Page 10 of Property of Azrael

“Okay, fine,” I relent. “He can look.”

“Van,” Azrael’s deep, husky voice commands. Van glides smoothly off his bike and stalks around the passenger’s side of the car toward the front, where he disappears under the hood.

“You from Indiana?”

I flinch at Azrael’s question. How could he know that? I find out when he points to my license plate, and my face reddens with an embarrassing blush. Jesus. What is wrong with me?

“Yes,” I answer curtly.

“Us too. Up near Lafayette. You?”

“North of Indy,” is all I offer him.

The heavy rumble of thunder shakes the ground, and I squeak before I can stop myself.

“Not a fan of storms?” He offers me one of those smiles, like he’s trying not to make fun of my fear, but he can’t help that he looks good doing it. Asshole.

“No, I’m not.”

Just then, a few more motorcycles ride up and join the group. Shit. It’s an entire club.

“Your car’s in rough shape,” Van announces as he comes to stand beside us. “Ain’t no other way to say it, but you need a new engine.”

“A new engine?” I gasp. “I just had it looked at before I left. The mechanic said nothing about issues with my engine.”

“Afraid so. The only thing AAA can do is haul it off to a junkyard or a mechanic, who will charge you an arm and leg.”

“Shit.” I can’t afford that. Engines are thousands of dollars. Dollars I don’t have right now. What the hell am I going to do? My dreams of going to MMM are slipping away the longer I dwell on his news. Mom was right. I shouldn’t have come on this trip. It was a mistake. I should have just stayed home.

Van offers me a comforting smile. “Wish I had better news. I have a buddy who has a shop a few hours south of here that may be able to help you out, but it’s not something he can fix overnight.”

“Great,” I growl. He laughs at the noise. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to growl at you. It’s just been a really, really, really bad day. Bad year, actually.”

The large man laughs again with a shake of his head. “Sugar, I work with the public on a daily basis. That cute little growl of yours is something I can handle.”

“Is there someone we can call to pick you up?” Azrael asks. I jump at the sound of his voice, not realizing he was so close. He was good-looking a few feet away, but at this distance, he’s devastatingly handsome. Like one of my bikers ripped from the page and made real. Fuck, he smells good, too. Leather and sandalwood, mixed with the smell of rain.

“No. I’m headed to Houston for an event. All my family is back home in Indiana.” There I go again, over-freaking-sharing. It’s like my brain is short circuiting with Azrael and his friends around. I mean, I write about bikers every day, but in the real world, the good Samaritans are far and few between. These guys could be one-percenters for all I know, on a run to take out the competitor. I know nothing about them, yet here they are, offering me a chance to still make it to MMM in one piece.

Azrael looks at Van, who shrugs. “We’re headed that way, so we could give you a lift. You’d have to pack light, though.”

My mouth drops open. “A ride with you? On the bike?”

“That’s the offer.”

“You don’t even know me. I could be some serial killer, trying to lure you in with an abandoned vehicle ploy.”

“Are you?” Azrael fires back, looking me up and down.

“No, but I could be.”

“Didn’t think so.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Look, from one Hoosier to another, let us help. I can’t leave you out here alone. Not when a real serial killer could come by and snatch you up.” He flashes me that smile again. “Van can call his friend, get your car looked at, and you can still make your event. It’s a win-win. What do you say?”

I consider his offer. Is staying out here alone for hours, waiting on AAA with a severe storm heading this way ideal? No. Is riding off into the sunset on the back of a stranger’s bike with his club any better? Definitely not. It’s a double-edged sword, placing my trust in a stranger, with neither option being better than the other, because he’s right. I’d be a sitting duck out here. AAA’s estimate could be wrong. It could be five hours, or it could be tomorrow. Either way, I’d be taking a risk. I know my parents would kill me for accepting a ride from strangers, but at least he isn’t luring me into a windowless white van with candy.

“Are you sure you’re not a serial killer?” I ask again.

“Last time I checked, I’m not. How about this?” Removing his wallet from his back pocket, he pulls out a card and hands it to me. “This is me.”

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