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“You think he’s ever going to stop being pissed at me?” Romeo sighs and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “I mean it’s been six years.”
I wrap my arm around his shoulder. “Pretty sure Max DiMarco will hold onto that forever, buddy.”
He rolls his eyes. “Guy fucking hates me.”
I laugh and shake my head. “If he hated you, you wouldn’t still be his wife’s personal bodyguard. You probably wouldn’t be breathing.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Guess I should just get used to him barely tolerating me.”
“Guess you should. You fancy grabbing a beer tonight?” I ask, hoping that will improve his mood.
“Fuck yeah. Let’s go home and get out of these fucking monkey suits first.” He pulls at his collar and twists his neck. The handsome fucker looks like he was born to wear a suit, but he hates them even more than I do.
Chapter
Three
KERES
The scent of pinewood, engine oil, and whisky is followed by a comforting wave of warm air when I open the door to Molino’s bar. My eyes quickly dart around the room. It’s quiet tonight, which is an advantage. Less competition. Not that I’ve ever had much of a problem getting what I wanted when I wanted it.
The men I’m looking for sit beside each other at the bar. The younger of the two, Romeo Castelli, tips his head back on a laugh and brushes his dark shaggy hair from his eyes. Lifting a bottle of Budweiser to his lips, he takes a sip, and the man beside him, Ace Giarrusso, swirls the reddish-brown liquid around the bottom of his glass. Probably whiskey, Tennessee’s finest, his drink of choice.
Ace rolls his head back, displaying more of the thick tattoos that snake around the column of his throat. The fact that Joey Moretti’s personal bodyguards are hotter than sin makes this part of my job a whole lot easier. The fact that they’re into motorcycles too… well, that’s just the cherry on top of this deliciously muscular man cake.
I make my way to the bar and avoid eye contact with everyone I pass, even when I hear a crude remark from the guy sitting alone near the pool table. My lips curve upward. Any other time, buddy, and I’d ram those words back down your throat. But I don’t have time for that tonight. I’m here for one thing. My eyes remain fixed on Ace and Romeo. Make that two things.
I take a seat on the stool beside Romeo and wonder if his mother, Janine, named him that ironically. Not that Ace is much better, but at least it isn’t his real name. Antony Giarrusso, born at Chicago Memorial twenty-eight years ago. Star sign Scorpio. No siblings. Both parents deceased.
Placing my helmet on the bar, I signal the bartender. He jerks his chin at me in response. “Jack and coke, please.”
“Double?”
I rest my hands on the bar in front of me and lean forward. “Single, thanks.”
“Gotta go grab a fresh bottle. Be right back.” He heads into the back. Colby Sprinter, twenty-two years old. Lives above Molino’s and works the bar six nights a week while working toward an online degree in business during the day.
Glancing sideways at the two men beside me, I catch Romeo’s eye. With a flutter of my eyelashes, I offer him the sweetest smile I can muster. After spending weeks watching him and his friend, I know their schedule and their movements backward and forward. I know they share an apartment, are addicted to black coffee—Romeo with two sugars, Ace with none—and they go to the gym every single day. But I’ve never seen them up close before, and the deep cornflower blue of Romeo’s irises catches me off guard. With his dark hair and olive skin, I expected his eyes to be brown.
He nods at my helmet. “You in here looking to become someone’s backpack?” His arrogant smile reveals a perfect set of dazzling white teeth and crinkles the corners of his eyes. Oh, goody. A sexist asshole. I shouldn’t have expected any better from a man who looks like he does. Intricately drawn tattoos adorn his arms, snaking around every sinew and vein before stopping in a neat circle at his wrists. He’s clean shaven, but his dark hair is unkempt, long enough to fall across his forehead and over his eyes. He’s both strikingly beautiful and dangerously edgy. A lethal combination, and he knows it. The cocksure confidence clings to his lean, muscular body tighter than his T-shirt and jeans, which is no mean feat given that they look like they were painted on.
Ace rubs a hand over his thick beard, and his snort sounds like a laugh wrapped up in an insult. My eyes are drawn to his, and I note how different he is from his friend but that he’s no less attractive. His light brown hair is short, shaved at the back and sides, putting the tattoos on his neck on full display. His huge biceps strain the dark material of his T-shirt to the point that I expect it to rip at any moment.
I offer a disinterested shrug. “Maybe I’m in here looking for a backpack of my own.”
That garners a laugh from Romeo, but Ace’s eyes, so dark I can’t distinguish his irises from his pupils, narrow. “You ride?”
Running my tongue over my top teeth, I hold his stare. “I do.”
Romeo edges closer, and I catch the smell of his cologne, fresh and soapy. “And what exactly do you ride, sweet girl?”
My eyes lock on his now. His pupils are blown wide, and a wicked grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. These are two of the hottest guys I’ve ever seen, and the way they’re both looking at me tells me they’re into me. But as many times as I’ve watched them drink at this very bar, I’ve never seen them take a girl home. That’s part of why I waited so long to approach. I needed time to figure out my strategy, but my fuck-up with Oscar forced my hand. So here I am, improvising a way to get them to take my bait.
They put off the vibe that they’re into each other, but they’ve checked out enough women in this bar to tell me that I’m not the one to pop that cherry. It isn’t like they’re shy. They just exude a don’t-fuck-with-us aura that keeps people—women especially—from approaching them. Luckily for me, I’ve never been one to heed a warning. Maybe that’s enough to earn me an invitation from them. I just need to play this with the proper combination of sweetness and confidence.
I lean closer, angling my body so they both get a good view of my cleavage. “I ride a Fireblade.” I practically purr the words. “But I’d ride both of you if you asked nicely.”
Romeo’s grin widens, but Ace’s body language changes the most. He turns in his seat, directing all his attention at me, and arches one thick eyebrow. “That’s very forward, sweetheart. You should be careful about talking like that around here. Somebody might take you up on your offer.”
