Page 1 of The Keeper

ONE

PIPER

Ivy & Piper’s Guide to Life Rule Number Thirty-Seven:

You can never have too many books.

Motorcycles, Mobsters, & Mayhem Event 2023

“Good girls get on their knees and ask nicely.”

A flush crept across my cheeks as if I hadn’t heard the same command at least half a dozen times while waiting in line. Then again, a gorgeous six-foot-something biker hadn’t been watching.

It wasn’t the first time I’d caught him staring, either. No, I’d felt the heat of his gaze while waiting to get into the ballroom and again when I stopped at a water station to grab a drink. Every time I turned around, he was there.

Had we not been at an event specifically geared toward readers of mafia and motorcycle club romance, I might have thought he was lowkey stalking me. Instead, I assumed he was trying to drum up business for the author who’d paid for him to come or a newbie hoping to kickstart his cover model career by catching the eye of one of the many authors and photographers in attendance.

Although neither theory explained the hours of furtive glances or why he’d stopped in the middle of the busy aisle to watch me deep-throat a shot of liquor.

I knelt on the denim and gold-patterned hotel carpet and pulled my long, dark hair over one shoulder before folding my hands against my lap, playing up the part of demure submissive more for his benefit than anything else.

“Please,” I murmured, unable to resist peering up beneath my lashes to see if he was still there.

“Uh, uh, uh,” the author chided, placing her fingers under my chin and guiding my face back to hers. “Eyes on me.”

I tipped my head back and obediently parted my lips, not catching the hint of cinnamon until it was too late.

Fucking Fireball.

The spicy notes of cinnamon intermingled with distinct undercurrents of regret and memories of my twenty-first birthday, which had subsequently led to the worst hangover of my life.

With tearing eyes, I forced myself to swallow while solemnly vowing never to read another of Avelyn Paige’s books for the rest of my life. The books I’d already made the mistake of purchasing would become kindling for my fireplace in the winter.

“Took it like such a good girl,” she cooed as she swiped her thumb across my tingling lower lip, effectively reactivating my praise kink and making me rethink my somewhat hasty decision to ban her books from my shelves.

After retrieving my personalized copies from her assistant, plus a few extras I threw in last-second to atone for the ugly thoughts I had when the Fireball was scorching its way down my throat, I picked my way through the gathering crowd to where my best friend, Ivy, stood guarding our book carts.

She smacked my shoulder as soon as I was within reach, exclaiming, “Keanu on a cupcake! That was hot!”

“Really? The spicy aftertaste and burning in my esophagus beg to differ,” I croaked, watching as Avelyn ushered the next schmuck to their knees.

“Oh no, it was definitely hot as hell,” Ivy insisted with a firm shakeof her head before lowering her voice. “And I’m not the only one who thought so.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, feigning a neck stretch to casually scan the nearby faces for a certain pair of hooded brown eyes.

“Like you don’t know! Dude, I thought the poor guy was going to chew through his bottom lip watching you take that shot. I’m honestly surprised he didn’t step in and claim you as his Ol’ Lady on the spot.”

“Someone’s read too many books,” I said, playfully nudging her with my elbow. The thought of the gorgeous giant going full caveman and staking his claim, though, sent a shiver of pleasure down my spine—further proof my love of dark romance had warped my mind.

She pointed to my nearly overflowing cart with a snort. “Speak for yourself, missy. And it’s obvious to anyone with eyeballs Biker Boy has been lusting after you all day.”

“Please! He’s probably just some cover model cosplaying as a biker.” I consulted my table map, checking off the authors we’d already seen. “Where to next?”

“I don’t care. I’ve picked up all my preorders and met everyone I wanted to, so it’s your call,” Ivy replied, lifting her shoulder in a half-shrug.

I couldn’t recall a single instance in the twenty-plus years we’d known each other in which Ivy had dropped a discussion without a fight. She was like a dog with a bone when it came to uncomfortable conversations, especially when they centered around dating and sex. It was part of what made her a great psychiatrist—well, fourth-year psych resident.

“What?” she asked. “Why are you looking at me like that? Do I have something on my face?”

---