Cruz (Dark and Dirty Sinners' MC #5) - Serena Akeroyd Page 0,11

never noticed that before?

It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen him around. He was a bit of a gofer, not like a Prospect who got the shittiest of jobs around the MC, but definitely the kind of guy who was at the council’s beck and call…

But there was seeing a guy as a piece of furniture and then there was seeing him smile that goddamn smile.

I cleared my throat. “Sure. Last appointment ends at nine tonight, be there on time or I’ll lock up and I won’t open it until tomorrow.”

He nodded. “Should be fine.”

“Okay. I’ll see you then.” I climbed out of the booth, then asked, “You sure you don’t mind covering my check?”

“I’ll see you later, Indy.”

For whatever reason, that had me gulping.

Because instead of sounding like a farewell, or just a throwaway comment that didn’t mean anything, it sounded like a promise.

And something, I wasn’t sure what, told me Cruz never broke a promise…

Cruz

Getting some ink touched up was an act of subterfuge, but if that was the means of getting closer to Indiana, I’d do it.

My initial worry Lodestar was about to kill me had died a small death. Mostly because, soon after I’d returned to the clubhouse, I’d heard her and Maverick arguing in the attic about the original MS-DOS, and I didn’t think that was a likely debate if she was homicidal.

Of course, I was pretty sure that, yesterday, pre-Dog’s murder, she’d been hollering something at him about tracker bugs… maybe that was her way of working herself up for the kill?

Either way, when I’d headed into Verona this morning, I didn’t feel like I had a set of crosshairs on my nape, so, breathing easier, I’d carried on. Making it into the neighboring town, I’d seen her sitting at that diner booth, and the instant urge to bone her had disappeared.

Reconciling myself with her past, well, it didn’t make her less fuckable, not when she was a walking wet dream, but it meant that I couldn’t just treat her like another piece of ass. Of course, she made it worth my while too.

The second I sat down, she’d given me shit.

After being fawned over by clubwhores, call me a masochist—which I wasn’t—but I liked a woman with bite.

I’d promised her we wouldn’t speak, and had felt her distrust and discomfort throughout her meal and mine. Not unsurprisingly, she had trust issues, and rather than feel like an insurmountable task that wasn’t worth my time and effort, not for a one-night-stand, instead, I was pretty sure there was gold in them there hills.

That was why I was here, at nine as promised.

The assistant, a guy called David, glowered at me like I’d done something wrong, and while I usually had, as far as I was aware, tonight I’d done shit so I ignored him. He was a weirdo, one that Nyx often complained about, and I understood why.

A creep, he was probably in love with Indiana and was pining from afar.

“You’re not down on the schedule.”

I shrugged at the accusation. “I talked with her earlier.”

“She never told me.”

I shrugged again. “Not my problem.”

His jaw tensed, and I saw irritation flash behind his eyes before he hid it as the door to the back office opened and Indy walked out with her client. Her gaze connected with mine, just for a second, and sweet fuck—it was unguarded, and as a result, loaded with fire.

She was pumped from her work, probably tired after a long day, and all that was written into her features, but she’d forgotten about me, so seeing me sitting here had stirred something up in her mind.

Something I liked.

Fire.

I’d hoped for that, but hadn’t expected it.

I moved over to the flash racks and started to leaf through her designs. She worked alone, so all of these were her pieces, and as she finished up with her last client and sent the creep home—much to his distress—I looked through her art, stopping at the phoenix I recognized from her arm.

It was beautiful.

Majestic, and regal, empowered and loaded with hope.

Which was interesting as the first three, I’d say, described Indy, but not the last.

Knowing what I did now, I understood more than she could say.

Tattoos were a chance at rebirth, at redefining who and what we were. In my case, they covered up scars, as well as grounded me in a new reality where people wanted something from me and I embraced that rather than hope for more. In Indy’s, I could see that she