kitchen door, eyes wide. “You better be careful—Darren will catch you watching him.”

She shrugged.

“Darren and I have an agreement,” she said. “We can look, we just don’t touch. We’ve been married a long time, you know. He doesn’t get jealous.”

This was bullshit and we both knew it. I considered invoking the sacred clause, then decided that if I was going to perv on my handyman, it’d be nice to have company.

“Paper plates tonight,” I announced, and Carrie grinned. “I’m not in the mood to wash dishes.”

GAGE

Fuck, but that woman was sexy, especially when she was a little drunk . . . made her all cute and bubbly.

I stepped into my tiny bathroom, wondering for the thousandth time why I’d volunteered for this gig. I’d had a good thing going back in Coeur d’Alene. Sure, the dancers at The Line were nonstop drama, but when I saw an ass I wanted to tap, it was usually available. Not so much with Tinker Garrett.

The biggest obstacle was the Talia situation, of course. But over the past two weeks, I’d realized something unsettling—I sort of liked Tinker as a person. I mean, not that we’d spent much time together, but I saw how she went out of her way to do the right thing. A good girl all around, and the fact that she’d moved home to take care of her dad after her mother died proved the point.

Then there were those curves. Fucking hell, I thought about her tits and ass all the time. I’d always been a sucker for curves, although back home it was more about big, fake boobs and mouths like vacuum cleaners. Tinker made fancy chocolates and had a store full of teacups.

Not. My. Type.

Too bad my cock hadn’t gotten the memo on that.

My phone buzzed, and I grabbed it, finding a text from my president.

PICNIC: Status update?

Reaching into the shower stall I flipped it on, figuring I’d let it run for a few minutes while I called him back. The building was old, and I’d already learned that it took a while before the water got hot. Dialing his number, I waited for him to answer.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“You texted me, boss.”

“Wanted to see how things were going,” Pic said.

“Not much to report. I mean, not much beyond what we already suspected. Marsh is running the club into the ground and there’s definitely bullshit in the air. He’s reporting lost shipments to Bellingham, but you don’t hear anyone bitching about product getting jacked at the clubhouse. The newer guys aren’t smart enough to keep their mouths shut, and they’ve all got plenty of cash in their pockets. The older ones have all pulled away. He’s double-dealing us.”

“You figure out how he managed to take over yet?”

“So far as I can tell, he got a couple friends in and then turned one or two of the others,” I said. “They called for a vote right after that big bust last year, and elected him while the old guard were all locked up. Painter’s sources in prison were right on all the details. Now Marsh is holding power because he has the numbers and he’s adding soldiers every day. What I can’t figure out is why the original members who are still left haven’t bailed. Not that they’d open up to me—if they notice me at all, it’s because I’m Talia’s bitch.”

“Loyalty,” Picnic said, sounding frustrated. “Same thing that holds every club together. They probably haven’t lost hope yet.”

“I’d say they’re pretty damned close,” I told him grimly. “I can see a situation where we have a second, unofficial club starting in town.”

Picnic gave a low whistle. “That’d be unfortunate.”

“Ya think?”

“Well, that’s why we sent you—best to stop it before it gets any worse. How’s the new living situation?” he asked, changing the subject. I glanced around the small apartment. I’d stayed in worse, but over the years I’d gotten used to something a lot better.

“It’s working,” I said.

“And your landlady? You still horny for her?”

I considered my answer carefully—I wanted to be honest with him, but if I admitted too much, I’d never hear the end of it.

“She’s nice,” I finally said, compromising. “Invited me for dinner tonight.”

“Be careful. Talia’s your ticket, not this Tinker bitch, no matter how much you want to fuck her. Don’t forget that.”

“I know my job, boss,” I replied. “It’s about the club—I get it.”

It was always about the club.

“Let us know if you need anything, then. You still doin’ okay on money?”

“Yeah, I’ll call you if it’s an issue,” I said. “We good?”

“We’re good.”

“Talk to you later.”

Dropping the phone on the counter, I stripped off my dirty jeans and stepped into the shower. I gave my hair a quick wash, then dropped a soapy hand to my dick and let myself think about Tinker Garrett. She and her friend sat out on that porch all afternoon, laughing and drinking, looking so fuckin’ cute that it took every last bit of my self-control not to drag her off to my place by her hair.

That hair . . . always had a thing for dark hair.

Tinker wasn’t like other women. Part of it was that whole look she had going for her, sort of like one of those girls they used to paint on the side of airplanes during World War II. Bangs cut straight across her forehead, retro halter top, and tight jeans rolled up above her ankles. I’d caught a tantalizing hint of a tattoo across her back, but I hadn’t been able to see much of it. If she’d walked into The Line, I’d have hired her in an instant.

An image of her riding a pole slid through my mind, and I shuddered.

Grabbing some more soap, I jerked my dick harder, wondering what she’d look like naked. Maybe once this was all over, I’d stick around an extra day or two and find out. First thing, I’d rip off that halter of hers and check out those boobs. They weren’t stripper huge, but they were plenty big and all natural. Round, just like the rest of her. All curves and dips, narrowing to a tiny waist before smoothing back out into hips a man could dig his fingers into.