Page 30 of Bullet

“Okay, okay. But you could use some friends. Everyone could use more, but in your case, more means some. I know you haven’t been able to have a social life because you were raising me and going to college, working your freaking ass off, and then going so hard at being the best lawyer ever, but now that all ofthat is on pause, maybe you can just have some fun. You deserve it.”

“I don’t think there’s anything fun about this situation. It seems like it’s already very dangerous and it might escalate.” Damn it, I told myself I wasn’t going to scare her.

She’s on a roll of ignoring all my protests, painting us this fantasy life, so she barely hears me anyway. “I bet there are tons of badass women at the club. Biker ladies.”

“I think it’s a boys’ only deal from what I understand.”

“What do they call their wives and girlfriends?”

“Wives and girlfriends.”

“No, they don’t!”

“Fine. Old ladies. That’s how I was introduced to the women tonight. I only met two of them. It’s such a horrible term. Old lady.”

“Nah. I kind of like it. The one thing a woman hates is being called old, so it’s kind of like reclaiming your power. It’s probably some biker sign of respect. But anyway. I bet they’re awesome. You could make friends with them, if big sweaty, dreamy, muscular men aren’t your style. They should be, though. They should be everyone’s style. I bet they’d do dirty things in bed.”

“Why are you using the plural term?” I try not to sound like a prim matron, and fail horribly.

She gives me an evil cackle. “I’ve been reading tons of ‘why choose’ romance, that’s why. It’s great.”

“What the hell is ‘why choose’?”

“You know. You like all these men, so why choose? Some of them are into the girl, and some of them are into the girlandeach other. It’s so hot.”

People can do as they please. Truly. But the thought of taking even one man into my bed is so intimidating that I get a cold chill.

And a whole lot of hot buzzing between my legs. A face swims into my brain, okay, a big beast of a body too. I slam my thighs together as much as possible while I’m driving, and feel my panties mold to me because they’re so wet.

“You know I’m not really being serious, right? I am, but I’m not. About the friends, yes. About the bikers being hot and dangerous, yes. About you boning one, that’s totally up to you. But if you wanted to, I think that would be okay. I also think you need to have someone tell you that. It’s okay to want what you want, even though you never thought you’d want it. It’s okay towantat all. It’s okay to make some time for yourself.”

My lights land on a sign that announces a rest stop coming up in five miles. “The guys in front of me don’t know that there isn’t some madman chasing you around anymore. There’s a rest stop coming up. I’m going to flash my lights at them and pull over there. Hopefully they get the message. I think it has exits from both directions. If I describe it to you, do you think you could find it and pull over there if we waited?”

“Describe it?” she asks incredulously. “Just send me a pin!”

Right. Technology is a marvelous thing. “I will. Stay on the line though, okay?”

“Okay.”

I flash my headlights and sure enough, when the exit for the rest stop comes up, the first of the bikes veer off. The rest follow. It’s like watching a great big storm cloud move together, or maybe a herd of black and chrome wild horses.

Why do bikers call their bikes hogs and not stallions?

I bite down on the inside of my cheek so I don’t laugh and also clench my thighs even harder together, because it’s not a bike that I’d like to be riding right now, but the term stallion might still apply.

What is wrong with me? It’s been way too long a day if my brain is stringing that together.

One by one, the bikers line their bikes up beside each other. Tyrant was in the lead, probably because he’s the president, though I don’t know much about how biker politics work. Maybe their leader doesn’t head the pack usually. There’s nothing usual about this, though. At least, I seriously fucking hope that people associated with the club don’t get followed, harassed, intimidated, and threatened on the daily.

I pull in last, and by the time I get there, Bullet is already walking over to my car. I roll down the window, and a chill races up my spine when he folds that great big barrel chest to bend down so he’s eye level with me. I definitely blame the goosebumps that break out all over my arms on the wind.

His eyes crash into me, focused and almost unnerving. His hair is mussed from his helmet, though he must have left it with his bike. His eyes appear far darker at night, like two glowingblack coals. His hot breath nearly fans over my cheek. “Is this where you told Willa to meet us?”

I’ve been so paralyzed just sitting here staring at him like I’m the creepy stalker, but I snap out of that real fast. They don’t know that the threat has gone away.

“They stopped following her miles ago, when she was still in the city. Probably ten minutes after we passed that diner on the edge of town. I’m so sorry, I didn’t know how to tell you and there wasn’t anywhere to pull over until—”

“That’s good,” he says, his great voice booming through the night. There’s an echo, even when there shouldn’t be. “I mean, we can’t nail those guys now, but I’m glad they left her alone as soon as they found out we were on our way.”

---