Bouncer by Kim Jones Page 0,3

me. Talia is living the dream.”

His face softens at the mention of her name. “She might not agree.”

Not many people know that the Road Captain for the King’s Uprising Chapter has a secret kink that includes spanking his submissive girlfriend. But Jinx is who got me this job. And I owe him for getting me off the streets. So, I make his business my business. I also noticed that Talia was sitting a little uncomfortably tonight.

Lucky girl.

“Come on, weirdo. You can crash in the spare room.” He grabs me under the arms and hauls me to my feet.

I hold onto the sink for balance and wait for the room to stop spinning. “There isn’t a spare room,” I whisper, drawing slow breaths to fight the wave of nausea. Jinx wisely takes a step back. “The Nomad dude from out of town. That’s his room. Jogger or runner or skater…whatever his name is.”

“Bouncer. And if he hasn’t made it by now, he’s not coming.”

Using the sink to steady me, I turn around and meet his gaze in the mirror. “Well aren’t you like…worried about him?”

“No. He hates parties. And people. Especially people outside the club. I’m not surprised he isn’t here. Even if he does show up, he won’t stay as long as there’s a crowd like this.”

This is a big party. Maybe the biggest I’ve seen in the few months I’ve been here. I wasn’t sure why Chaos wanted to throw such an event with so many locals, but it wasn’t my place to ask questions. And Chaos never did anything without good reason.

“Fine. But if he shows up, let him know that I’m not into cuddling unless he’s going to put a ring on it.”

“I’ll let him know. Can you walk or am I going to have to carry you?”

Carry me? Yeah. No.

“I can walk.”

The rooms here are decent enough. A bed. A dresser. A closet. A private bathroom. Some even have a mini fridge. The room I’m staying in has clean sheets, a recently vacuumed floor and a fresh cube of scented wax in the burner that smells like blueberry cobbler.

“I fucking love blueberry cobbler.”

“Really? That’s nice. You good?”

“Jinx, stop eavesdropping on my convo with myself. It’s fucking rude.”

“And you’re fucking weird.”

“So you’ve said.” I flop on the bed and throw my arm over my face.

“If you need something, let one of the other guys know or use the phone at the bar and call my cell. I’m sneaking out the back to avoid—”

“Don’t care,” I mumble, cutting him off and flicking my fingers at him. “Be gone, peasant. I can take it from here.”

He mumbles something before closing the door, but I can’t quite make it out. I’m too busy trying not to vomit. I last about three seconds before I bolt from the bed.

I feel much better about hugging this particular porcelain throne, because I know it’s clean. No one has been in this bathroom since I Pine-Sol’d the shit out of it earlier today.

I dry heave until my throat is raw and hurting. Until I’m exhausted and find the toilet seat almost as comfortable as my favorite pillow—the only thing I have from the life before this one.

Don’t think about it.

Don’t think about them.

Fear of my memories brings me to my feet. I stumble to the shower and turn the cold water on. Stripping off my clothes, I step under the stream. The shock of it takes my breath but I force myself to stand there. To take it. Every brutal drop of water battering my flesh sobers me.

I wish I could wash away the memories. The pain. The heartache.

Don’t do this.

Don’t go there.

My fingers fumble for the shampoo bottle. I squeeze too much into my shaky palm and lather my hair. I stop to rip out the elastic band—enjoying the sting. I scrub my body. Washing away the grime from the day. The stench of cleaner and alcohol.

I rub down my legs. All the way to my feet. My perfectly painted purple toes match my fingernails. Something no one here has ever seen. It’s ridiculous to hide something so insignificant. But this little secret somehow makes me feel better about all the other secrets I hide.

Like my very fashionable underwear.

And where I live.

And where I came from.

What I did.

My eyes mist.

I stand under the water until I can’t feel my limbs. Until my head is clearer than it was, and I feel more like myself. What is it about thoughts of the past that

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