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Like the others, he was shirtless.
He was fit, but not overly muscular, just the outlines of abs as he took in the scene before him.
Hot.
He was hot.
But they all were in their own ways.
This one was tall with dark hair and some careless scruff on his face. Some ink, but not a lot. And a nasty scar on his shoulder.
I couldn’t make out his eyes from so far away, but they were pretty regardless. If, I don’t know, a little sad.
Most interesting of all, though, was the fact that he was holding a gun.
A gun.
He’d heard a woman screaming, so he grabbed a gun, and came running.
That sealed it for me.
The girls, it seemed, were safe.
I didn’t have to babysit all night.
Besides, we were all adults here. I knew what would follow. Girls going back to bedrooms with bikers. Leaving me alone out back or in the common room.
I figured that I might as well get ahead of things and get going.
I made my way toward the gun-toting biker, figuring that aside from the Grandpa guy, he was the only sober one around.
He was even better looking up close and personal where his cut jaw and tortured-looking eyes were on full display.
I felt my pulse speeding up as we spoke, little telltale pulses of desire telling me that my libido, while long-buried, was not dead.
When he ducked inside to grab shoes and a shirt, I moved toward the edge of the pool, kneeling down.
“Try to grab me,” I warned at the Golden Retriever guy, “and I will stab my earrings through your sack.”
“Lexy!” Lottie said, mouth falling open in amused outrage. “She doesn’t mean that.”
“Oh, but she does,” I said. “Look, I got the sober guy to give me a ride home. Are you good here?” I asked.
“Yep. We’re gonna be crashing here,” she said.
“Phone is charged?” I asked.
“Yes, Mom.”
“You have cash and cards if you need to get a ride?”
“Yesss.”
“And you have condoms?” I asked, lowering my voice.
“Oh, my God. Go,” she said, rolling her eyes at me. “But yes,” she added. “Text me when you get home.”
“I will,” I assured her, even though I knew she wouldn’t be checking her phone. “And you text me when you get up in the morning.”
“Always,” she said.
“Okay. Have fun.”
“Enjoy Forensic Files.”
She was teasing me, but I smiled. “I will.”
With that, I made my way around the building, waiting for the hot biker as I looked at the line of bikes.
Well, there was a first time for everything, I guess.
I wasn’t opposed to bikes, per se. I just never had a chance to ride on one.
Of course, I’d underestimated just how… intimate riding on the back of one was. I guess some part of me always figured that the TV shows and movies were exaggerated, that I wouldn’t have to actually hug the driver. I thought there were, you know, grips to hold onto instead or something.
No such luck, apparently.
I grabbed mostly his t-shirt at first, but as the bike sped up, I found myself scooting closer, felt my arms sliding around his strong midsection.
I might even have rested the side of my face on his back. Or as much as I could with the helmet on.
It was a freeing sensation after the whole stomach-dropping sensation went away. The summer breeze cooling my overheated skin. The rumble beneath us.
I was really starting to regret living so close when we turned down the road that would lead to my duplex. I just wanted five more minutes.
I felt the change in the biker before I sensed anything wrong myself.
His entire body stiffened as the bike slowed.
Then I saw them.
A group of shadowy figures ahead of us, cutting off the road.
It looked like a trap, like assholes did to carjack you.
But we didn’t have a car, and I doubted a bike was as valuable to sell for parts.
Still, though, something was clearly wrong as another car’s headlights came in from the back, closing us in.
The biker reacted before my mind could fully wrap itself around what was happening, turning the bike, and going off the road.
Toward the woods.
The woods?
“Hold on!” he demanded as my stomach dropped, as my arms and legs tightened.
It was a short drive, though, before the terrain was too difficult to keep moving.
“What are you doing?” I gasped, voice sounding tight and high to my own ears as panic welled.
“Run,” he said, voice tense. “Toward the street,” he added as I climbed off. “Run!” he demanded, voice brooking no argument.
The look of fear on his face was what made me turn and haul ass. Because if a cool, calm, collected biker dude with a gun was scared, I figured I should be shitting myself terrified.
I ran, tearing through the woods, leaves crunching and twigs cracking under my feet.
I was not what anyone would call athletic, so it wasn’t long before my breathing was fast and shallow, before my heartbeat was pounding in my ears.
