There was such a long moment of silence that I thought he wasn’t going to answer.
But then he did with, “Good.”
CHAPTER 17
If you can’t handle the sass, you can’t handle the ass.
-Text from Banger to Easton
BANGER
We slept for six hours.
Six hours with my body wrapped completely around him to the point where there wasn’t an inch of our skin that wasn’t touching.
Easton woke first, and like a creeper, stared at me until my eyes slowly peeled open.
“You snore,” he said the moment that I opened my eyes.
I blinked at him slowly. “Your breath smells bad.”
He laughed. “Both of ours probably do. I meant to brush them last night, but then I got a bit distracted.”
“Same,” I whispered, confirming that my breath did, indeed, smell, based solely on the wince that hit his features. “What time is it?”
He held up his watch for me to see, but I blinked at it blearily. The dials looked like a solid blue, and there was no way I could tell what time it was yet.
“I can’t see that,” I admitted. “My eyes are too blurry.”
He chuckled. “Same. I was hoping you could tell me.”
I sighed and sat up, being careful not to put any pressure on his ribs as I did. “Are you doing okay?”
He patted his chest. “Aching. Like normal I suppose. Knife cut feels pretty good, though. Back’s itching like a motherfucker.”
“Knife cut?” I rolled my eyes. “Is that what we’re calling that massacre?”
He chuckled as I rolled over him, and he took the opportunity to squeeze my ass as I moved.
“You got something to change into? Or are you wearing what you took off last night?” I asked as I reached for my bag that was shoved into the shelf above the bed.
I pulled out my clothes that I would be changing into, black yoga pants, a black t-shirt, and black underthings, before looking over to see him shrugging on yesterday’s clothes.
“I didn’t bring any,” he said. “I was just thinking about getting here. Didn’t put much thought into what I’d wear today.”
Together, we got dressed, then went back into the truck stop.
It didn’t escape my notice that we were the center of attention of almost every trucker we passed.
“You think we were rocking the truck hard or something?” I asked curiously as we started to separate into the women’s and men’s rooms.
“I have no idea,” he admitted. “I didn’t think so, but…”
I walked into the women’s on that last thought, brushed, flossed, and then washed my face before adding some mascara for the day.
Ensemble finished, I used the bathroom, washed my hands all over again, and then headed back out to find a trucker blocking my path.
Her eyes speared into me, and I could tell that I wasn’t her favorite person.
I frowned at him, wondering what in the hell he was going on about, but then shrugged it away and gestured for him to do what he was going to do.
I never expected for him to pull the chain horn.
When the biker in front of us was all but directly in our path, Easton pulled the chain and allowed the horn to blow until it ran out of the air.
But my eyes were on the man that was in front of us.
He was standing there, with his MC cut on his back, and his eyes looking at the parking lot in front of him, not the parked truck behind him. Meaning, he hadn’t expected a thing.