Rainbow (Ruthless Kings MC Baton Rouge #1) - K.L. Savage Page 0,13
wicked ink promising the bad things the world warns us about.
“Why don’t I doubt that?” I whisper the same words back to him, and his eyes fall to my lips.
His pink tongue flicks out to wet his lips and the breeze brushes over us, waving his hair out of place. The curls fall into his eyes, and he blinks as if it pulls him out of some sort of daze. Rainbow pushes off the rig and puts some much-needed space between us.
“I’ll see you around, Ryan. You’ll remember that we weren’t responsible for that guy,” he says.
I snort, and yep, I roll my fucking eyes. “Right, and the sky is green,” I tell him. “I’ll believe that when it starts raining dicks, Rainbow.” I give him the middle finger as I strut to the driver’s side, giving my ass an extra shake for some reason. I want him to look at me—but at the same time, I don’t.
I’m playing with fire, and if I’ve learned anything about firefighters, they aren’t afraid to put out someone’s flame.
And not in a good way.
The rig shakes when the other door slams shut. I jump, startled by the noise. I stare into the side mirror to see Rainbow standing there with his arms crossed and his brows bent together as he watches me pull out of the driveway, missing the row of bikes by an inch.
Jesus, that’s just what I need. Let’s run over a bunch of Harleys and sees what happens to me. I need to get my head on straight.
“Raining dicks,” I grumble to myself at how stupid that sounded.
Baton Rouge needs to be in my rearview. The sooner this storm passes, the sooner I can go home to my lonely apartment in Vegas, and the sooner I can put Rainbow out of my mind.
“Remember the rule,” I mutter to myself as I turn onto the road to head back to the station.
Shit. What was my rule again?
“We expect landfall of Hurricane Jeffrey within the next forty-eight hours since it has gained momentum. It’s heading northeast and moving at a slow pace of just five miles an hour—”
I turn off the radio, needing silence as I tinker with the 1965 Ford F-100 I’ve been trying to restore for the last ten years. It isn’t often that I’m out in the barn, but it’s always because there’s something on my mind when I am.
Plus, the damn radio is too damn sad. Everyone keeps waiting for this hurricane. It’s taking its sweet fucking time to ruin lives.
I lie down on the creeper seat and roll under the truck. It’s the same make and model that I lost the night Mime and I lost our parents. Trying to rebuild this truck is like trying to restore the good memories I lost a long time ago. I can’t seem to get anywhere with this thing. It’s a time-suck, but that’s alright. Sometimes my hands need to stay busy when I’m not on a shift at the station.
The frame is still rusted, the engine won’t start, and I don’t even think I care. I just need to be doing something other than thinking about Ryan—a man.
But trying to stay occupied is like attempting to dig a hole in the rain. The hole fills with mud and water no matter how fast you dig. That’s where I’m at. The more I try not to think about Ryan, the more I do. It’s been a slow twenty-four hours with him on my mind. I keep kicking myself in the ass for not asking for his number. I chickened out. I’ve never asked for a man’s number before. Is it the same? I didn’t know, and I also didn’t know if what I felt for him at that moment was real.
So, I decided against it.
Now, I wish I hadn’t. Actually, I wish I would have kissed him when I had him against the rig. Then whatever tension there is between us could be clarified because there was a lot of tension.
The wrench slips from my hand and lands directly on my nose. “Mother fucker!” I shout and roll out from under the truck. Blood drops from my right nostril, and I rip the grease rag off my shoulder and hold it against my face.
My brother’s laugh has me turning around.
“How long have you been there?”
He grins and lifts a shoulder.
Great. Long enough to know how I got the bloody nose in the first place. “Shut up.”