Page 6 of Texting the Wrong Bikers

Dash flips Trigger off before looking back at me. “Can I answer?”

“No,” I reply. The last thing we need in this clubhouse is more drama and more women fighting for Dash’s approval.

“Too late.” His thumbs move quickly over the screen as he types. He shows the message to us before he hits ‘send’.

That depends. What’re we playing?

Trigger starts laughing immediately. “Jesus Christ. Think of that all by yourself?”

Dash looks smug as hell with himself. “Women enjoy confidence.”

The phone buzzes almost immediately. All three of us automatically look down at the phone lying in the middle of the table.

That depends. Are you always this cocky?

Trigger whistles low. “Oh, she’s got attitude.”

Dash is already typing again when Trigger reaches over and steals the phone from him. “Move.”

“You’re ruining the chemistry,” Dash protests. He doesn’t try to take the phone back, though; he isn’t stupid.

Trigger snorts, not looking up from the phone as he furiously types. “You don’t know what chemistry is.”

“Excuse you. I’m chemistry incarnate.”

Trigger ignores him entirely, sending the message before any of us can say otherwise.

Only when I receive an invitation like that. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that if you play with fire, you might get burned?

We wait. Rain crashes against the roof overhead in heavy waves while thunder rumbles through the walls. Somebody at the bar shouts over a pool game in the main room.

The response comes fast enough to tell me she’s still staring at her phone, too. Still engaged, still interested.

So you’re saying whatever happens next is my fault?

Trigger grins slowly. “Oh, she’s fun.”

He’s right, something about the messages is different. She’s not acting desperate or sloppy drunk, looking for a late-night hookup. She’s not trying too hard, just being playful and fun.

The phone buzzes again.

You gonna answer? Or can’t you think of something witty to say?

Dash points across the table immediately. “That one’s definitely for you, Chief.”

I give him a flat look.

Trigger smirks. “She likes bossy.”

I frown. “She doesn’t know me.”

“Exactly.” Trigger winks.

Dash snorts into his beer.

The truth is I should shut this down. I know that. It’s clear by now that this must be a wrong number, some random woman who’s probably drunk. A club bunny would have given herself away by now, would have referred to one of us by name. Or all four of us, if she was hoping for that kind of fun.

But the storm has everybody restless tonight, and there’s already something weirdly addictive about the conversation. The way she answers quickly and easily, without overthinking, and the teasing confidence underneath whatever nerves she’s hiding. Because I have a feeling that she’s not as confident as she appears in text.