Sinclair

Chapter Five: Black Velvet

EVERYTHING THAT HAD ONCE been in my past—this bar, my old friends, Sinclair—were all exactly as they had been the day I left, so it really shouldn't have been as surprising as it was to find out this office had not changed an inch. It wasn't really an office by conventional standards. It was a small room with a one-armed black chaise lounge chair pushed in the far corner. The chair had a good view. You could see the fading sun—which was now exceptionally lower than before, the sky was nearly black now—glimmering across the tall treetops. It truly was a beautiful place. Especially since Carla's was the only bar or shop around for miles. In the middle of the room was a small desk and a comfortable chair. To be completely honest, Sinclair never used that desk and I suspected he just put it there to fill up the room. The only time he had ever used it was when he and I...

Forcing myself out of the pervy direction my thoughts had taken, I try to focus on something else. Anything else. That's how I hear him softly shut the door behind us.

I whirl around so fast, it a wonder I don't get whiplash, and I say, "Why are you closing the door?" in this high, erratic sounding voice.

He raises a brow, looking amused by the undoubtedly fearful look on my face.

"There's been a couple of renovations to the place since you were last here. Carla added a room a little ways down so that she could stay here if Bruiser happens to have to go out one night. She hates going home without him."

"That doesn't explain why you closed the door," I snapped.

He holds up in hands in surrender.

"I was getting to that part," he promises, flashing me a mischievously dimpled smile. "A lot of the guys like to take turns going in there to rest before they go out for nightly patrols, you know? Listen."

I do as he says and, sure enough, I can hear the sound of heavy footsteps thumping down the hall past the office and off to where the new room must be. Right as the footsteps disappear, I hear Carla start up the music she uses when the bar is officially open. Crazy Bitch by Buckcherry has taken place of the soft jazz, and now I can hear feminine voice along with the male ones. A lot of women with a taste for dangerous, leather-clad men frequent this place.

"We wanted privacy, remember?"

"You wanted privacy," I correct him.

He just grins at me and tilts his head toward the chaise lounge chair.

"You can have a seat. You just standing there like that makes this whole thing kind of uncomfortable, little goddess."

I suppose he's right. Just standing here in the middle of the room where we used to have wild animalistic sex is probably slightly awkward. But what feels even more awkward is sitting on the couch where we once had wild, animalistic sex. I don't know if I can trust him when he's sitting so close to me in such a confined space.

What's more, I don't know if I can trust myself.

Seemingly sensing my thoughts, Sinclair gives me his signature smirk and says, "Don't worry, I won't misbehave if you don't." And the look he gives me makes it very clear that he wants, with every fiber of his being, for me to misbehave.

I shoot him a look—making sure to make it as displeased as possible—and walk slowly over to the chaise lounge chair. I actually have to take a deep breath—although I try to do so as discreetly as possible—before I sit down.

The couch is just as plush as I remember, the black velvet feeling incredibly pleasing against my fingers as I touch it lightly with my fingertips.

After I've sat down, Sinclair comes and plops down right beside me. My fingers—which had been creating shapeless patterns on the couch—pause as my entire body completely freezes up. I probably look a lot like a robot that has completely shut down at this point.