Losing Track (Living Heartwood #2)(24)

What’s adorable? I think Boone actually blushes. The guy is covered in gorgeous tats and looks tougher than all hell, but his cheeks light up like the Fourth as I openly check him out.

My gaze zeros in on a couple fresh bruises along his abdomen. What happened there? He clears his throat, pulling my attention back to his face.

“Swimming relaxes me,” he says, as way of an excuse for getting down to his undies.

“Uh-huh,” is my reply. And this is my first rodeo, slick.

I admit, it’s been a while—like since middle school, while—since a guy tried to pull something like this on me. But it’s cute. In a way. Sneak a girl out of rehab, take her for a ride on a mean bike, and strip naked for a swim. Sure. It’s all about the relaxing swim—because there’s nothing else that’s more relaxing to a guy than swimming. Uh-huh.

I want to believe I had him pegged from the get go. That his sole intention for talking to me that first night was to get into my panties…but as he wades into the water, carrying that adorable blush with him…something just doesn’t fit.

It’s all wrong. I still can’t get a read on him, his signals are crossed. Like he’s emitting all the right ones on the surface, but my radar is picking up on the subtle currents underneath.

If I had to guess, I’d say it’s been a minute since this guy got laid. I almost laugh out loud. Maybe he’s just good at his game. Maybe this coy technique works on most chicks. Whatever. Regardless, it’s a distraction from my now craptastic life.

What the hell.

I stand and drag my shirt over my head, then shimmy out of my leggings. Boone’s back is to me, so I quickly step into the lake and submerge myself. Holy hell—the water is colder than I thought. I shiver and dive under.

Coming up beside him, I splash through the surface of the water. He yelps as I gasp in air.

Clearing the water from my eyes, I shake out my hair, loving the feel of the cool water on my skin. The thrill of being outside. The adrenaline from the ride still coursing through my system.

His smile reveals the lone dimple as he sends a wave of water back at me as payback. “I should have known you’d play games.”

It’s more than a tease, or an innuendo; there’s a hint of accusation in that innocently phrased sentence. His gaze slowly dips to the lacy pink bra straps on my shoulders, but quickly snaps to my face. If this is his game, he’s good.

I shrug. “Gotta keep you on your toes, right? Boys can’t have all the fun.” I glide through the water and turn on my back. Float and look at the sky. “Why didn’t you mention you had a bobber? Most people…bikers…that’s the first thing to come up.”

I hear him moving through the water near me, swimming closer. “Because I’m not a biker.”

“Still.” I glance at him, the muffled sound of underwater muting my hearing in one ear. His gaze is roaming over my stretched out body. My chest, stomach, legs. A burst of heat erupts in my belly. I’d be one sorry liar if I claimed having this guy’s attention wasn’t a rush.

He runs his wet hands over his hair, slicking it back from his face. The white-blond strands darken to a deep yellow, the contrast transforming his hazel irises to a bright gold. “I don’t consider myself a hardcore biker,” he says. “I don’t travel the country, or run in a gang. I’m definitely not involved in drugs.” I hike my eyebrows, and he adds, “Anymore. So yeah, the gang thing isn’t for me. I’m more about customizing my rides, building something I can enjoy on my time. Besides, I’d actually have to leave Florida to join a gang. That’s not happening.”

My toes sink into the muddy floor of the lake as I gain my balance, stand and face Boone.

“Most MCs aren’t like that,” I say. “Well, maybe not most. But a lot of them aren’t. The misconceptions about drug couriers and mob activity has reached urban legend status. There’s quite a few gangs that are just about the lifestyle.” Even though Lone Breed does dabble in the outlawed trades…I leave my insider knowledge out of the debate. What I said is true. For the most part.

Boone rubs his shoulder, his head tilted, eyes studying me closely. “Uh…wow. You’re pretty passionate about bikers.” He bites his lip, looking like he wants to probe, but says instead, “MCs?”

“Outlaw motorcycle clubs. It sounds more taboo or illegal than it is.” I swim closer to him. “It’s just any biker club or gang that’s not endorsed by the AMA.”

He parts his mouth, but I beat him to his next question. “American Motorcyclist Association.”

“Ah. And you know all this why?”

We’re veering dangerously close to that invisible line. The one neither of us want to cross. But it’s been a little too long since I’ve had any contact with that part of my life—and it’s a huge part. The hugest. Talking about it now, with him, makes everything feel…safe. Like I’m closer to getting back there.

I give him a rueful smile and say, “Had a school project once. Lots of research.” Which isn’t complete BS. I did have a project on American associations, and I did research by asking my dad a million questions. I was nine at the time. My father never sugarcoated anything; he told me the truth about his lifestyle from the day I was born.

Going into that with Boone, though, won’t happen. He can have the clipped version. “So what’s holding you back from leaving?” I ask, changing the subject. When he looks even more lost, I say, “Before my monologue on all things bikers, you said you’d have to leave Florida. So, why don’t you?”