It was the day of Bronze’s fight, and I was a nervous wreck. I’d spent the majority of the two weeks since the last time I saw him writing until my fingers were too sore to type anymore. I’d completed over half of the short stories I needed to write for the upcoming collection scheduled to be released next month. However, what I hadn’t done during those two weeks was anything more than shower and brush my teeth.
One glance at my phone had my heart rate immediately increasing because I wasn’t sure I had enough hours left in the day to do all of the grooming necessary to make me presentable by the time he arrived. On top of that, I was running out of time to ask him the one question I’d been working all week to build up the courage to ask.
I typed out the message, deleted it, retyped it, deleted it, and finally sent it after I typed it for the third time. With my eyes squeezed tightly shut, I tapped send, tossed my phone on the bed, and ducked under the covers to hide while I plugged my ears. I wouldn’t know if he did or didn’t respond if I couldn’t see or hear my phone, right?
Sloane: Are you staying at the same hotel as last time?
Wrong. My plan would have worked if my ringer was turned on. Instead, I felt the vibration from his reply. With my eyes still closed, I blindly groped around for my phone and pulled it under the covers with me when I found it.
Bronze: They have the best cookies.
Sloane: Is that a yes?
Bronze: Have you been paying any attention to me?
Sloane: It’s impossible not to.
Bronze: Good answer. Why’d you ask about the hotel?
Sloane: Well, I was thinking you could stay at my place if you wanted to.
Bronze: That works. Can you stop by the hotel and pick up my cookies before the fight? They’re supposed to have two dozen boxed up for me.
Sloane: Are you serious?
Bronze: They have the best cookies.
Sloane: That’s not an acceptable answer to every question.
Bronze: Blasphemy.
Sloane: So, I’ll pick up your cookies and meet you at the club?
Several minutes passed with no response from him. I started to get nervous, thinking maybe he’d changed his mind about seeing me again when my phone dinged.
Bronze: No. Change of plans. There’s no need for you to go to the club. I don’t like the idea of you going by yourself anyway. Text me your address. I’ll pick up my cookies and come to your place after the fight.
At one time, a request for my address would have sent me into a tizzy. My parents didn’t allow me to have random friends over whenever I wanted. I had to clear it with them first and give them plenty of advanced notice so they could make sure none of my father’s business dealings would be happening in or around our home. Apparently, I was still accustomed to living that way even though I hadn’t resided in the same house as my father for many years.
Inhaling a deep breath, I blew it out slowly and started typing my address while reassuring myself that it wouldn’t be a problem. Bronze was well aware of who my family was. He could easily find out where I lived by doing a simple real estate record search.
Sloane: What time should I expect you?
Bronze: Probably around midnight.
His guess proved to be correct. The house phone rang a little after twelve, startling me from the catnap I was taking. “Ms. O’Shea, there’s a Bronze Black at the gate to see you,” the guard on duty said.
“Thank you, Dickerson. Please allow him through and give him directions to the front entry to my wing.” After years of living in my own section of the house, I was still uncomfortable referring to it as my “wing,” but I didn’t know what else to call it. Basically, the mega-mansion consisted of three individual houses connected together, with the one in the middle being over twice the size of the other two. I lived on one side, and Tiernan occasionally lived on the other side.
“Yes, ma’am,” Dickerson said slowly. I could only imagine what he was thinking about the biker arriving at the gate after midnight. Chuckling to myself, I shrugged