Page 36 of Midnight Desire: The Complete Series

A moth to the flame, no matter how hot it burned.

Too busy living to worry about dying.

It didn’t end well for her…

…but that didn’t mean that stopping myself from living would end well for me, either.

What would she say if she could come back to me, just for a moment?

I knew exactly what she’d say.

She’d say, Go for it.

So I did.

25

It took me forever to find the house. Or at least it seemed that way as I crawled down back streets in the hills, trying to find landmarks in the dark.

It gave me time to justify in my head what I was doing, though.

This is actually good, because he’s the head of the Midnight Riders.

If I get close to him, I can get better access.

I can find out more information by being with him than by staying away from him.

I can use this to find out who killed her.

I realize that sounds really skanky – telling myself to sleep with a guy so I could uncover more clues about Ali’s death.

But understand that I was basically just rationalizing something that I really, deeply, passionately wanted to do.

I just couldn’t admit that to myself.

Not yet.

I finally found his house. Knew it was his from the Ford truck and the Harley out front.

I parked my car, walked up to the front door, and tried the doorbell. I couldn’t hear it inside, so I knocked on the door. Loud.

There wasn’t an answer at first. I thought about turning around… then decided, Fuck it, I’ve come this far, and knocked again even harder.

Finally the porch light turned on, the door opened, and there he stood, squinting at me sleepily.

He was wearing black boxers – and nothing else.

His muscles were incredible. His pecs and abs looked like they were carved out of oak; they actually cast shadows from the porch light across his bronzed skin.

His biceps were huge, his forearms massive; his shoulders were broad and powerful.

There were tattoos across his upper body – a Midnight Riders insignia with the skull, guns, and Bowie knife most prominent among them.

There were scars there, too, lighter colored against his skin. Several long, thin lines, presumably from knives – and a couple that were round and slightly raised, with depressions in the center. Bullet wounds, long since healed.

I got a good look at his lower body, too.

His calves were massive and powerful; his thighs strained against the material of his boxers.

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