Page 17 of Thornhill Road

I did my makeup like I normally did—a little eyeliner, a bit of mascara, a touch of blush, and a glossy lip. I’d styled my hair down. Its natural wavy texture gave it body, so all I had to do was fluff it a little with my hands and it hung how I wanted, kissing the tops of my shoulders.

The shirt I had on was a black, sleeveless turtleneck. It clung to my body and was long enough that it tucked nicely into my favorite high-waisted skinny jeans. They were faded, dark-washed denim with a couple minor holes strategically placed on each thigh. Rather than a zipper, it had five buttons up the front.

I didn’t have the perfect body by any means. I may have been thin-ish, but that was more on account of my odd schedule made my eating habits less than ideal, and I spent a lot of time on my feet. I wasn’t toned or tight anywhere—but my kickass jeans made me look like I could have been.

The icing on the cake was, of course, my shoes.

I knew I was going to a biker bar. I knew some might find my choice strange.

But if wearing Jimmy Choos to Steel Mustang was wrong, I didn’t want to be right.

I had on my ballet pink pumps.

They were made with both suede and patent.

They had a sharp pointed toe and a three-inch heel.

They also lookedawesomewith my outfit.

I’d have been a liar if I said I didn’t select every item of clothing with Mustang in mind. It would have been smarter to show up in a pair of scrubs and sneakers.

Then again, I’d learned that was not as unappealing as I’d imagined.

In any case, I was dressed. I was ready. It was time for me to go.

I grabbed my purse and headed for the door.

Ten minutes later, I was reminded that Steel Mustang at nine o’clock on a Saturday night was a different experience than it was on a Wednesday afternoon at four-thirty. The parking lot was packed. Mine wasn’t the only car there, but a good third of the lot was occupied by motorcycles.

A younger, dumber version of me would hardly have been able to contain her excitement at the prospect of a great time had by all beyond the doors of the popular biker bar. I could hear the music from inside the second I stepped out of my car. A live rock band, a good drink, and a bunch of badasses in a room teeming with testosterone was nothing less than a recipe for a wild night.

Admittedly, the older, wiser version of me still felt a thrill ripple through me as I made my way toward the front entrance. I knew, inside that bar, there were no rules. No boundaries. No sickness or sorrow. And while I couldn’t let go entirely—first, because I was on-call, and second, because I needed to be sure things didn’t get out of hand with Mustang—I didn’t have to hold myself back in a place like this. All anyone who passed through those doors, or mounted a motorcycle, or even a wild bull—allanyrebel really wanted was to feelfree.

While I didn’t consider myself a rebel, I was no different.

I made it to the door, reached for the handle, and pulled it open without a hint of hesitation.

I didn’t know who was playing that night, but it was already standing room only. Even in my heels, I couldn’t see from the door to the bar. I had no idea how I was going to find Mustang, but it seemed like my best bet to head in that direction.

I was squeezing and shimmying my way across the room when I felt a large hand wrap around my arm, just above my elbow. I stopped to look and see who had hold of me, but my cheek pressed against his before I could see his face—his lips grazing my ear as he spoke.

“Welcome back, darlin’,” he drawled. “You still lookin’ for Mustang, or are you here for a different Stallion? Cause I sure wouldn’t mind your company.”

Mustache.

I registered who the man was a second before another arm snaked around the back of my waist and pulled me firmly against his warm, solid chest. My nostrils filled with the scent of leather and fresh air—this time, with the welcome addition ofpine—and I didn’t even have to look up to see Mustang had me in his grip.

But I did anyway.

He wasn’t even looking at me. His eyes were fixed on Mustache. I watched him wink at the man, but he did it with a straight face. When I felt the hand on my arm loosen, I understood thatwinkhad been a warning.

I felt a familiar zing in my belly.

“Alright, brother,” said Mustache, his tone laced in amusement.

Mustang didn’t bother with ahello. Once he’d made his message clear, with his arm still around my waist, he escorted me toward the bar. It was significantly easier maneuvering through the crowd with him at my side. When we made it to theback, rather than signal one of the bartenders, he stood me in front of a very large man.

Even sitting, I knew he was taller than Mustang by at least a couple inches. He was older and broader, too. Not by much, but enough to notice. He had a thick beard he’d grown out down to his chest, most of it more salt than pepper, and he’d curled the ends of his mustache. His salt and pepper hair was cut short on the sides, the top combed back in a classic, clean look. Though,classicandcleandidn’t describe his vibe.

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