Page 1 of Hendrix

CHAPTER ONE

ANNA ~ FOUR YEARS AGO

The neon lights of the bar flashed in the distance as I drove down the back road toward my hometown. The settled feeling I always got when I reached the outskirts of Hambleton in Southern Wyoming began to wash over me, and my shoulders automatically relaxed.

The flight from Charleston to Denver had taken five hours, the drive from Denver to Hambleton five hours more, so to say I was exhausted wasn’t an understatement.

The time on my dash told me it was almost ten P.M. I’d been on the go since five A.M, when I’d woken early to catch my flight.

I’d been home to visit my sister, who’d called me the week before in floods of tears after discovering her husband had been having an extra-marital affair for the last year with one of his students.

It was a big ol’ case of déjà vu, except for one glaring difference.

I’d left, whereas my sister hadn’t.

For days, I’d been trying to work out why she hadn’t packed her bags, emptied their healthy joint bank account, gathered together her and her two kids’ shit, and got the hell out of there. It wasn’t that she even felt close to her husband anymore. In fact, after she’d gotten over her initial shock, she realized she wasn’t in the least bit surprised his dick had fallen into a twenty-year-old girl’s vagina.

But still, my sister stayed, and therefore, was still our dad’s golden girl, whereas I remained the black sheep of the family because I couldn’t fake it. I couldn’t wake up every morning and look at a man I didn’t respect. I couldn’t lie, least of all to myself.

A loud bang suddenly reverberated through the car, and the steering wheel began to shake and pull to the right.

“Shit,” I muttered, my gaze falling on the bar I’d seen in the distance. With a sigh of resignation, I slowly turned into the parking lot before maneuvering into a parking space and turning off the engine.

My chest twisted, frustration taking over, and I smacked the steering wheel in white-hot rage. All I wanted was my apartment and my bed. I had plans to sleep for the next twenty-four hours. What I didn’t want to do was have to wait for goddamned Triple-A.

Muttering obscenities under my breath, I threw my door open and stepped out of the car. Looking down, I cursed at the flat tire on the front driver's side. Reaching back into the vehicle, I grabbed my purse and pulled out my cell, immediately noticing the black screen of my dead phone.

“Fuck,” I muttered to myself. “Could this day get any worse?”

My eyes sliced toward the bar. There was nothing else for it; I’d have to go in and beg the use of a cell. Resigned to the fact it was gonna be a long night, I tucked the strap of my purse over my shoulder and began to pick my way across the parking lot, still muttering to myself as I went.

As I approached the building, I heard the strains of guitar strings and a deep, raspy voice singing what appeared to be a cover of a James Bay song. I smiled at the irony of the words, telling me to let it go, and I instantly relaxed at the soothing tone of the husky voice.

Pushing the door open, I stepped inside, my gaze drifting in the direction of the music. Goose bumps scattered across my arms, and my skin tingled when electric blue eyes locked with mine.

Hendrix.

My heart squeezed.

He sat on a stool in the corner of the bar, just him, a guitar, and a microphone. He wore jeans and a black tee with the Harley Davidson logo splashed across it. His feet were encased in sneakers, and his hair had been tied up into his signature man bun.

My pussy clenched at the sight of him. Or was it the air of confidence that made my thighs quiver when he stared into my eyes, not missing a note or even a lyric as he belted out the beautiful words to the song?

He was the vice president of a local motorcycle club called the Speed Demons.

My new receptionist, Layla, had recently gotten involved with their enforcer, Bowie Stone, though it was still early days. A few weeks earlier, Bowie had come into my salon with Hendrix, who’d sat in my chair for a haircut while Bowie made a move on my pretty new friend.

Hendrix was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. His dark hair, naturally highlighted by time spent in the sun, hung past his shoulders. He was ripped with muscle and covered in tattoos that ran across his chest and back, continuing down his arms to his fingers.

I’d seen him riding his bike around town with his brethren. He had an air of confidence so powerful it bordered on arrogance. That ‘thing’ he had, that air about him, appealed to me in ways I hadn’t felt since... well... ever.

Of course, we’d spoken before, but it never went deep. I had a feeling when it came to women, deep didn’t factor into it for Hendrix. I was a great believer in live and let live, but he seemed like he was more interested in a good time, not a long time.

Giving the bartender a friendly nod, I moved toward him. Hendrix played the last bars of the song to a quiet round of applause from the other patrons in the bar.

The bartender’s gaze raked down my body, and he grinned. “What can I get ya?”

I jerked my thumb in the direction of the parking lot. “I got a flat, and my phone died. Do you have one I can use to call Triple-A?”

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