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With Cassie, I found the first excuse I could to pull her closer. And being able to show her off and tell people she was mine—fuck, it made me feel something that before this, I wasn’t sure I ever would.
She lifted her hand and tapped on her helmet. “Okay, I think I’m ready.” She beamed, lifting her hand up to knock on it again.
But instead, I grabbed her fist and settled it back down beside her. “Maybe let’s not do that.”
Rip chuckled as he stopped his bike checks and gave Cassie a quick wink. “We try not to test fate by banging our helmets around,” he informed her with a teasing wink. “Sometimes you can compromise the integrity of them, but for the most part, we just kinda feel like it’s bad juju.”
She pulled her bottom lip in between her teeth and bobbed her head. “Right, gotcha, leave the helmet alone.”
“All right,” Dad called, throwing his leg over his ride and steadying it before Zoey climbed on behind him. The rest of the club followed suit, ten of us heading out tonight. “We’re riding out!”
I stepped back to take a good look at the woman in front of me, and she twirled. “How do I look?”
She looked ridiculous, the sleeves hanging down over her hands and the collar almost covering half her face—so why did I still want to throw her over my shoulder and carry her back inside? “Fucking good. Let’s ride.”
CASSIDY
“Let’s get a drink while the boys supervise everyone leaving,” Zoey said, nodding toward the side door we’d come in where there weren’t a couple of hundred people trying to leave through.
We had hidden in a dark corner for most of the past two hours while the club members supervised fight night. Drake explained it was an amateur thing, an excuse for guys with something to prove to get in a ring and throw their fists around. Some trained for it, others I noticed—such as a group of frat boys from a local college—just showed up with their egos, trying to prove how cool they were to their friends.
At first, I was confused about the club’s part in it all, but then Zoey insisted it wouldn’t take long for me to figure it out. And sure enough, a few minutes later, a support guy in the front row didn’t like what a support guy from the opponents’ team was saying, and the fight was no longer inside the ring. A couple of security guards stepped in to defuse it. All they could do was try to push and pull these men apart, but all they did was dive back in for more.
When the club stepped in, it was almost like watching the Red Sea part as Drake and his brothers got up in these guys’ faces.
It was the intimidation factor.
Did these guys who were fighting really want to take on a club full of bikers who were well known for taking no shit and not being afraid to back it up?Hell no.
Zoey took my arm and directed me toward the rear exit we’d entered through. I glanced back over my shoulder, but Drake just lifted his hand, letting me know he saw we were leaving before he was distracted by one of the frat boys tossing a beer can at the support team of the guy his friend had just fought.
“Sounds like a plan to me,” I agreed, ready and willing to get out of that room overflowing with male testosterone.
We pushed through the exit and walked across the front lobby to a room just opposite and pulled up two seats at the bar. It seemed almost like the place people came to have a breather and some food before they headed back into the casino at the rear of the building, as it had a smattering of people sitting at short tables with red tablecloths, ordering food, throwing back drinks, and some counting their winnings.
Or loses.
“Martinis, please,” Zoey ordered as we climbed onto the stools. “Two.”
The bartender acknowledged the order with a half salute, and I smiled.
She turned to me with a slight grimace on her face. “I’m just gonna run to the bathroom, I won’t be two seconds, okay?”
I waved her off. “Yes, go.”
She climbed off her stool and disappeared around the other side of the bar. She’d only been gone a few seconds before the bartender appeared with our drinks and placed them in front of me. “Two martinis,” he announced.
“Thank—”
“And anything for you, sir?” the bartender asked, turning his attention to the seat beside me which had just been taken.
“Just a beer, thanks.”
I gripped the martini glass tightly in my hand, but the rest of my body froze. I couldn’t turn to look at him or raise the glass to my mouth. I was stuck, trying to just focus on continuing to breathe.
The bartender was back quickly with his beer and even quicker with his retreat.
“You hate martinis,” Emmett commented, though I still hadn’t acknowledged he was there. Not even a glance. “Brian said it was one of the things he liked about you, that you weren’t one of those girls who liked all those floofy drinks.”
