Page 9 of Thornhill Road

The guy behind the bar appeared to be younger. Maybe twenty-five. He had a baby face, his hair trimmed on the sides,but longer and messy on top. He wore a kutte, as did the guy sitting on the opposite side of the bar. I couldn’t help but notice him, too. He didnothave a baby face. He had a biker mustache that totally worked for him, and his hair was thick—with just the right amount of lazy curl—and hung down to his shoulders.

I reminded myself I was on a bad boy hiatus.

I was also in the middle of a biker bar wearing pink scrubs.

I got straight to the point.

“I’m looking for Sullivan Thomas.”

The guy behind the bar frowned. “Who?”

“Sullivan? Maybe Sully?”

The man with the mustache chuckled while Baby Face said, “I have no idea who you’re talkin’ about.”

“She’s lookin’ for Mustang,” Mustache drawled.

I gave him my attention just in time to see his eyes trail slowly up and down my body. He did not appear put off by my scrubs. I tried to ignore that.

“Mustang?” I asked, attempting to stay on track.

“You’re in his bar, darlin’. Best call him by his rightful name.”

“Mustang’s name isSully?” asked Baby Face incredulously.

Just then, the door behind the bar swung open, and the man who walked through it stated, “Sure as fuck ain’t to you.”

Baby face laughed.

I did not laugh.

I could hardly breathe.

That was because those hazel-blue eyes hit me, and I could barely think.

The same eyes on his father were sad. But on Sully, they were vibrant andalive.

The black and white photo I saw earlier didn’t do him justice.

He was a chestnut-brunette, his straight hair overgrown, but not enough to be considered long. His beard was full, and maybe a little unkempt—like he’d get around to trimming it when hefelt like it, and he hadn’t felt like it in a few days. He was tall, like Ed—maybe six-foot-two—but unlike his father, he was far from frail. He didn’t look like a body builder, but he certainly looked sturdy.

The black and white photo also failed to capture the decent sized tattoo he had on his left bicep.

It was an old school, American traditional stylemomtattoo. It was in full color. Even though it was clearly not new, it still looked good, the artist obviously no novice. The heart was red. The bird holding the ribbon withMOMin the center was blue, and the flowers that completed the piece were purple and pink. If done wrong, it would definitely have been a cheesy disaster of a tattoo—but it most certainly wasnotdone wrong. It was so clearly in memorial of a woman he loved.

It was badass and sweet in equal measure.

He gave me a half-smile, and a zing shot straight through my belly.

“You, on the other hand—you can call me whatever you’d like.”

Oh, god.

I wanted to call him a lot of things.

Likemine.

But I was on a bad boy hiatus.

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