Page 31 of Dangerous Attraction

"This is Mackie," she tells me.

He reluctantly drags his eyes away from Honey, to settle them on me.

"I've heard all about you already," he says, reaching out a large hand. "Pleasure to meet you."

"You too," I squeak, taking his hand and giving it a shake. Whirling around to face Honey, I point my thumb toward the shelves behind us. "We're running low on some bourbon and vodka, as well as beer and soda in the fridge. Where do I go to get more?"

"Oh, they're down in—"

"No," Reeve barks, cutting Honey off.

Frowning, I turn to face him, his scrutinizing eyes boring into mine.

"I'll sort it," he says as he slips off the stool and walks off to the kitchen.

"Well, that was rude," I mutter, shaking my head.

"Don't take it personally," Mackie says, sighing. "Reeve can come across like a prickly bastard to some, but he doesn't mean to."

Honey scoffs. "He definitely means to, and sometimes, it's unjust."

"He just has issues with trusting people," Mackie adds. "Especially new people who he doesn't know anything about."

I shrug, brushing it off.

Who cares what his opinion of me is?

I'm not here to make friends or tell people my life story.

Chapter Eleven

Reeve

When I walk out of the kitchen and into the fresh, salty air outside, I sigh, shaking my head in disappointment.

I practically just bit her head off for no good reason.

"You good, Reeve?" Slate shouts from the wonky wooden shed a few feet away. He's always hiding there, fixing our bikes.

I nod and tread lightly through the long grass, toward the metal doors buried into a mound of dirt off the side of the clubhouse.

Leaning over, I turn the numbers on the padlock until it unlocks, then I unloop it from the chain that's wrapped around the handles.

Once the chain is off, I swing open the doors, then pull my phone from my pocket, turn on my flashlight and let it illuminate the concrete stairs in front of me.

Walking down the steps, I find the switch on the wall and jab my thumb against it, waiting for the lights to flicker on. When they do, it casts the vast room in a dull light.

Workout equipment takes up the right side of the basement. Weights are scattered across the floor from where half the guys here don't know how to tidy up after themselves, and the left side is filled with boxes, all of which are filled with bottles of alcohol or cans of soda.

Moving to the boxes, I look for the bourbon Trix said she needed. Finding them, I take a couple bottles in each hand, place them into an empty box, then move back for the vodka.

Picking up three bottles of vodka, I take them over to the half empty box, when my eyes flick toward the shadowed part of the basement, hidden around the side of the steps.

Wooden crates are stacked as high as the ceiling with scraps of black tarp haphazardly thrown over them.

That's the exact reason I didn't want her coming down here.

I probably would've allowed it if we didn't store our drinks in the same place we store our guns, but I know we very rarely hide the crates well whenever we get a new shipment come in.