Page 10 of Coveted By Cupid

Realistically, I have enough to find her again. But I’m not ready to let her go—not yet. I’m on the open road with a beautiful baddie riding in front of me. It’s a biker’s dream come true. Besides, I’ve got a superb view of her full ass dangling in front of me like a carrot, and I want to take a bite out of it.

A good man would ease up on the gas and let her escape. Hell, a good man wouldn’t have chased her to begin with.

I’m not a good man—far from it. I run guns for the Royal Bastards, I’m the president of a one-percent motorcycle club, and I break the law daily. Letting her go now would be cruel, giving her the false narrative that she’s safe from me when she’s anything but.

Vanessa continues north on Interstate 25, checking over her shoulder occasionally to see if I’m still there. I’m directly behind her, right in her blind spot, where she can’t see me in the mirrors. She’s so close and yet so far.

At one point, she gives me the middle finger, letting me know she’s pissed. I let out the biggest belly laugh, loving how easy it is to get under her skin.

After thirty minutes of riding, Vanessa pulls off in Fort Collins, heading toward CSU.

Hmm. Maybe she’s a student.

I’m trying to imagine what degree she’s pursuing when I notice the tracks ahead and red lights flashing. A deep horn blasts close by, signaling that a train is drawing near. I look towards where the noise is coming from, seeing a train on our left coming from the industrial side of the city.

The guardrails come down over the road, blocking the path. I slow down, but Vanessa doesn’t. My stomach drops out from under me, realizing she doesn’t plan on it.

“PSYCHE! NO!” I yell, but it’s no use. She can’t hear me over the blaring of the horn.

Without hesitation, Vanessa weaves around the guardrails, cutting across the tracks by the skin of her teeth.

Seconds later, the train plows between us, blaring its horn angrily. The ground rumbles, shaking nearly as much as I am.

Desperate to see if she’s okay, I try to catch a glance of her between the passing rail cars.

She’s there, safe on the other side. I’m surprised to see she stopped. She looks over her shoulder, watching me between the boxcars as intently as I watch her.

Now, I’m pissed. It was bad enough when Vanessa was riding her hog like a rocket on the roads, but zooming in front of an oncoming train was suicidal. My palms itch, wanting to tan her hide or grab her into a protective hug—maybe both.

Wait. She stopped. She’s watching me.

My heart flutters wildly in my chest, hope and confusion blooming inside of me all at once.

Vanessa risked her life to get away from me. Why has she suddenly stopped? Why not keep going?

A sensible woman would run for the hills after being chased by a man like me on a motorcycle. Yet she stays, her eyes fixed on me.

It makes no sense. My brow furrows as I try to understand why she’s still here.

She pulled a stupid stunt. Perhaps she’s coming down from the adrenaline rush after skirting death?

Maybe she’s mocking my failed attempt to follow her, taking a moment to gloat before cruising away.

I’m so focused on her, I nearly miss the caravan of bikers cruising up behind her. She doesn’t seem to hear them approaching, not over the roar of the steel alloy train wheels clanking and screeching on the track.

My heart goes into overdrive, checking to see how much more of the train needs to pass before I can get to her. I don’t know who these bikers are. Are they friends or foes?

All I know is I’m a lone Royal Bastard president with no backup and my woman is within their reach.

My eyes swivel between watching the approaching bikers closing in, Vanessa, and the fucking remaining boxcars separating us.

It’s not long before the last rail cart chugs by, and I get a clear image of what I’m dealing with. Vanessa remains on the right side of the road, and a pack of half a dozen Mercy Ravens MC bikers face me on the left side of the road. The clanging bell and red lights from the guardrails stop sounding when the rails lift.

Nobody moves, let alone breaks eye contact.

Keeping my eyes on the other bikers, I crook my fingers at my little baddie. “Come here, Butterfly,” I shout, trying to hide my anxiety.

“Don’t call me any pet names!” she snaps back.