Precarious
He smirks at me. “’Cause when the boys come, they like to bring whores.”
“Whores?” I blink.
“Club whores . . .” he says, nodding, as if I’m supposed to understand.
“Club whores?”
“For Christ’s sake, that’s what I just fuckin’ said.”
I cross my arms. “Keep your shirt on, I was only asking.”
“Club whores enjoy the men, and the men enjoy them. Most clubs have a group of them that hang around. They know what they are. They don’t do relationships, though occasionally one of them wants to become an old lady.”
“Does that ever happen?”
He swings a door open and points to the large space. “Yeah, it does, but she’s usually gotta have somethin’ different about her. Most whores aren’t the kind us guys want for old ladies.”
“Do you have an old lady?” I ask, stepping into the room and staring. It’s massive, with a double bed, an old couch, and a desk, with a small bathroom to the left.
“Did I just have my fingers inside your pussy?” he asks.
I blink and turn to him. “What?”
“My fingers, sweetheart,” he growls. “Were they in your pussy?”
“Ah, yes.”
“Then no, I don’t have an old lady.”
I lean my hip against the doorframe. “I thought it didn’t matter.”
He raises his brows. “To some it doesn’t; they’ll fuck around. A lot of them have a piece of ass on the side, but most of them respect their old ladies.”
“Right,” I mutter.
“Don’t believe me?”
I push off the door. “I do.”
“You’re a bad fuckin’ liar.”
I snort and stop at the bed, throwing myself down onto it. “Oh God, it’s so soft.”
“Best bed in the house.”
I sit up, leaning on my elbows. “Did you fuck in this bed?”
His brows shoot up. “Who asks those kind of fuckin’ questions?”
“Me. I want to know how many times I need to wash these sheets.”
He shakes his head, running his hand through his hair. “Yeah, babe, I’ve fucked in that bed. About ten times. So have all the other club members. It’s a clubhouse.”
“Ew,” I say, leaping off it and quickly stripping all the sheets off the bed. “Tell me there’s washing powder or something in this place?”
He smirks as I rush past him, and take all the sheets into the laundry room, shoving them into the machine, and tipping a heap of powder in. I set the machine and then turn. “There goes the idea of sleeping being the first thing I do.”
He nods his head towards the kitchen. “Don’t know about you, but I’m fuckin’ hungry.”
My stomach growls. “Is there even any food up here?”
He nods. “It’s stocked.”
“How?”
He sighs. “What do you mean how?”
“How is it stocked?”
“The boys stocked it.”
“But how?”
He spins around. “For fuck’s sake, woman!”
I cross my arms and stare at him. “Well . . .”
“Fine,” he barks. “There is a track heading up here that can be accessed only by bikes, it may or may not be still open.”
I gape. “Are you fucking serious?” I screech.
He groans and crosses his arms. “Here we go.”
“You made me walk when we could have . . . rode?”
“Yeah, I did, because I can’t fuckin’ be on the roads.”
Dang. He makes a point.
“We could have ridden with your brothers . . .”
“No, we couldn’t. If they got pulled up, they’d be fucked.”
I huff and walk towards the kitchen. “I hope there’s some good food in this place.”
We get into the kitchen and I pull open the fridge. There’s a good load of food in there ranging from fresh fruit and vegetables, to deli meats and bread. My stomach grumbles. I’m exhausted, and I know for a fact I don’t have energy to make anything special. I pull out some bread, ham and cheese and spin around, placing them on the counter.
“You eat this?” I ask, laying the bread out.
Krypt hands me a chopping board and knife. “I’ll eat whatever you give me.”
I prepare the sandwiches and grab a few sodas out of the fridge. We both drop down onto the couch and sigh. My legs are aching. I wish this place had a bath. Really, that would be awesome. I lift my sandwich and take a bite. Krypt has half of his gone in, like, three mouthfuls. I give him a disgusted look.
“What?” he mutters.
“That’s wrong. Seriously.”
“I’m a man. I eat; I don’t nibble.”
“I’m not nibbling.” I pout.
“Yeah, you fuckin’ are. Eat like a man, babe.”
I roll my eyes and keep eating at my own pace.
“You’re settlin’ very well for a prisoner.”
“It could be worse,” I say. “You could have killed me.”
“I was never goin’ to kill you, Ash.”
The sincerity in his voice has me turning and staring at him. He meets my gaze, and an intense silence fills the room. Oh boy. “You weren’t?” I finally ask.
“I don’t kill women unless it comes down to life or death, for me or someone I cared about. You weren’t one of them; I knew that. I wasn’t goin’ to let you take a bullet. I was just bein’ an asshole when I said the club would kill you.” He winks.