Falling For The Biker: The Vice President's Girl Chapter 15

Wren

"You're going to hold that over my head, aren't you?" Ezra drawls. "I said I'm sorry, and I promise you, he's going to pay for talking to you."

I scoff, staring at the boxes of durex.

"Ribbed...flavored..." my nose wrinkles, "...that's gross. Extra large." I snort at that, my eyes locking on his frame. "You wish, Ezra."

He glances over, smirking. "You saw for yourself last night, didn't you?"

My laughter dies out immediately, the memory of his fists stroking his cock flashes in my mind.

"You know," I clear my throat, "...you should really lock the doors when you're doing things like that."

"And miss out on having you watch me? Nah."

I roll my eyes, heat threatening to crawl up my cheeks. "Ray would kill you for saying that to me."

"He would," Ezra agrees, chuckling. "Good thing I'm only saying it to piss you off."

"Then you lie that pissing me off doesn't turn you on."

Ezra snorts. "It doesn't. I just enjoy it. Does everything you enjoy turn you on? For example, does sucking that lollipop turn you on?"

"Don't be crass."

"Why..." he trails off, shaking his head. "Why is that when I repeat the same words you use, I'm the one that's crass?"

"Because." I shrug, twiddling the engagement ring that still sits on my finger.

Ezra catches it. "You still have that."

It's not a question, more like a statement.

"I do."

He scoffs wordlessly, jaw flexing.

"If you have something to say, say it," I sigh.

He doesn't speak, not immediately.

Silence fills the car except for the low purr of the engine.

"He's dead, Wren. Take that ring off, and move on." Ezra glances at me. "I wonder why you still have it. If I were you, I'd have stuffed it down his throat, let him choke on his stupid proposal."

Over the past few days, the ring has been a source of comfort for me. He wouldn't know anything about that.

"It's a good thing you're not me," I mutter dryly.

"And it's a good thing you have me, Wren. Because there's nothing I wouldn't do to protect you." He must see the confused and horrified look on my face, because he quickly adds, "...as Ray's little sister, of course."

I swallow thickly, the first half of his words playing like a mantra in my head. "I don't need you fighting my battles."

"We'll see about that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Ezra turns a corner, and parks. He gives me a long look, piercing gray eyes fixed on mine.

"It means you're not safe, Wren. Not in New Orleans, and definitely not when Calvin knows who you are."

"Who's Calvin?"

"The man you met at the mall."

My blood runs cold. "And why am I not safe?"

"Because he hates Ray and I—" Ezra leans closer, "...and he'll stop at nothing to get to us. Even if it means using you as bait."

"So why did Ray ask me to come home?" I snap, eye twitching. "I was fine in Seattle."

He nods. "You were. But it's only a matter of time. Having you nearby makes it easier to keep an eye on you."

"How wonderful is that?" A dry chuckle leaves my lips. "But still, I don't need you fighting my battles, Ezra."

"That's the thing though, your opinion doesn't count when it comes to keeping you safe. And that's why Ray trusts me with you," he says, voice low. "I'll be damned if anything happens to you on my watch."

His words lick across my skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps.

Our eyes remain locked on each other, somehow we're closer than I thought, almost touching.

My throat bobs and he follows the movement with his eyes.

"Ezra..."

That seems to snap him out of it.

He straightens quickly, a low chuckle slipping past his lips. "Come on out."

The door clicks shut behind him after he steps out.

It's the first time I notice where we are. The familiar street, and the familiar house at the small distance.

My childhood home.

I clamber out of the car. "Why are we here?"

"Ray asked me to pick up something for him and I." Ezra marches into the house, and I follow.

Nostalgia hits me the moment I step in. Nothing has changed since I left.

The house is still as bland as ever, no pictures on the wall, papers are strewn around, and alcohol bottles are littered across the floor.

Ezra disappears into a hallway, but my feet take me to my old bedroom. It's all the same, like no one stepped in since I left.

Tears spring to my eyes, memories after memories trickle into my brain. I find the little corner I used to hide in when dad and mom got into their usual fight over dad's infidelity.

With everything that happened with Tristan, I understand now how she must have felt. Married to someone who didn't want her, the same way it would've happened to me.

I sink down on my bed, digging around the little nook at the head. My hands graze the journal that I always hid there.

Pulling it out, I cough from the dust accumulated on the surface.

"You're still here," I murmur, choking lightly as I flip it open.

Before I can read any words, a loud crash sounds from somewhere in the house.

"Ezra?" I yell, running towards the source with my heart in my throat.

When I don't get any response, my panic increases. "Ezra!"

A shadow glints from my dad's room and I walk in to find the desk smashed in two down the middle.

Ezra sits on the floor, head resting on one of his knees while the other leg is stretched out.

His hand grips a wooden club, knuckles white.

"Ezra." I rush over. "Are you okay?"

He looks up, jaw tight. His face is scrunched up in pain.

"I need to be alone for a bit," he rasps, pinching his eyes shut.

I squat, noticing the beads of sweat that pebble on his temples, beneath his nose, and his neck.

"Your leg still hurts?" I ask softly, placing a hand on his thigh.

"Sometimes."

"How long until the pain passes?"

"Depends on the severity." His eyes flutter open. "But it'll soon pass. No need to worry."

"I'm not worried," I interject immediately, almost defensively.

Being worried means I care about him, and care is the last thing I feel for him. At least that's what I keep telling myself.

He chuckles, but it's not as effortless as it usually is. "Whatever makes you feel better, Birdie."

"Do you need anything?"

He shakes his head. "Ju-just keep talking. It distracts me."

By the way his eyes glaze over, and the tight press of his lips, I know he's in another round of pain. I take a seat beside him on the floor.

"You've never told me what happened," I say. "You used to walk with a limp more often back then, but I haven't noticed it since I got back. I thought it had stopped hurting."

Ezra breathes out. "It'll never stop hurting. I just hide my limp better, except I experience this kind of pain."

"You still haven't told me what happened."

"I thought avoiding it would tell you I don't want to talk about it."

I huff. "Fine. Why are you holding a club?"

At that, Ezra grins. "Wouldn't you like to know."

Slowly he lowers his injured leg to the floor. He shrugs me off when I try to help him stand, and he does it himself, resting on his good leg.

He slaps the club on his palm with a smile.

"Tonight, we're having a barbecue at the clubhouse," he says.

I raise a brow. "So what? The club is the meat?"

"No, birdie. This club is a punishment tool."