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I gasped, praying this wasn’t true. “No, no, no…”
I promised myself I’d kill them. I’d kill them all.
Would’ve been a great plan had I not been ignorant, and if I could’ve got my clunker to start. Behind the steering wheel of my dead car, I seethed. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
I kicked the door back open, creaky hinges screaming, then, after getting out, I proceeded to kick the piece of shit, shouting, “Start! Fucking start! I don’t have time for this…”
My stomach was begging for food. My dehydrated blood was begging for water. I was beyond exhausted, and my hurt heart never stopped aching for her.
I grabbed my chest. Even though I didn’t know who this woman was, or who she was searching for, I related, deeply, to her pain and dedication.
When my high heel broke under the pressure, I took off the sequined atrocity and threw it across the parking lot, yelling incoherent words as I lost my mind. Then my other shoe was flung as my rage held me captive.
After my meltdown, I stood there, even more drained, and breathing so heavily I almost jumped ten feet into the air when I heard, “Ya done?”
I spun around to see a guy perched on a Harley.
Growing up around loud motorcycles, how he was able to ride up on me without me even noticing, I’ll never know, but what I DID know is he was there for me. So, I quickly glanced at the building, finally spotting security cameras that were much newer than the abandoned building.
Studying my observation, he said, “Yup.” He crossed his arms. “Private property.”
There were no signs saying as much, but an MC’s presence speaks for itself. No signs were needed for locals. Like in Ireland, they knew to watch their step when near MC-owned property.
I was no local. And I was looking for trouble.
I had found it.
His leather, not worn and aged—like the men I grew up with, nor having a Prospect patch, I knew I had a recently patched Stallion in front of me.
I gasped, hoping I knew who she was seeing, and hoping like hell he helped her.
It was time to dazzle this man with charm, so I flirted, telling him ‘private’ property was perfect since I was rather eager to give a ‘private’ dance.
Sunglasses moved slightly, due to a smirk, with no wrinkles on his younger skin. “Is that so?”
I glanced at the door. Bors had just used that very phrase with me.
I sensed it was going to be a piece of cake to entice this kid, that’s why I told him to take me to his club so I could show him what I meant.
His controlled expression still needed practice. I could read his immediate interest. However, he warned, “I can bring you to the clubhouse, but you won’t only be dancing.”
He was youthful, but I could tell he’d also grown up around members. He already possessed attitude and privilege of a lifestyle outside of the law. Therefore, I had to dish out strength for him to stay intrigued. That’s why I asked him if I appeared to be scared of fucking a man.
His sunglasses were dark, but slight movement told me his eyes were checking me out, so I slowly circled myself to give him a full view, mentioning, “I got the goods to get it done, Youngin’.”
A brow lifted. “Youngin’?”
He was to me. I had him by some years. Maybe eight.
Ignoring the pebbles digging into my bare feet, I strutted toward him, copying his earlier lazy response. “Yup.” Goading, I gave him a sultry smile and asked Youngin’ if he thought he had what it took to get it done. No matter what he’d learned by example, growing up in a club, his body was still full of hormones, making his ego mine to wield.
Hence, his engine starting.
I grinned, taking that response as a yes, then went to my car to retrieve my purse and biker boots.
Youngin’ took notice of the shoes. “Know how to ride?”
I possibly knew how to ride better than him, but the present wasn’t the time to tell him so. It was only time to stroke his ego. I told him I’m familiar with the strongest of men.
