muscle of his thigh between my legs, his hands moving to my ass. “I can think of a few things.” He falls to his back, pulling me with him so that I’m straddling his leg. “But it’ll take a fuckuva lot longer than twenty-five minutes.” He nips at my mouth, dragging my lower lip between his teeth.
“Okay, I won’t wash my hair.”
He runs his smooth lips down my jaw to my neck, sucking gently.
“Mmm . . . or wear makeup.”
He smiles against my throat. “So how much time do we have now?”
“Almost an hour.” I bite my lip as his mouth glides against my throat.
“Oh, I can do plenty in an hour.”
“Give me all you’ve got. I’ll need it to get through today.” My hips roll on their own accord, seeking out friction.
“Mmm.” He sucks at my lips. “I’ll leave you aching, baby. Sore and needy.” He lifts his thigh, his hands on my ass, rubbing me to him. “Only thing I want you feeling today is me.”
“It’s not too late to back out.” I watch through my rearview mirror as my mom worries her hands in her lap, her gaze fixed on a lot of nothing outside the car window.
She must know I’m looking, because she simply shakes her head. Her hair is pulled back in a low, loose bun, and the circles under her eyes speak of lost sleep.
“Dad,” I whisper. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
He reaches over and pats my hand. “We already endured the worst of the pain when we lost Lana.”
“I know, but”—my eyes dart from the long stretch of highway to my mom, who’s still gazing out the window—“is rehashing all this good for you guys. I mean I don’t know if mom can handle reliving it.”
“We’ll see.” He turns his gaze out the window, and in minutes, the signs for the State Prison of Nevada come into view.
I pull into the lot, remembering to breathe, not looking forward to being reunited with Hatch, and wishing like hell Mason were here with me.
We walk silently through the lot, and I can’t help but notice the lack of color. The buildings are all the exact same shade of beige as the earth that surrounds them. The pale brown gives it a non-threatening look; like the desert, it appears benign, abandoned of life, when it’s anything but.
We move through the screening process, and once we’re deemed safe, a guard leads us to an empty room. The floors are concrete, and nothing is inside but a metal table and chair bolted to the ground, surrounded by a few foldable ones.
“Have a seat.” The guard is all business as he motions to the flimsy plastic chairs. “Prisoner will be in shortly.”
The door shuts behind him, and I jump as the sound echoes through the room. My dad takes the middle seat, and my mom and I the ones on the outside. His jaw twitches beneath his beard, the only sign of nerves or anger I’ve seen on him. Minutes morph into an agonizing wait until finally the door opens. My mom sucks in an audible breath, and my dad grips my hand and pulls it to his thigh.
A slender guy wearing a tan suit and glasses, with dark hair that’s thin on top, steps into the room first. “Mr. and Mrs. Langley.” He nods to my parents and turns to me. “Miss Langley.” Another nod. “I’m Charles Yarner, Mr. Dusinsky’s lawyer.”
Okay, so Hatch’s last name is Dusinsky. Not the most threatening biker name, I have to admit.
Neither my parents nor I do more than give a quick acknowledgment.
Two guards move through the door followed by two others. The last two flank a shackled Hatch. His face is still riddled in fading yellow bruises from the beatdown Rex delivered, and it looks like his nose is at a different angle from what I remember. His bright orange suit makes his large frame less intimidating, and his shaved head and face make him almost unrecognizable.
Hatch keeps his eyes cast to the floor as they move him to the table and deposit him in the bolted-down seat. I hear a clicking sound as Hatch’s hands are manipulated behind him and handcuffed to his chair. Once done, the guards back away, but take stations at the four corners of the tiny room.
“Mr. Dusinsky has agreed to—”
“Charlie, I got this.” Hatch’s growled command is followed by the lift of his chin as he finally manages to look me in the