Page 3 of Taming the Bad Boy

He’s been running Calloway’s Bike and Auto for as long as I’ve been alive, and nobody–not even the Bastards–question his authority when it comes to his shop. He takes no shit. Not from anybody. And when it comes to me, he’s like a guard dog. Protective–maybe overly so–with a watchful eye, ready to tear into any guy who even looks my way.

It makes sense considering my past. My mom’s been out of the picture since I was eleven. She was reckless, addicted to bad men and worse behavior. And when she cheated on my dad with a member of another gang, I don’t know which one, she ended up in debt beyond anything she could pay. Instead of working it off herself, she tried to sell me into the gang’s trafficking ring.

Can you imagine? I’m convinced my mother was born with a piece of ice where her heart was meant to be.

Luckily, my dad found out just in time. He still won’t give me the full details of how he stopped those men from taking me, but I have a feeling he built most of his reputation on whatever went down that day.

I know he loves me. But sometimes it feels like he’s devoted his entire life to making sure I never get close to any of the men he gladly deals with on a daily basis. And I get it. I really do. But that doesn’t change the fact that sometimes I feel like a caged bird just desperate to fly.

Despite my warning, Slate doesn’t falter. He’s still smiling, his blue eyes blazing as if thrilled by my warning. “I’ll take my chances.”

I shake my head, my body trembling, already beginning to betray me as I step closer to him, drawn in by an invisible force. “No. You don’t get it,” I whisper. “Hedoes notwant me mixed up with any of you guys.”

Slate takes a deep breath, his chest expanding even wider than it already is. He reaches out and gently takes a strand of my hair in his fingers, tickling my scalp as he pulls it delicately–more delicately than I ever thought a man like him would be capable of.

“No,youdon’t get it, Ivy,” he growls, like he’s barely holding himself back. “I don’t give a damn about your dad. When I was here yesterday, I saw you. And if we weren’t warring with The Reaper’s Oath crew, I would have been here then saying exactly what I’m saying now.”

My heart feels like an engine revved to the max, ready to explode if it beats any faster. My eyes drift down, trailing across the broad width of his chest and the fibers of his shirt, stretched to their breaking point across his layers of muscles. But it’s something lower that causes my breath to catch in my throat.

The thick bulge in his jeans is unmistakable and impossible to miss, straining hard against his buttoned fly, demanding my attention, an engorged and swollen mound that sends heat pooling low in my belly. I swallow hard against the sudden dryness in my mouth as I fight to come to terms with the reality of what this signifies.

Slate catches me looking, but instead of grinning or barking out some witty remark, he stands there strong and stoic, like he wants me to know exactly what effect I’m having on him.

“I’ve been watching you, Ivy,” he finally says, his voice taut. “And I know you’ve been watching me too.”

My lips part, and I go tense. My first instinct is to protest, but what would be the point?

I have nothing to say. He’s right.

I’ve seen Slate in here before, but I’m always working in the back of the shop, so it’s no surprise he never laid eyes on me until yesterday. But I have been watching him, drawn in by his rough good looks and commanding presence.

I’ve been off-limits my whole life.

I’ve never been kissed. Never been touched.

And I’m tired of being the good girl.

And now that Slate’s staring down at me like he wants to ruin me, I’m starting to wonder if maybe I want to be ruined…

“Let me take you out,” he says as his fingers close around my hand, sending a shiver through me. “I know you want to say yes, Ivy. So just say it.”

Can he read my mind? Or are my thoughts so obviously written across my face that how I’m feeling is no secret?

My stomach twists. I feel lightheaded. I know this is dangerous, and saying yes will change my life. But I don’t see what other choice I have. He’s so tall, so handsome, with a body that belongs in a men’s magazine and hair that any model would be jealous of. And he rides a bike like the ones I’ve been working on since I was old enough to hold a wrench. It’s almost like he was custom built for me.

“Okay, fine,” I say, forcing my tone to be firm. “But my dadcannotfind out.”

Slate’s eyes blaze with triumph, victory, possession. And as if he doesn’t care who sees, he runs his fingers through my hair like a brush, causing a tickling sensation to awaken between my legs.

That’s new…

“Good girl,” he says softly, his voice warm like the seat of a bike on a cold night.

Racy thoughts fill my mind. The kind that dads never want to imagine their daughters being capable of thinking. Like how Slate would look without that Henley and without those oil-stained jeans…or how his rough, callused hands would feel tightly grasping my hips…or what it would be like to lie beneath him on a filthy floor while he tore at my clothes like the wild man he is…

“You like bowling?” His voice shakes me out of the hypnotic stupor I realize I was just in.

“Bowling?” I repeat, shaken.

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