Page 4 of Rook

“We’re visiting our friend for her twenty-fifth,” the redhead of the group—and judging by the freckles and blue eyes, she was a natural—said.

“Until she ditched us for her boyfriend,” one of the two blondes piped in.

“So, now we’re looking for some fun,” one of the brunettes said.

“Fun, we can do,” Raff said, slipping cash across the bar, then moving toward the group. “Who wants to take a ride on my motorcycle?”

Three of the girls went with the guys with bikes, leaving me to wait with the remaining girls for a ride-share.

“Wait. Hold up!” a woman called, rushing past me to climb in the front seat, showing me nothing but a flash of aquamarine hair as she slipped into the car without an invitation.

Well then.

I liked those odds even more.

CHAPTER TWO

Tessa

I was too cynical to believe in fate. Nothing about my life had been smooth sailing enough to think that anything at all was meant to happen.

If anything, my free will was the reason for all of my damn problems.

Including the things that had me driving into some nowhere town on the side of the Death Valley mountains.

I just wanted to stop, fuel up my car, get some coffee, then hopefully find somewhere to park and sleep where some creepy-ass guy wouldn’t come across me and try to get in.

Which was why I couldn’t figure out what had me walking into the little bar instead of making my way down to the diner to get my coffee. And maybe something to eat if I could find anything cheap.

I was getting dangerously low on cash. I needed to stop somewhere for a few days to get some funds to help me keep going.

But that place was absolutely not Shady Valley. A town of, what, a thousand people? The chances of odd jobs were low. Or even enough to do some third-party food delivery service jobs. Which was pretty much the only thing funding my moving around.

And I couldn’t stop moving.

If I stopped moving, I could be dead. Probably. Almost certainly.

So why the hell was I in a bar in town?

Honestly, I think I just needed to soak up the atmosphere, the sounds, the people. I’d been on the move, living out of my car for so long with nothing but my radio to keep me company.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked, popping the top of a beer bottle and passing it down toward the group of guys in their leather biker cuts.

Honestly, the sight of those damn cuts should have sent me running. Out of the bar. Out of the town. Out of the damn state.

“I’m still deciding,” I lied to the bartender. I could barely afford coffee. I damn sure couldn’t afford a drink at a bar.

“Let me know when you do,” he said, moving off toward the other end of the bar.

I was about to force myself to leave—knowing it wasn’t smart for me to be seen by too many people who could remember me—when the bar door flew open, and a man came stalking in.

The frustration was radiating off of his tall, lean frame.

The cut he had on should have been enough reason for my gaze to slide away. But, I guess, old habits died hard.

And, of course, he couldn’t just be a grizzled old biker. Nope. He had to be annoyingly good-looking with his strong jaw, stern brow, brown eyes, and reddish-brown hair.

For a biker, he kind of had that skinny gamer guy vibe to him as he beelined toward the other bikers, not even glancing around the bar.

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