Page 3 of Ripper's Redemption

He cocks a brow and an amused smirk tugs at his lips. “You don’t want me to answer that question, Tara.”

I inhale sharply and shut my eyes. The last thing I want right now is to have to deal with Ripper and his flirtatious ways.

I give him a stern look. “I can’t fucking do this right now.”

“Want to talk about it?” he asks, undeterred by my sharp tone.

“Not here,” I mutter, glancing back at the clubhouse. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Okay,” Ripper says, swinging a leg over his bike. “Hop on.”

I slide onto the seat behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist. He hands me a helmet and grabs one from the bike beside his for him to wear.

The engine roars to life beneath us, and we speed away from the clubhouse, leaving the noise and lies behind.

The wind rushes past us as we dart down the open roads.

A peaceful silence reigns, only broken by the soothing rumble of the motorcycle beneath us, the noise fading into a lullaby against my troubles.

For now, I’m free from all of the things running around in my mind. It’s just Ripper, me and the midnight road.

The cool night air feels like a soft caress on my heated skin, which feels so good.

It’s the first time I’ve ever been on a bike, and I tighten my arms around Ripper’s waist.

We ride through the night, passing vacant streets and lonely houses until the city limits of downtown Billings appear in our sight.

Bright neon signs light up the highway, their vivid colors splashed across our path.

The city is awake and alive, pulsating with an energy that is sure to promise a good night.

My heart beats in rhythm with its pulse, some of my anxiety dying down.

Ripper maneuvers his bike with finesse through narrow lanes and bustling traffic, his every move in perfect sync with the machine between his legs.

I never thought the first time I’d be on a bike it would be with someone like him, but I like it.

We finally stop outside a small dive bar. He puts his kickstand down and we both take off our helmets.

It’s not long before we’re inside, sitting at the bar, two drinks in.

“Another,” I say, sliding my empty glass across the sticky bar top.

The bartender nods and pours me another shot of whiskey.

It burns going down, but it’s a good burn—reminds me I’m still alive, still here, even if I feel like a pawn in someone else’s game.

The neon lights flicker above, casting a sickly glow over the room.

The smell of stale beer and sweat mingles with the sharp scent of whiskey.

I let out a bitter laugh. This is a far cry from the life I thought I’d have here, working for the Reapers Rejects MC at their café, carving out my own path.

Turns out, they just wanted to keep me on a short leash, all for my dear old Dad.

“Ugh, why didn’t he just tell me?” I mutter to myself, swirling the amber liquid in my glass. “Why couldn’t he just fucking be honest for once?”

I take another shot, feeling the anger simmer beneath my skin.

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