Don't Say It:Ronacks Motorcycle Club(10)By: Debra Kayn
"You're probably tired after working all day and having to come home and change the tire." She glanced over at Rod who watched her carefully and then turned toward Swiss. "Thank you again."
"No problem," said Swiss.
She walked backward a few steps, turned, and hurried into her new home for the next six months. Alone inside the duplex, she stared at the bare walls and braced herself for nausea to hit her from the rancid smell in the room.
She'd left what she thought was a good job. A job that provided her a condominium with a swimming pool, tennis court, and a walking path through the woods. A gated community she claimed as home. Enough money to live comfortably, and like any single thirty-two-year-old, she never thought of saving any cash for emergencies.
She had owned a car. Her pride and joy. She groaned. The perfect car she had to trade for the older car outside to make the trip to Montana. The old man who she traded with looked at her as if she'd lost her mind, but willingly took the upgrade instead of cash. She only had money to buy enough food to keep from starving to death.
She shuddered. Starving to death would be her least concern. If she died in the disgusting duplex, the coroner would have a hard time telling the exact reason for her demise. Almost everything could kill her. Mold infestation. Biohazard fibers from the rotting shag carpet. High toxic levels of flaking lead paint.
In the end, her death wouldn't matter anyway. If she weren't in Montana, she'd be dead in Seattle, likely from a bullet.
An engine turned over outside. She stayed away from the front window and yet close enough to peer outside. Rod drove off, and Swiss carried the jack back to his side of the duplex. Curious about the man she'd heard little about and yet was sent to trust, she wanted to find out more about him.
Swiss wasn't at all what she'd expected to find on her arrival to Montana. He was younger looking than she'd imagined a forty-five-year-old man to look, but that could have something to do with his body. Men his age usually leaned toward the skinny side or the dad bod. Swiss definitely worked out, and probably not with weights but lifting grown men above his head and slamming them to the ground. Yeah, he could be a wrestler.
He also had an attitude. She gathered her hair at the back of her head and rotated her head side to side, stretching her neck. Swiss weren't smug or rude. Quite the opposite.
He came across quiet and strong, weighing each word that came out of his mouth. A mouth with full lips. She let her hair fall down her back and rubbed her arms. Men usually had thin lips. Swiss's lips always remained relaxed, never pressed together. She liked his goatee. Not enough whiskers to call it a beard, but more than a five o'clock shadow. He kept it trimmed around his mouth.
She sighed, and a shiver ran up her spine. Mouth. Lips. Body.
What was she doing?
Delusional from lack of sleep and stress, she verged on turning him into a saint or a knight in shining armor. He was a biker. She needed to remember that.
She spied Swiss's coffee cup on the empty counter that he'd let her borrow that morning. Afraid if she left his mug by his door, someone would steal it, she'd held on to it until he was home.
He was home now.
Walking across the room, she picked up the mug and before she could change her mind, she walked out the door, locking the handle behind her. She'd only stay long enough to return what she'd borrowed, breathe the fresh clean scent of his part of the duplex, and tell him thank you again, and then she'd leave him alone for the evening.
She walked with determined steps. Unless Swiss asked her to stay and visit longer. Her ass would appreciate an hour on his couch. Living without furniture was harder than she'd imagined.
Swiss turned the shower off and grabbed the towel before stepping out. His knuckles stung and he fisted his hand, stretching the skin. Brogard, one of the two brothers suing Watson's Repo and Towing, had shown up before closing and forced Swiss to use his fist to show the man the way out. Lucky for Brogard, he only had to nurse a split lip tonight. One more appearance and he'd find himself locked up for a few nights in the county jail for breaking the restraining order.
He toweled off and walked naked into the bedroom.
A knock came at the front door. He grabbed a pair of clean Levi's off the dresser and slipped his legs into the jeans bare-assed, preferring nothing constricting on him. Running his hands through his hair, rubbing the wetness away, he walked into the other room to another knock.