Page 31 of Crave Me

The place was packed, a sea of jeans and leather cuts filling my vision as I made my way over to the far end of the old oak bar to wait and not draw any undue attention to myself. Well, any more than my get-up was already doing. Although, that was probably minimized by the black leather throughout the place too.

I quietly ordered a beer. The bartender slid it across the bar within moments and winked at my outfit, before she turned to handle the bikers crowded around the heart of the thing, her long red hair bouncing as she went.

I’d barely taken a sip when someone brushed against my left side.

I was going to let it go and give the offender the benefit of the doubt, considering how packed the place was.

But then a hand landed on my thigh.

Hell, no.

I turned on my stool to see a guy of medium build, the signifier near his patch designating him as SAA—Sergeant-at-Arms—with a bright-green buzz cut licking his lips at me. “This night just got a hell of a lot better. You here to serve, darlin’?”

“No. Get your fucking hand off me.”

He tightened his grip instead. “Playing hard to get, huh? Hey, you a gift from one of the boys because they know I like that shit?”

“Like I said, no. Last chance to remove your hand before you lose it.”

“Mmm, you like it rough, huh? Well, that’s right up my alley, sugar tits.”

Sugar tits? Seriously?

He went to double down and reached for my hair with his free hand.

In the next beat, I smashed his head down onto the bar top, blood exploding as it broke his nose. I ripped his hand off me, drew my blade in a split second, spun it, then drove it through the back of his hand, crucifying it to the bar top.

He flailed and shrieked.

I shoved my arm to his back, my weight bearing down, as I hissed at his ear, “Like I said, sugar tits, hands off.”

It took me a moment through the takedown to realize that the bar had gone dead silent.

Even the music had shut off.

A bunch of the bikers and the women hanging off them were stunned, basically stock-still, while a half a dozen others were stalking toward me, moving in to surround me.

Well, this had all escalated quickly.

I went to reach for the Glock that Dante had given me as an extra precaution, but then a familiar voice thundered through the room.

“Stand the fuck down!”

When the guys kept coming, his tone became even harsher. “President’s orders, motherfuckers!”

That halted their approach.

I looked to see the man in question pushing through the crowds and coming into view.

He was adjusting his skull and crossbones silver belt buckle as he went, his navy jeans pulling taut across those big thighs of his. His black leather cut was slung over a plain white t-shirt, his broad shoulders filling it out well. His light-brown shoulder length hair was pulled back into a bun.

“All right, Skylar, let him go.”

“Sure thing.” I yanked my knife free, making the guy shriek and writhe.

I stepped back and wiped the bloodied blade on my pants, then holstered it.

Raze shook his head at me, scrubbing his hand over his thick, unruly facial hair. “Get him up to the club infirmary,” he ordered a couple of his guys.

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