Page 2 of Riding Bare

Since Loot’s been tangled up with Juliette, Rocky has been trying to get her hooks into me. I don’t mind it too much. I can see through her. She’s young and ambitious. She wants to be important, and to her, being head whore is important—or maybe she is gunning for old lady, which isn’t going to fucking happen.

Not sure what her angle is and don’t really give a fuck, either. It’s pointless and useless for her to devote this kind of attention to me when she’s going to get absolutely nothing for it except for a few orgasms.

Turning my back, I leave her standing there naked. Whatever her ambitions are, she’s not going to achieve them through me. Climbing onto my bike, I straddle the machine and head straight for home, straight for Chassis. I don’t know if I’m wanted there, but I’m going anyway.

It doesn’t take me long to reach the house. It’s nothing big or fancy—a single-story ranch house built in the thirties. It’s only got one bathroom, but since I’m hardly ever there, it’s enough for Chassis and the baby.

Climbing off my bike, I straighten as I look around the neighborhood. It’s clean and tidy. People give a fuck about their yards and the appearance of their houses, even though they’re all almost a hundred years old at this point. Another reason why I chose this place.

Taking my key out of my pocket, I make my way up the walkway to the front porch and slip it into the lock, but I don’t twist the handle or open it yet. Instead, I stand there, looking at the damn lock and wondering what the fuck to do.

Should I knock? Ring the bell? Open it up and waltz inside?

I have no goddamn clue, and it’s my own fucking house. I go with opening the door while knocking at the same time, then also call out Chassis’s name.

As I step into the house, I listen for any noises she’s making so I can figure out what room she’s in. Then I hear someone hiss the word shit, and I know she’s in the second bedroom. I cleaned it out about a month ago so she could do whatever she wanted with it for a nursery.

Closing the front door behind me, I move through the house toward the nursery, stopping at the doorway and leaning against the jamb as I watch her. Instantly, my lips curve up into a grin because, fuck me, she’s adorable.

Her long hair is pulled up into a messy bun on top of her head, and she’s sitting in the middle of the floor with a million what I assume are furniture pieces surrounding her. For a moment, I forget exactly what the fuck this is between us and just allow myself to enjoy the view.

That is, until she lifts her head and her watery blue eyes find mine. “Help,” she whimpers.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“So many pieces.”

My eyes search the floor, and she’s right. About a hundred pieces of wood are looking back at me. “What the fuck is it?” I ask.

“A crib.”

My eyes widen, and I shake my head once. “You’re going to put the baby in that?”

“Once it’s together,” she snaps. “It was the least expensive one I could find, but I didn’t know I was going to have to build it from scratch.”

I fall in love with her.

Right here.

Right now.

I haven’t even kissed her, but I fucking love her.

CHAPTER

ONE

CHASSIS

I shouldn’t be here.

Sitting outside the clubhouse, I know this isn’t my place. Sure, the guy at the gate let me in, but he’s a prospect and probably shit his pants a little at the sight of me. I’m the president’s wife, his old lady, even if I feel like anything but that.

I was full of false bravado when I rolled up to the gates, but now that I’m inside, I’m full of chicken shit. I chew on the corner of my bottom lip while gripping the steering wheel and wonder if I should just turn around and head home.

But then the door to the clubhouse opens, and a man steps out. I don’t know who exactly he is. I don’t know any of the men, really. They all kind of look alike, especially from a distance—tall, wide-shouldered, thick-thighed, wearing motorcycle boots, jeans, T-shirts, and cuts. The only person I know who it’s not is Dare.

I know Dare from five feet away or from five hundred feet away. I can just tell it’s him. I don’t know how. Sure, he’s got muscle stacked on muscle. His biceps are bigger than my thighs, and his clipped beard begs for my fingers to glide over it and see if it does that tickly thing against them. But it’s not just that. It’s also the way he carries himself.