Free Biker Chicks: An Anthology of Hot MC Romance by A.J. Downey Page B

, curved up into a smile. I dropped my haversack and the first aid kit on the bed and motioned to the only chair in the room. He dropped into it with a wince and leaned back. I switched on the lamp beside him and turned his face into the light.
    “Doesn’t look like it’ll need stitches, but I am going to have to clean it up. Gimme a second,” I muttered. I backed off of him from where I’d practically been straddling his lap and undid the chinstrap on my helmet. With that weight off my head, I stripped off the red bandanna covering my hair underneath.
    “Nice,” he commented and I turned sharply.
    “What?”
    “Your hair color, it’s nice. I couldn’t see it out there. Your eyes are nice too.”
    I felt myself blush, I wasn’t exactly used to getting compliments. I shrugged out of my jacket and cut and laid them out on the bed. The rose and angel wings folding in on themselves. Our club’s colors were a red rose, white angel wings sprouting from either side of it, constricted by barbed wire. A crooked halo held up by a pair of free floating devil horns over it all. The top rocker proclaimed ‘Saintly Sinners’ loud and proud and the bottom rocker ‘Denver’ after the city we claimed as home.
    I swept my hands through my dirty blonde hair and away from my gunmetal blue eyes and sighed. I pulled half of it up at the top and used the hair elastic from around my wrist to do the job my bandana and jacket had done on the road, getting it and keeping it out of my face. My hair was long, closer to my waist than my mid back, and I typically trapped it with my leather coat to keep it from tangling in the wind.
    “Be right back,” I murmured, “I’m going to go wash my hands.”
    I pulled off my gloves and dropped them on my jacket and cut, tossing my clear safety glasses into the bowl of my helmet next, before walking into the small bathroom and flipping on the light. I scrubbed my hands with hot water and the little hotel bar of soap that was provided. Using the bathroom mirror, I watched Kyle as he painstakingly shrugged out of his leather jacket and let it fall behind him, slouching in the chair. He was already moving better, like he was in less pain, and that was encouraging.
    I shut off the water, shook my hands into the basin and dried them on the fresh hand towel. Kyle was watching me curiously the next time I looked. I frowned, I couldn’t really take stock with all that blood on his face, so I grabbed the washcloth I’d wet with some hot water and brought it over to him.
    “Look at me,” I ordered and returned to my position of practically straddling his denim and leather clad thighs. He looked up obediently and I sucked in a breath. He had the most startling dark blue eyes. I’d thought they were dark brown in the low light, but no, they were a deep, sapphire blue, so dark as to be almost indigo.
    “You have quite the pair of eyes yourself,” I mentioned, carefully wiping the blood from his cheek. He smiled and flashed the most adorable set of dimples. I smiled back and gently pushed his dark brown hair away from the cut over his eyebrow. It was silky soft, and I admit, I combed my fingers through it a few more times than was absolutely necessary.
    Kyle closed those indigo eyes and relaxed under the touch, his hands finding my waist and simply resting there, over my jeans and chaps. I felt a little thrill go down my spine and take up residence in my stomach where it burst into a fit of butterflies.
    “That feels good,” he said, “I’ve always been a sucker for having my hair played with.”
    I smiled and got down to business, tending his cut, wiping at it gently with the rough washcloth, he flinched and I sucked in a breath, “Sorry, has to be done, and if you think this is bad, wait until I bust out the antiseptic.”
    “I can handle it,” he said and I chuckled.
    “I’ll just bet you can.”
    We were quiet for a time as I ripped open packaging and brought out the styptic pencil. I